Free Gossamyr by Michele Hauf

a glimmer—"
he drew his palm between them in a curtain of fluttering fingers
"—that sheen of the unnatural."
    The blazon.
    "Though, I must say, you do appear a trifle...faded."
    "What mean you by that?"
    Ulrich pointed to the hem of Gossamyr's pourpoint. "Your
clothing. The leaves look as though they are fading. More so than
when we first met."
    Gossamyr touched a curve of supple hornbeam at her waist. Indeed,
the leaf had lost some of its glossy resilience. The arachnagoss
threading was strong, but no more so than the outer layers it
stitched together. She smoothed a hand over her braies. They felt
secure; amphi-leather was virtually indestructible, even a
fire-forged blade must draw a precise line to cut through.
    A bend of her arm tugged a crack in the leaves at her shoulder.
    "I must make haste," she said and picked up her pace
along the dirt path.
    "And so I shall hurry alongside you, Faery Not."
    They walked onward, Ulrich leading Fancy as he ventured first. His
strides were light, jumping to kick a stone in the path, as free as
the air made Gossamyr feel. When he finally spoke, though, he sounded
suspicious. "You are quite skilled in defense and attack."
    She smirked. "And you are adept at getting in the way."
    "Why, thank you, fair lady. It is a skill. Pity 'twas my last
quarrel. Though, rest assured, I can hold steel to the enemy should
the need arise. That is...if I had steel." He patted his hips
and scanned the ground. "I seem to have misplaced my dagger a
few leagues back."
    "Would that be when you won the prize dripping down your
forehead?"
    "Do you think it will leave a mark?" He touched the
wound.
    Ever changing, the man's moods. From suspicion, to anger, to a
teasing charm. Despite the danger his learning of her origins could
pose, Gossamyr found it difficult to dislike the man. For he tread
the earth as if he had wings. To have him accompany her even a short
distance could prove a boon. She would study him, prepare for future
contact with mortals. They weren't so different from the fée.
Even his deep voice she had grown accustomed to.
    "So, Gossamyr who isn't from Faery, I did notice you were
particularly surprised at your success over the beast."
    Gossamyr tripped ahead, enjoying the warm air skim her bared
flesh. Right, was the only feeling she could summon. She spun
in a dancer's twirl and rejoined Ulrich's side, "It is the first
time I have engaged in hand-to-hand combat."
    "Ah. Well then, good show, Faery Not."
    "Don't name me that—achoo!" Halted in her tracks,
Gossamyr grasped her head.
    "Touche!" Turning to walk backward Ulrich smiled at her.
The gap in his teeth distorted his mirth. "So you like to
dance?"
    Skipping, Gossamyr shrugged and offered an unexpected "I
think so!"
    "You take marvel at your own wonder."
    "It is just, the air...I feel light."
    "Pray tell what the air is like whence you hail?"
    "Not like here," she called out and jumped to the grass
to skip through the cool blades.
    Flight had ever alluded her, no matter how often she had attempted
it. Which had been often in the rose garden behind the castle
buttery. Mince had once witnessed her fruitless attempts and had
laughingly joined in. The matron's small wings, attached to a
generously rounded body, had served little more than to lift her
shoulders. She could not leave the ground, either. It had bonded them
in laughter, and a smirking confession from Gossamyr, which revealed
her jealousy of the winged ones.
    "You are the daughter of Lord de Wintershinn," Mince had
stated simply. "You needn't envy; you are envied."
    Mayhap. But Gossamyr had not missed a single averted gaze or cruel
stare in her lifetime. Envy hurt. And the only way to overcome was to
prove herself. She needn't the Wintershinn name to stand proud; to
defeat the Red Lady would prove her worth and perhaps put to rest the
suspicious whispers.
    She spun now, and leaped into the path immediately before Ulrich.
He had no wings, and yet, he took to the air in his strides.