Ledda was tending her garden when she heard familiar voices calling her. She rose, a cluster of weeds in her hand, and stared across fields of barley and flax. Bello the Bald and his son were leading their hay cart down the lane that led to her cottage.
She waved to them and shaded her eyes, catching sight of the man in the cart. He was clinging desperately to the slats, obviously unable to sit upright, though the ride was not rough: A stranger.
Now she knew what it had meant to find the sprig of rowan on her great-grandmother's tree that morning, blooming despite the approach of autumn. She went inside, filled her basin, and washed her hands. She would need to perform a Touching.
She emerged as Bello and his son were setting down the yokes. They started to wipe the sweat from their brows, then sprang to action as Ledda cried out. Their passenger was falling off the open end of the cart. They caught him and lowered him to the packed earth.
Ledda had never seen a man display such pain. The stranger's lips were pulled back in a rictus, teeth bared. No sooner had the other men laid him out flat than he folded up, rolling onto his side. Drool stained the dirt.
He was a Roman. A soldier, judging by the armor and greaves. He was tall, with curly dark hair and hints of a muscular build, though he fit his garments poorly. Hollows pocked his cheeks and his movements spoke of bulk suddenly lost. His eyes contained a wounded-animal glassiness.
)
The elves were capricious, and their curses cruel. Could Ledda persuade them to lift their curse before her patient died?
