"Get out!" cried Gillian's mother, hoarse from days of weeping. She pulled one hand from cradling the baby's head so she could point. "Get out before it is too late!"

"Mama?" said Gillian. She hovered inside the threshold of their crooked wood-framed house, afraid to enter but even more afraid to leave. She was only ten, far too young to face the horror in the streets.

But that, it seemed, was what her mother wished.

Her mother coughed into her hand, then cuddled the baby closer to her breast. His dimpled little arms hung limp. Beneath the left was a blackened swelling, the pestilence's telltale bubo. Gillian shifted her glance from it to her mother's face.

Her cheeks had not looked fevered the night before.

"You must leave," her mother said. "You are the only one of us who might survive."

She sounded angry. Watching her, Gillian tried not to wish her mother had ever stroked her hair the way she was stroking Col's. Col was the boy and he was sick. Her mother had borne other babies, boys both, who had not lived to see their swaddling. Naturally she wanted to save the one who had.

"Wh-where shall I go?" she asked, the question squeaking.

For a moment she thought her mother would not answer. She looked so weary, even wearier than when Papa had gone to France with the soldiers to seek his fortune. Her eyes were shut, her cheeks roughened by drying tears. She coughed again, then turned her reddened gaze to meet her daughter's.

"Go to the forest," she said. "You know you love playing in the woods."

By myself? Gillian thought. I should go into the forest by myself? But she did not say the words, no more than she asked when she might come back. Instead, biting her lip, she moved to gather the loaf that sat on their splintered table. Else she would have no food at all. The bread was almost white. A luxury bought with hoarded coin.

"No!" snapped her mother before she could touch the crust. Chin aquiver, Gillian snatched back her hand. Her mother softened her tone. "It might be tainted, Gill. I do not want you to take sick."

Gillian stared at her. Sometimes she sensed things other people could not, secrets hidden behind the masks they wore for the world. Her mother would scold her if she spoke of what she saw, telling her such nonsense was the devil's work. The devil's work it might be, but Gillian was not sure it was nonsense. She knew when shopkeepers meant to cheat them, knew when the butcher's daughter feared the back of her father's hand. Now a suspicion dawned at the awkward look on her mother's face. Her mother did not believe the loaf was tainted. She was saving that fine white bread for Col: Col, who would probably die before he got the good of it.

When her mother dropped her eyes, Gillian knew the guess was true.

She backed away, blinded until her pooling tears spilled down. "Good-bye," she said unsurely and then, because she could not help it: "I love you, Mama."

Her mother made a sound like a hinge in need of oiling. Still rocking the baby, she pressed one fist to her mouth. "You live," she said fiercely. "You live."

Gillian would rather her mother say she loved her back. For the last time, she looked around the room where she had been born: at the chickens scratching listlessly in the corner, at Col's battered cradle, at the stool by the fire where her papa had liked to whittle fancy spoon handles out of wood. He had been able to make them look like anything, like animals or trees or even people's faces. She remembered how he had leaned over his knees while he worked. Had he loved her? She could not recall the feeling if he had, only the pile of shavings between his feet.

He was dead now, fallen somewhere in France. Though Gillian knew this, leaving the place where he had been felt like losing the last tiny piece of him she possessed.

Swallowing hard, she nodded at her mother, then turned to stumble into the narrow, sloping lane off which they lived.

The city she found outside was changed.

Gone was the noise and color she was used to. Fog had swept in from the Thames and a silence like a pall enshrouded London, broken only by eerie moans. The churches had ceased to ring the death knell. Perhaps no one was left to pull the ropes. Perhaps no one was left at all. Waxed cloth sealed the windows, hiding whoever might cower inside. Even on Cheapside, the widest of the city's streets, it seemed by every stoop a body lay, some covered hastily, some simply left to rot. Gillian hurried past the unmoving forms, trying not to see who they were, trying -- so far as she was able -- not to breathe their putrid stench.

A figure appeared through the swirling mist. In front of the shuttered chandler's a woman garbed all in black rocked on her knees on the paving stone. Gillian knew her. Mama bought candles from her shop. Once, she had given Gillian an oatcake slathered with summer honey. She had called her a wild little raven for her dark curls.

The chandler's wife did not recognize Gillian today. "Where is the priest?" she keened to no one as she swayed. "Where are all the priests?"

Gillian's nerve abruptly failed. She broke into a run, her tough bare feet pounding the frosty ground. Her footfalls echoed off the half-timbered building walls. To her jangled imagination, the rhythm did not quite match. Ghosts, she thought, following her out of town. A cat streaked out from an empty alehouse and she shrieked. Just a cat, she told herself with her hand pressed to her heart. And at least it was alive.

