“But—” I said again, uncertainly. I could feel my first tears pricking my eyes; I realized that I would feel much less desolate if I could keep Greatheart with me.

“Enough,” said Father. “I agree with Hope: Your keeping your horse will comfort us at least. If you were a little less stubborn, girl, you’d be comforted too.” A little more gently he added: “Child, do you understand?”

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak, and picked up my spoon again. The tension was broken; we were a family again, discussing the weather, and the work to be done in the coming weeks—and the necessary preparations for the youngest daughter’s coming journey. We had accepted it and could begin to cope with it.

Those last few weeks passed very quickly. The knowledge that I was leaving changed the tenor of all our lives very little, once we had adjusted to the simple fact of it. The story we devised for the town’s benefit was that an old aunt, nearing the end of her life and finding herself without heir, had offered to take one of us in; and it was decided that I would benefit most (and could best be spared from home), because I would be able to take up my studies again. All our friends were sorry to hear I was leaving, but were glad of what they thought would be a “grand chance” for me—even the ones who had scant respect for book learning were polite if not cordial, for my family’s sake. Melinda said, “You must come visit us when you’re home for a holiday—she’ll let you come home for a spell, sometimes, surely?”

“Oh yes—please come see us,” put in Molly. “I want to hear all about the city.” Melinda sniffed; she didn’t approve of cities, nor of wanting to hear about them. She felt that we had survived our lengthy exposure very well, considering, and while she approved of my going be—

cause she recognized the claims of things like aunts, it was still an unfortunate risk.

“She’s seen the city before,” Melinda said drily, and Molly flushed: They’d been careful not to ask us what life in the city was like, since we had left it under such unhappy circumstances. “We wish you well, in all events, Beauty,” Melinda continued. “But before we leave, say that you will come say hello to us when you come back to visit your family.”

“I will if I can,” I said uncomfortably. “Thank you for all your good wishes.”

Melinda looked a little surprised at my answer and remarked to no one in particular, “Is this aunt such an ogre then?” and kissed me, and she and Molly left to go home. We were in the kitchen, Father smoking a pipe and looking thoughtful, Grace peeling potatoes, Hope feeding the babies; I was mending the throat latch of Greatheart’s bridle. Ger was still in the shop. We had never discussed just how long I would be gone—the Beast’s words led one to believe that it would be forever, which didn’t bear thinking of, so we didn’t think of it.

To break the silence I said, “This ogreish aunt may not be a complete fiction after all. I probably shall be able to get on with my studies: He must have a library in that great castle of his. He must do something with the days besides guard his roses and frighten travelers.”

Father shook his head. “You cannot know; he is a Beast.”

“A Beast who talks like a man,” I said. “Perhaps he reads like a man too.”

Grace finished slicing the potatoes and put them in the skillet where onions were frying. I had grown very fond of fried potatoes and onions since we’d left the city; I wondered if I would get any at the castle. I would have refused such a humble dish five years ago, if our cook could ever have thought of offering us such a thing.

“Beauty, you assume that everyone must be like you,” said Grace. “There are a lot of us who find reading more a burdensome task than anything else. Never mind Latin and Greek and so forth.”

“I could almost feel sorry for this Beast,” said Hope cheerfully, wiping tomato soup from Richard’s chin. “I still remember Beauty trying to teach me declensions, which I had no desire to learn.” The potatoes were sizzling.

“Stop it,” said Father harshly; and Ger came in just then, so no more was said. He handed me a thin piece of leather. “Thought this might help. That strap has about reached the end of its usefulness.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“Supper,” said Grace.

Winter began to slide away from us in good earnest; the blizzard Father had come home in seemed to be the last of the year, and spring arrived to take charge. The brook from the forest tore off the ice that had built up along its banks and hurled it downstream with the strength of the seasonal high water. The track from house to shop to stable turned to mud. Grace swept the kitchen and parlour floor twice a day, and I couldn’t keep Great-heart’s stockings white, and spent a lot of time sponging the mud off his grey belly and leather harness.

For three weeks there was no sign of my roses; I worried that perhaps the seeds would be washed away in the churned-up mud, because I hadn’t been able to bury them very deeply; and told myself often and with increasing sternness as time passed that I had been a complete fool to try to plant them so early. I told myself that they were lost now and would do no one any good, and all was due to my own stupid folly in supposing that even magical seeds could grow at this time of year.

The rose on the mantelpiece stayed as fresh and bright as it had been when Father first handed it to me. It dropped no more petals; it didn’t even drink much water. Grace had put it in a tall crystal vase from among the lovely things that had been found so mysteriously in Father’s saddle-bags, and taken the pottery cup it had first rested in back to the kitchen.

Then, seven days before we were to ride into the forest, I found three little green shoots along one stable wall. I stared at them, sucking in my breath, and ran back to the house to look for more. I found at least a dozen, in a straight little row under the kitchen window that faced the forest. They weren’t weeds, I was sure, although I had wished so hard for some sign of my roses that I could almost believe that I was imagining things. There were a few more along the front of the house, and I found what I thought might be two more of the same thin tender green bits poking their heads tentatively aboveground outside the shop. It was morning, and I had been on my way to curry and feed the horses. When I went back to the stable, I saw five little green sprouts. I must have overlooked the last two.

Returning to the house for the noon meal, I found a whole regimental line of short green spikes lined up by the wall of the house looking towards the forest; some of them were quite three inches high. “My roses!” I yelled through the kitchen door. “Come see my roses!”

They grew so fast those last few days that I found myself watching them out of the corners of my eyes as if I would catch them at something: hastily unrolling a leaf, threading a new runner up the vines that were joyously climbing the sides of the house, shop, and barn. The seedlings nearest the forest did the best, as if there were some radiated strength emanating from their place of origin. On the fifth day there were tiny buds beginning; on the sixth day the buds swelled till touches of colour, red or pink, could be seen at their tips. Father and I would ride away the morning of the next day.

Like the night following the telling of Father’s fantastic story, again on my last night at home I found myself unable to sleep. After supper I had gone outside again, oppressed by the unspoken tension indoors, and walked around the meadow. The stream’s voice was almost articulate, but I couldn’t quite catch the words; and I fete that I was being taunted for my dullness. The pebbles on the banks of the stream watched me knowingly, I went to the stable, although I knew everything was in military order there, the appropriate tack cleaned ruthlessly and laid out for tomorrow’s journey. I had groomed Greatheart till he gleamed like polished marble, and combed his long mane and tail over and over again till he must have wondered what was wrong with me. He had been a little uneasy the last few days, as uneasy as a great placid horse can be, sensing some change in the air. At least he knew where I was when I was shining him; he put his head over the door and pointed his eats at me with a little anxious quiver of his nostrils when I blew die lantern out and left him at last. “Don’t worry,” I said, “you’re coming too,” and closed the barn door as he watched me. The moon was three-quarters full, and there were just a few little, dancing clouds in the sky. The forest was quiet, except for the sounds that trees make.