Free Mist upon the Marsh: The Story of Nessa and Cassie by Mae Ronan

anything the least bit clearer, she did go on to say:
    “You needn’t wait with me, you know. I’ll be fine on my own.”
    “I’m sure you will be,” said Cassie. “But only to be ‘fine’ – which I have learnt, by the way, hardly ever means in a person what the actual word defines – and nothing at all more than that, when you’re all alone, is nothing to wish for.”
    Somewhat perplexed, Nessa turned her face to that of her tailgate-companion. “And you intend to help me accomplish more than that?” she asked.
    “Of course not,” said Cassie. “I doubt that I could, even if I wanted to.”
    Nessa could not resist it.
    “And do you want to?”
    Cassie smiled; but the resulting picture was ambiguous, showing simultaneously that she did, and did not, have that wish. Nessa knew that one of these things (though she did not know which) was the true thing; and that the other served only as a sort of buffer, so as to render the effect of the true thing neither excessive nor disappointing.
    “I’m sorry,” said Nessa, turning her face away. “That was a ridiculous question – and I meant nothing by it.”
    “Don’t be sorry,” said Cassie. “And remember that I didn’t answer. For now, I think that’s best. But to tell you what I meant – well, I only meant that it might be better if you weren’t all alone, while you’re feeling, as it seems to me, much less than fine.”
    “What would make you think that?”
    “Think what?”
    “That I’m not all right.”
    Cassie laughed. “I didn’t say that. To be all right – well, that’s a pretty good thing, if you ask me. I only said you seemed less than fine.”
    “And you maintain that ‘fine’ is not a good thing to be?”
    “Not as good, I don’t think.”
    “I suppose I always thought that the two were the same.”
    Cassie raised her eyes again to the sky, and said, “Maybe you’ve always been right. It’s only my own opinion.”
    Waiting several moments to ask it, for fear of seeming rude (most especially, after that strange but somehow poignant exchange), Nessa finally put the question to the waitress, who wore still her pink uniform, and her little blue nametag:
    “Aren’t you tired? It must be nearly half-past two.”
    “I suppose it must be,” said Cassie, her eyes still pointed upwards. “But no, I’m not tired. Are you tired?”
    “Not particularly.”
    “Then I suppose we don’t have anything to worry about, do we?”
    “I suppose not.”
    “But do you know what I just realised?” asked Cassie.
    “I can’t say that I do.”
    “I don’t even know your name!”
    “My name is Nessa.”
    Cassie finally turned her eyes from the stars, and offered Nessa a brilliant smile. “Do you know,” she said, “I sometimes think it would be better if we all wore nametags! What do you think?”
    “I can’t say that I think anything, Cassie.”
    “Oh, well. But do you see? I had to ask you; but you didn’t have to ask me. Oh, well.”
    A moment later:
    “And what about the rest of it?”
    “The rest of what?” asked Nessa.
    “Your name.”
    Nessa frowned.
    “There’s nothing more to your name, than ‘Nessa’?”
    Here, Nessa was at something of a loss. There were no surnames among the Endai. Members were described by country; then by part of country; and then by house. And so, yes – she was only Nessa. Few human acquaintances as her family kept, this fact was one not learnt so very often. When it was, there was ever some proper cultural mask to assume. But at present there seemed nothing appropriate to say.
    “There is nothing more,” she answered.
    “That’s very odd, if you don’t mind me saying so.”
    “I don’t.”
    “And is your name short for something? Or is it the whole kit and caboodle?”
    Nessa looked to her, and could not help but smile. “It is the whole of it,” she said. “And what about you? Are you only Cassie?”
    “I’m Cassie MacAdam, to anyone and everyone. But then, I suppose, if