Autumn had come, and with it, the day of Zephyrin’s departure. His family had celebrated a celebratory dinner the night before, and he had received hearty congratulations from Uncle Erwan and various friends of his and his father; farewells had been said, and now only the business of bidding goodbye to Rose remained.

Though Zephyrin went on a stroll pretty much every day, the season had still managed to play that familiar sleight of hand of swapping out unnoticed the lively green leaves of summer for their subdued autumn counterparts. It was down a country lane littered with stiffening leaves that he proceeded to their meeting place, walking past the little hedges and thatch-roofed stone houses scattered all across the land. Zephyrin took in the sights with a certain emotion in his breast, knowing this could very well be his last time laying eyes on them.

At length, he quit the beaten path in favor of a gently sloping valley, punctuated only by the occasional tree. A few hundred meters more and he caught sight of a tolerably high hill, at the base of which a pasture opened up before him, as if the valley were stretching its arms wide for him. Before long Zephyrin’s lips curved into a smile as he saw a familiar figure waving in the distance. Raising his own hand, he returned the wave and advanced toward the secluded grazing area.

Rose, who had been busily weaving with her distaff in a seated position, now laid it against a boulder and rose from the withered grass, her face breaking out into a wide grin at Zephyrin’s approach. The pair fell into talking for a while, Rose oohing and aahing as Zephyrin regaled her with tales from the strange, foreign world of school and his interactions with (what she esteemed to be) the gods of this sublunary plane. She was particularly overawed by a letter Zephyrin withdrew from his bag that was written in the local bishop’s own hand, and even refused his offer that she handle it.

After reading out the bishop’s cordial greetings and well wishes for his future to the wide-eyed girl, Zephyrin remarked, “You should find this less intimidating. Here’s a present for you.” Reaching again into the small pouch attached to his belt, this time he withdrew a sheet of parchment—quite a luxury, for a child of his meager means, but Abbé Beauvran insisted on endowing his new ward with a more than symbolic sum of pocket money. Wholly in line with his expectations, Rose’s face scrunched up at the sight of the ominous material. “Ye know I can’t read, Sephrin,” she complained.

Zephyrin merely smiled. “All you have to do is listen, silly. I thought of you the moment I came across this poem in Abbé Beauvran’s personal library. This is a copy I made.”

Rose gingerly approached, looking back and forth from the paper to Zephyrin’s face. “What’s it called?”

“‘An Ode to Fengar’. It’s addressed to a simple soul from Selena’s perspective.”

Rose nodded, curiosity beginning to show in her eyes at the mention of the deities. Zephyrin cleared his throat, and began reciting in his clear, high-pitched voice:

“Life’s gay and fair,

Fair and gay for thee,

But ‘tis fairer still for me

Kenning thee ‘fore me!

Fair, my daughter, fair’s

This sky’s blue seam,

Giddy and scintillant where

Thy pure brow doth beam!

Fengar wrought thee

Fair; thine heart covets,

Deep-desires thy days fraught-free,

Tear-free thy cov’rlets;

Oh, my slender vine,

Grow divine wi’ me!

In colloquies corolline,

Close, encloister thee.

Ills murkly swim—

T’ward thy candor dart.

Giv’st thou only ear to Him,

Who slumbers i’ thine heart.

Th’ season rude, th’ hour rough,

Morrow doth keep:

But th’ tears mine eyne ruddy seep,

Thou see’st well enough!”

A cloud passed overhead, casting a shadow on the pair as Zephyrin finished his recitation. The breeze stirred, and he tightened his grip on the sheet. Deciding to tuck it away before it was snatched out of his grasp, he replaced it in his pouch and asked Rose with a broad smile, “Well? What did you think?”

Rose stared at Zephyrin, wide-eyed. “Eh! That was grand, that was, Sephrin!” she said excitedly. “Yer right clever tae read so well!”

Zephyrin laughed. “Never mind me, Rose! What was your favorite part of the poem?”

