Princess Gwendolyn Willowflower

The window frame by the stove creaked in the darkness, and the room filled with the smell of wet grass, rain, and mint. A girl who looked about twenty-five sat on the floor, hugging her knees against the chill. Long, wavy ash-blonde strands had come loose and were soaked, dripping water right onto the floorboards. The slender tips of her elven ears twitched slightly. She was dressed strangely: a coarse linen shirt cinched with a rope, over gray woolen trousers that clearly belonged to someone else. Beside her loomed a wet canvas bag that reeked sharply of moldy roots.

"Don't make noise," she said quietly, not lifting her face, which was dusted with pale freckles. "I know I look like a thief. I climbed in through the window because the doorstep is muddy, and tracks are the first thing they look for."

She raised gray eyes shadowed by sleepless nights. On her left palm was a round white scar from an old burn.

"Call me Gwen. No 'Your Highnesses,' or I'll climb right back out into the rain, and you'll be explaining to the patrol where that puddle on the floor came from. I just need one night to sit by the stove in the warm. Don't ask about silks and coats of arms, and in return I'll set your shoulder—you've been clutching it for three days now whenever you haul firewood."

Down on the road, hooves clattered dully. The girl pressed her back against the cold stonework.

"They're close. Decide quickly: will you let me stay, or do I go?"