Though her mind was full of terror, she remembered to turn on Foster Lane where the goldsmiths had their shops. More people moved here. They did not seem to see her as she pelted past, shuffling along as though caught in treacle, muttering to themselves or staring into space.

"End of the world," cackled one young, bearded man. "Wages of sin for Jews and witches. And there, there behind you, comes the Queen of the Dead!"

His manic laughter frightened her more than his words.

To her relief, Aldersgate appeared ahead of her in the gloom. The air sweetened almost as soon as she darted beneath its arch. She was outside London's wall but still she ran as if demons chased her, her breath coming in gasps, her sweat like ice beneath her ragged kirtle. Past Moorfield's bog she flew, past the last stubbled fields. The fog was thinner here, like ribbons of drifting silver. The ribbons shredded as she crossed them. She saw a cart abandoned in the ditch, half turned on its side. She did not look to see what was in it, did not look anywhere but straight ahead until the bare tall woods closed round her.

As they did, a vine as thick as a snake caught her ankle. Exhausted by her flight, she fell headlong into the bracken and lay there winded, unable to move except to crush a dried brown oak leaf in her fist. With bitter understanding, she realized how pointless her mother's advice had been. Not a soul stirred in the woods. No one to help her. No one to hold her. No one to keep her from harm. Col and her mother had each other. Gillian would die alone.

I do not care if I die, she thought, defiance in it. Shadows flickered like phantoms as a wind rattled the branches above her head. Care if I die, they seemed to whisper.

Then, like the dead men she feared and envied, she fell asleep.

* * *

She woke at twilight to the sound of grown-up voices, voices so vibrant, so rich, her blood thrilled in her veins. One voice was a woman's, the other a man's. They stood close by and she heard them well.

"You are breaking the rules you set," said the woman. "By the terms of our agreement, the folk of the cities and towns are mine."

"I see no walls here," said the man. "All I see are trees and earth."

"She is mine. I watched her. I chose her. Even you can see her heart is filled with what I love."

"Her heart is good, Nim Wei. She will not suit your brood."

"That certain, are you, Auriclus? That I and mine are evil and that you and your 'noble savages' are pure? Faugh. Living apart from humans does not make you good. Refusing to drink their blood or interfere in their fates merely proves that you are lazy. Power will not go away because you ignore it. But why do I waste my breath? You understand me no better than you did when I was your student, no better than you understand any of those you sire."

This conversation was so inexplicable, Gillian opened her eyes to peer through her hair. From where she lay with her head on her folded arms, she could only see to the strangers' knees. The man wore a peasant's rough boots and baggy woollen hose, but the woman had robes fit for a queen. Their silk was as red as berries, with embroidery of shining gold. The thread, used so generously the cloth was stiff, formed a pattern of castles and crowns. Beneath the hem the woman's feet were encased in slippers of emerald satin bedecked in pearls.

Gillian felt a pang of envy just to see them. Only princesses wore shoes like that. To her amazement, the slippers bore not the slightest smudge of dirt. Even the ox-hide soles looked as if they had come straight from their maker. Gillian could not imagine how the woman had performed this feat unless she had flown into the woods.

Apparently unaware they were being watched, the man responded to his companion. His voice sounded to Gillian like an angel's. It rang with authority, with a sweet and virtuous depth.

"I refuse," he said, "to allow you to corrupt an innocent."

The woman snorted. "Believe me, there is no need to corrupt her. What she is her nature already holds. All I shall do is bring it to fruition."

"It does not matter what you believe. I say you shall not--"

The woman's satin slipper stomped a twig so hard it exploded beneath her heel. "Claim this girl and the truce between us ends."

With this vow, an invisible force shimmered in the air, thickening and building until the atmosphere pulsed with danger, like waking at night and knowing a monster lurks in the dark. The hair on Gillian's nape prickled as she held her breath.

The man's answer was a growl. "I know you do not wish to pit your children against mine."

"Mayhap I do not, but I trust you know I will. Come, Auriclus." The woman's manner turned coaxing. "What can this mean to you? One small girl who has already tasted the delights of civilized living. She will never be content to live in some moldering cave. You do her no favor by claiming her for your pack."

A strange realization took hold of Gillian's mind, a sense as strong as any she had known. These two adults were fighting over her. She, who had never been valued by anyone, was the prize they both desired, the child whose goodness seemed a matter of debate. Before she could decide whether to be flattered or insulted, Auriclus spoke again.

"If you are so sure of her, Nim Wei," he said, "why not ask her whom she prefers."

Nim Wei stiffened. "She hears us?"