“Oh! Err…” Still staring at him, Rose shifted from foot to foot uncertainly. “All of it, I s’pose! I couldn’t say more’n that!”

Zephyrin’s good-humor faded. “… Ah.”

Of course. What had he been thinking? He was dealing with an illiterate peasant girl; all that had gone quite over her head.

“Don’t feel bad, Sephrin!” Rose cheerfully said, patting a silent Zephyrin on the shoulder. “Ev’n if it didn’t make a lick o’ sense tae me, I could still tell it was right pretty. I’m just a wool-head, is all—nary better than my sheep, really. Why, they’d learn their letters better’n me, I’ll warrant!”

As she laughed again, a bout of irrational irritation came over Zephyrin. Irritation at Rose and her lack of comprehension, though he knew full well she was blameless in the matter; irritation at the rural life that had so charmed him, at the narrow horizons of the people, whose gazes were fixed as stolidly downward as their livestock; at the garbled, incomprehensible pronunciation of the elderly peasants; at the banal, hip-slapping tunes passing for music; at the inane amusements during festivals, at the sluggish pace of life in Estrelti, the way the days blended so seamlessly and came to resemble one another, perfectly united in the repetition of the same, unvarying, relentless drudgery. Gratuitous though this life was, and infinitely thankful for it though he should be, still it was not wholly without its blemishes, and for one, wild moment, he even wished himself back in refined, elegant Elysia…

Zephyrin shook his head. He was being foolish. More than foolish. Finding like-minded souls didn’t depend on a change of country—there would be time enough for art, and music, and literature, and witty banter, once he was introduced to high Gaulyrian society. And why was his frustration bubbling over now, of all times, on the eve of his departure? He had patiently endured his second infancy and the disadvantages of this second childhood until now, hadn’t he? By this time tomorrow, he would be seated in a train speeding to the capital. This wasn’t the time to lose his composure.

The real problem was that he had gotten entirely too carried away with this peasant girl. Yes, that was it. Whatever his childish looks might suggest, he was a grown man. Their interactions had been diverting, but now it was time for the childish fun and games to come to end.

“Let’s get going,” he said shortly, indicating with a motion of the hand to Rose that she should take up her distaff. “I have to be back in Estrelti by noon. If we go now I can accompany you to Alys before then.”

Picking up on his ill humor, Rose didn’t speak as they walked on for a while, the clanging of her sheep’s bells filling up the silence. As they wound their way down the elevated pasture to reach a grassy field strewn with the last flowers of the year, Rose spoke up. “Sephrin.”

Zephyrin raised his head, roused from his taciturn musings. “Yes?” he asked, a hint of ill-humor lingering in his tone.

“If ye’ve the time to tae sulk like a leashed hound eyin’ a bone, ye can help me wi’ somethin’,” Rose said offhandedly.

A ghost of a smile flickered involuntarily across Zephyrin’s face at this blunt appraisal of his conduct. He sighed. “Very well. What is it you want help with?”

“I’m on the look-out fer flowers. Ye can ‘elp me look.”

“Flowers? Are you looking for a particular kind?”

“Aye. I’m huntin’ fer moon-flowers.”

Zephyrin recalled the Palace’s glasshouse, filled with all manner of exotic plant and flower. “Moon-flowers?” he said slowly. “If you mean the all-white, five-petaled flowers from the Western Isles, I don’t believe those grow in this country.”

“Naw, naw! Moon-flowers’re white on the front, an’ all black on the back!”

“…I think we’re referring to two entirely different things.”

Rose shrugged. “Moon-flowers’re moon-flowers.”

Something clicked in Zephyrin’s mind. “This flower you’re referring to…do you call it a moon-flower because the front reminds you of the paleness of the moon, and the back of its dark side?”

Rose nodded enthusiastically. “Aye! Abbé Beauvran said that once, an’ I nev’r forgot! ‘E said there’s a side o’ the moon we nev’r see, an’ I got tae thinkin’ it’s like how Mother’s alwey shinin’ for us, while Fengar’s all quiet like an’ invizeebull. But I know ‘e’s busy too, ev’n if it don’t look it.”

