Free All Night Awake by Sarah A. Hoyt

that land of dirt and iron and massed humanity?
    She wished Malachite would give her an explanation of this sudden departure.
    The cold upon her chest, the horror trembling through her limbs, all of it bespoke what she feared, perhaps more than death.
    Her attempt at protecting Quicksilver had offended him. It had been too much. Humiliated, fearing that she loved him not enough, Quicksilver had returned to a former love—that human whom the Lady Silver had loved so dearly, that William Shakespeare, who had taken himself to London six months ago.
    Ariel had loved Quicksilver ever since she could remember, since they’d been toddlers together in the vast palace hall.
    For Ariel, Quicksilver’s love was more important than life, or hill, or indeed the whole world entire and filled with all wonder. For without his love, neither life nor hill nor world could exist for Ariel.
    Was his love for her threatened? Had he left for London just because he resented her offering to help with defending the boundaries?
    Was his love for her so frail? A firefly in a summer evening, the inconsequential dust of Fairyland?
    Ariel shook her head. She felt tears heavy beneath her eyelids, like threatening grey clouds hanging over a fair day. “Thank you, Malachite. No. I need no more. Thou hast comforted me marvelous much.”
    She returned to her vanity and to her mirror, and contemplated her features in the mirror. An unexceptional face, oval and pale.
    Did her lord still love her? Would he ever come back?
    And if not, what would become of the hill without him?
    What of poor Ariel, without his love?
    She’d be a shadow, no more. A captive spirit doing his bidding and devoid of all self-worth.

Scene 7

    A narrow street on the outskirts of London. It is obviously a not-too-prosperous but respectable-enough area, the lowest floor of each of the five-floor houses a modest shop. Hatters and glovers, printers and bakers. By a dark brown building, with a ramshackle outside staircase that climbs, crookedly, to a door on the fifth floor, a dark-haired lady in silk appears, as if birthed out of the air itself. No one else is on the street, save for Will, who approaches the woman cautiously.

    T he Lady Silver stood at the foot of Will’s stairs.
    Will’s heart raced. His breath caught. Was this an illusion spun off from hunger?
    Or was the elf lady truly here, so far from her green glades?
    The dark, silken hair of Lady Silver fell, unfettered, down to her waist, over a white silk dress that Will knew could scarcely be lighter or silkier than the skin it hid. Will felt dizzy.
    Suddenly, he was once more nineteen, and tramping unawares the paths of Arden Woods only, to be seduced by the Lady Silver in all her splendor.
    Silver’s tiny waist emphasized her abundant womanly charms that overspilled from her tight white bodice. Will felt as though he were falling, headfirst, into a dream of love.
    He smiled. He hurried toward Silver.
    She smiled at him, her dark red lips promising velvet touch and the sweetness of newly pressed wine.
    In Will’s mind, Nan’s face rose in remembrance.
    Nan, Will’s wife, was not as beautiful as Lady Silver. Mortal and ill used by fate—hard worn by life and children and husband—Nan had aged in the last ten years, as Silver hadn’t.
    Nan’s hands felt calloused and rough compared to the Lady Silver’s soft, smooth silk skin.
    Yet, when night came, and when old age robbed food of its flavor and the sky of color, Will knew it was Nan he wanted by his side. And if he died before that, it would be only because of Nan that he regretted it.
    He hesitated. His steps slowed.
    This fine lady was no more than a passing fancy, a diversion. A fleeting pleasure, fleetingly enjoyed and ever afterward bitterly regretted. Like fairy gold, the love of elven kind turned to dust and nothing all too quickly.
    Such momentary joy bred months of pain. This hot desire converted to cold disdain.
    The last time the lady had seduced him and