Without waiting for an answer, she turned and knelt before Gillian in the leaves. Anyone else would have been awkward, but Nim Wei's movements flowed like a dance. Her skirts twirled outward and settled gracefully down. A scent came with them, of parchment and dust -- peculiarly pleasant to the nose. When her hands slipped beneath Gillian's elbows to help her stand, a fiery tingle moved through her skin.

Until she felt it, Gillian had not known how cold she was.

The woman set her on her feet as if she weighed no more than a bubble.

Gillian's gaze found the woman's face. "Mother Mary," she breathed, gaping in amazement. The woman was beautiful beyond believing, her skin so fine and white it shone like a beacon through the mist. Tiny sparkles of color danced in its nimbus, dazzling Gillian's senses. Her hair, which fell to her hips, resembled a moonless night spun into silk. Her eyes were exotic, slanting almonds of onyx black. As for her lips, the loveliest rose would hang its head in shame against their pink perfection.

Gillian was more convinced than ever these two were angels. No mere mortal could be this fair.

"No," said the woman with a husky laugh, "the last thing we are is angels."

Gillian could not wonder that the woman had read her mind. If a girl like her could do it, even a little, why not this beauteous vision?

As the woman stroked the line of Gillian's jaw, the man squatted down as well. When he tossed back his hood, his looks were also extraordinary, but in a rougher, more earthy way. Though his hair was dark, it was not as dark as Nim Wei's. His eyes were the color of moss, his smell like a forest in the rain.

"You must choose," he said gently, and Gillian thought she had never heard anyone sound that kind. He made her think of being cuddled by a fire, of dozing off in protective arms.

"Auriclus," the woman warned sharply enough to cut through Gillian's haze. "None of your tricks or I swear I shall carry out my threat. She must choose on her own."

Gillian shook herself. "What am I choosing?"

"Life," said the woman. The word vibrated so forcefully color rose in her companion's cheeks. The way she said it was like a call to battle no warrior can resist. Though the man frowned at her, she was not chastened. "One of us shall make you what we are and you shall taste life in its fullness."

"Make me what you are?" Gillian repeated. "But why?"

"Because you are what we love: a creature whose passions are too big to contain. A creature with a seeking mind. Think of all the things you have desired. To have your hunger sated. To rule over those who slight you. To be brave and strong and beautiful all your days. Long days, during which you shall never be sick or helpless or ignored. You will be loved, Gillian, as a goddess."

Gillian looked from one otherworldly face to the other. They were, in their way, like husband and wife. "Why may I not choose you both?"

"Because he" -- the woman shot a look of scorn at her companion--"wants you to be good. He wants you to forgive those who have hurt you, wants you to live like a monk in a little cave, away from humans and all their delightful toys. Away from books and wine and music. Away from ships and jewels and dancing boys. I want you to be a queen, Gillian. He believes you should be a beast."

Gillian turned her gaze to the man. His eyes seemed to hold all the sadness in the world. He reminded her of a painting of a saint.

"Think," he said quietly. "Who do you want to be? The girl who secretly wished her brother dead? Or the girl who kissed his forehead while he slept?"

The woman laughed. "As if it were that simple! As if she could deny what she is inside! Always she will want more. Always she will be greedy."

The man did not contradict her, nor draw seductive pictures of what choosing him would mean. With a flush of shame, Gillian recalled the sermons of the traveling friars. Lucifer's snares were sweet, they warned. He would promise your heart's desire to steal your soul.

Just like the one called Nim Wei.

"Hah!" barked the woman. "If I am a devil, so is he."

The man ignored her. "Think," he said again. "If Nim Wei is the one to change you, her nature will color yours. You shall partake of her powers, but also of her weakness. You will find it that much harder to be good."

Gillian already knew she was not good, not like her mother, not like Col. Why must you misbehave? was the question she knew best. All the same she did not think she wanted to be bad. Bad people went to Hell. Gillian did not wish to burn.

"What if I cannot choose?" she asked.

"Then you will die," said the man. "Perhaps not from the pestilence but from starvation. No child could survive in these woods alone."

Gillian thought back to the fine white bread her mother had saved for Col. She looked at the woman's darkly shining eyes. Why should she be good when in the end she was still abandoned? She could be a queen herself: beautiful, beloved, dressed in gorgeous robes and shod in satin shoes.

The woman seemed to see her daydreams clearly. She smiled with such understanding, Gillian thought her ten-year-old heart would break. What would it be like, she wondered, to be a creature this strong and free?

With a deep, regretful sigh, she turned to the man. He did not smile, but in his face she read approval.

"You," she said. "I choose you."

Copyright © 2003 by Emma Holly