Interested that Rose had picked up on this obscure point that had puzzled theologians for centuries, that Selena keeps such an active hand in the affairs of mortals while Fengar remains almost exclusively in the background, Zephyrin asked Rose what other names she had came up with for the countryside’s flora. She was more than happy to oblige his request, her finger darting to and fro as she brought various specimens to his attention.

“An’ this un’s a dame’s-girdle! See how round it is!” Rose said, pointing to a low-growing, oblong flower.

“I see. What about that one?”

“Ye don’t know even that, Sephrin?” Rose put her hands on her hips, exasperated. “Why, that’s a…”

A small smile played on Zephyrin’s lips as Rose chattered animatedly. “What about that moss over there, by the tree stump?” He asked, pointing at a downy, perfectly nondescript green mass growing on an ancient bole. Without missing a beat, Rose replied, “That un’s godsbeard!”

“I see.” Zephyrin’s smile broadened into a grin. Rose was easy to understand. Practically every name bore reference to Selena or Fengar in some way; occasionally a saint or famous hero made an appearance. Before long the young shepherdess exclaimed happily, finally finding her much-coveted moon-flowers. He watched as she knelt down and picked enough to make a little bouquet, then straightened back up and quickly rejoined him. As she did she almost tripped, and Zephyrin held out a hand to steady her. Curiously, she winced as his hand made contact close by her shoulder. Zephyrin glanced down, then drew in a sharp breath.

There, just below her collarbone… was a mottled spot. Zephyrin looked intently into the peasant girl’s eyes. “Rose… is that a bruise?”

A guilty light came into Rose’s eyes, and she hastily readjusted her coarse shirt with her free hand. She tried to squirm out of his firm grasp, but Zephyrin wasn’t having it. “I-It’s naught worth mindin’, Sephrin! Jus’ a bump, is all…!” she said nervously.

His gaze hardened. The thought now occurred to him that he had never visited Rose’s home. What kind of man was her father? Rose had described him glowingly during their conversations, but…

“It ain’t me pa that did this!” Rose quickly said, anticipating his suspicions. Zephyrin’s grip on her shoulder slightly relaxed, but didn’t fully release. “Then who?” he demanded. “Who hit you?”

“It… the year ‘fore last, me pa married agin…” Rose hung her head. She was unwilling to say more.

Her stepmother had done this? Zephyrin let his hand fall away. Rose quickly took a step back, eying him worriedly.

Zephyrin stared unseeingly at the ground, his fist clenched. What was he doing? What did he know about Rose, truly? Had he simply thought of her as a character in a bucolic idyll, a droll sort of creature to amuse himself with before he went off to the ‘real’ world? Suddenly, all his interactions with the baseblood girl took on an artificial quality in his mind.

But…there was still time. He still had the opportunity to act.

“Take me to your home,” he told Rose forcefully, “I’ll speak with your step-mother and make sure she never touches you again—”

“No, Sephrin!” Rose surprised Zephyrin by the strength in her tone. She had a determination in her gaze that he wouldn’t have expected from her. “This is me fam’ly’s bizness. Ye’ve naught tae do wi’ this. It ain’t yer place tae butt yer nose in our doin’s. Besides,” she added, “Yer leavin’ today. Ye’ve no time tae waste lollygaggin’ wi’ me!”

“It wouldn’t be a waste—” Zephyrin started to say. Rose shook her head. “Ev’n if ye were stayin’, Sephrin, I wouldn’t lead ye tae me home if ye took it on yerself to meddle. An’ that’s that!”

Zephyrin vacillated for a considerable while, strongly disliking the situation but finding no viable alternative. Even if he acted today, he realized, that would very likely only net Rose a harsher reprisal from her step-mother. Any intervention on his part needed to have been done much sooner.

Finally, with great reluctance, Zephyrin slowly said, “…I’ll see you back to Alys, at least. That’s all right, isn’t it?”

Rose thought about this, then nodded. “Aye. Ye can do that.”