The
world spun around her, the lights flickered and the ground slid from under her
feet. Merrigan let out a most unqueenly shout.
Until you turn, you are forbidden to
return, while ungrateful thoughts linger in your mind and pride in your heart,
Clara whispered in her memory.
Merrigan
landed on her knees in a patch of violets along the side of a tree-lined road.
She heard nothing but the whisper of the wind through the leaves, and far off,
the songs of sleepy birds. She turned around and settled on her bottom, drew
her knees up to her chest, hid her face in her knees, and waited for the tears
to come.
None
came. Apparently, she was too wrinkled and dry and shriveled up to even cry in
frustration.
So
she wasn't allowed to go back, once she had turned her back on rustic
hospitality and generosity? What common sense was there in that? Where was the
justice in the world?
"Fine, then. Have it your way. I'll find someone to take pity on me and help me, no matter how much you interfere," she whispered.
Such words would have had greater effect if she had leaped to her feet and stomped out of the violets and headed down the road. Merrigan was too tired, and somewhat achy from her landing, so she made herself comfortable and sat and thought for a time. When no wagons came down the road after nearly two hours, she got to her feet and resumed walking.
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