Bathed in Moonlight

By Forthright

Some courtships follow all the rules. Some courtships bend them.

As the Seven Score Moons cycle through their phases, the appointed time for the Queen's Festival draws near. Wolves from all over will gather at a site that the packs count as sacred, to sing for the Moon and her maidens. Rinloo is part of an allotm

• Language: English
• Publisher: Twinkle Press
• Release date: Nov 4, 2021
• ISBN: 9781631230776

Book preview

Bathed in Moonlight

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Songs of the Amaranthine, 7

Bathed in Moonlight

Copyright © 2021 by FORTHRIGHT

ISBN: 978-1-63123-074-5

All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or shared in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the author. Which is a slightly more officious way of saying what I’ve always asked. Play fair. Be nice. But by all means, have fun! ::twinkle::

TWINKLE PRESS

FORTHWRITES.COM

because it can be good to give in to awe

Table of Contents

Little Girl Lost

The Lone Cedar

Meeting Mother Moss

Seven Score Moons

There’s Only Me

Down the Drain

Golden Cedar Cone

East Facing Window

Twelve Years Later

The Unhappy Maid

Tempted by Tarts

According to Tradition

Drawn into Darkness

One Last Lap

Peeking in Windows

Basin of Water

Once a Year

Nibbling at Pastries

Play of Light

Different than Before

Under My Protection

Seeing to Comforts

Eleven Shine True

Room for Two

Pink Moon Rising

Happening to Someone

All You Ask

In the Open

Wrapped in Fur

Here Is Good

Put Me Down

Giving Something Up

Capture the Moon

Set a Task

Not Entirely Traditional

Call to Her

Imp to Consider

Easy to Please

See Her Off

Keeping a Promise

Worthy of Ballads

Little Girl Lost

The woods were dark and strange, but they were less frightening than the creaking wagon in which she’d been kept. How she hated the hands that reached through the gaps in the woven cage—pinching her skin and pulling her hair. Strange words had grumbled and groaned on every side, and no matter how she cried, her captors had laughed at her fear and licked it from her skin.

Some knew her words, but that was no comfort. All their promises were terrible. All their whispers were warnings. All they wanted was everything, for they nibbled at her edges and fed her despair.

The farm was gone. Da and Mam were gone. The monsters had left the buildings in flames before taking to the woods … and taking her along.

But tonight, the wind had changed, and the stars whispered. A sly shaft of moonlight crept across the musty furs that were her bed and over the pot they’d provided for her mess, angling until it illuminated her prison door. Had they somehow forgotten to set the latch?

She jiggled and pushed, tumbling free of her cage with a whimper.

But nobody heard, for they were all asleep, probably wrapped in greedy dreams. Nobody followed when she ran into the woods, but they could stir and snarl and sniff her out again.

The moonlight danced ahead of her, silvering a path.

Sometimes, she thought she saw a smiling face.

Once, she was sure a hand pointed the way.

Her bare feet hurt, but she trudged after the moonbeam until—all of a sudden—she broke into the open and stepped into a creek. Cool water slipped around her ankles, soothing her feet and reminding her how thirsty she was.

Every handful she scooped sparkled as she drank.

Light drew her onward, and she stepped onto pine needles, thick as a mat. A little way further, her moonbeam shone upon a stump that was stout as a barrel and just as hollow. Curling up inside, she hid … and hoped.

Maybe it was her imagination, but a lacework of glowing lines twirled through the air, prettier than fireflies and singing softly.

Eyes heavy, soul weary, she slumped against dusty wood and into a beckoning dream.

The Lone Cedar

She didn’t wake until the sun was high enough to banish every moonbeam. Even hers. But while she slept, she’d dreamed, and in her dream, she’d followed the creek to a branching and continued upstream.

The dream proved true, for it guided her to the smooth, round lake, then along a creek, through a series of linked meadows, to a place where a lone tree stood, bigger around than the strange cottage at its base and tall as the sky itself.

Was it safe?

Should she get closer?

Dare she knock?

She was picking her way across a wide meadow, gaping up at the impossible tree, when she nearly bumped into a man who hadn’t been there a moment before. He was terribly tall and strangely dressed, with a crown of tiny pinecones on his head.

Are you lost, leafling?

He seemed concerned, and he reached for her.

She hugged herself and stepped back.

You’re hurt. You need help. I can tell. Beckoning with both hands, he backed toward the tree. This way. Follow me …?

She held her ground.

He wrung his hands and gentled his tone. Come, little sprig. I want to show you to my sister. She’ll know what to do.

What should she do? She needed help, and he was offering it. The dream had been good, so maybe the tall man was also good? He didn’t seem mean. He wasn’t trying to touch her. No pinching or plucking. And he didn’t seem hungry. They’d all been so hungry.

If anything, he radiated a deep contentment, the kind that came from a fully belly.

She shuffled forward.

He looked grateful.

Chatting and coaxing, he lured her closer to the spindly stone cottage, which was at least three, maybe four stories tall. Smoke threaded from a chimney, and a shifting wind carried the half-forgotten scent of bread. Her stomach rumbled.

Are you hungry? The man seemed delighted to know it. My sister loves to bake. She will feed you, leafling. Come, meet Moss.

Meeting Mother Moss

To her despair, the man’s sister looked very much like her captors. Pointed ears and strange eyes, with claws like an animal’s. But Moss’s abundant hair was richly red, just like Mam’s, and that hint of home was enough to keep her from bolting straight back out the open door.

What have you found, Cedar? Tall and spare, the red-haired lady’s eyebrows arched toward a swirled mark that sparkled like a gem at the center of her forehead.

A girl. She’s lost, and she’s hungry, said the man. Could we give her something to eat?

What a good idea! She pulled a chair from the table. I’ll fill a bowl and find a spoon. Sit, girl-child. Rest your feet and calm your heart. You’ve found your way to a safe place.

Once the lady moved toward the enormous hearth, where a lone kettle steamed over a tiny bit of fire, the girl clambered awkwardly onto the lofty chair. She stayed on her knees, the better to reach the tabletop, and peered around. The house was small, but the ceilings were high and the furnishings were big.

May I join you? The tall man tapped his chest. I’m Cedar. She’s Moss.

She nodded. With Cedar close by, she felt safer than she had since … a long time ago. But what about the lady? Bare feet peeped from under her skirts, and there were claws upon her toes. Moss was like the monsters, but she didn’t feel hungry. Like Cedar, she felt like someone who was full of good things.

The lady stirred the contents of a copper kettle and fished muffins from a cloth-covered basket.

A dim memory surfaced. About mealtimes and manners. Mam would’ve been miffed by how dirty her hands were. May I wash? she whispered.

The words barely carried, but the lady heard. Show her where to go, Cedar.

He stood, backing and beckoning anew, leading her to a large room with deep sinks and water that fell in an endless sluice.

The girl dug her nails into a fat bar of soap and stared all around. Wide windows let in the summer air, which rippled through laundry hanging near the rafters. Corded wood lined one wall, and a female turkey wandered through an open door, scratching and pecking her way across the floor.

Outside was more of that big, wide meadow, with grasses cropped short. She had a vague memory of pastures and spotted horses, but the only thing grazing under the giant tree was a cow.

She’s called Best, said Cedar. She’s very gentle.

What about her? she asked, pointing at the turkey.

Calliope. He quietly pointed out, "All of us have names,