Willow sat with her brow furrowed in concern as the boy sprinted back to the thatched-roof cottage. She had lived at the cottage her whole life and could count the number of visitors they had ever had on two hands, but this squire was certainly the strangest one of all.

She kept her eyes fixed away from the mess he had left on the fresh spring grass and stood up gingerly. Maybe the rain will come and wash it away, she hoped. Willow had quite good luck in life; things she wished for often came true, and she especially hoped that this problem would fix itself.

He didn't seem sick, she mused as she brushed bits of grass from her dark brown tunic and retrieved her basket of strawberries. I would have felt it when I fixed his finger.

The only person who could answer her question had taken off in a dead sprint and had already disappeared inside the door of the cottage, so she had no choice but to follow. But Willow was not terribly concerned. After all, the strawberries were coming into season, there were plenty of worms and bugs for the birds to eat, and her mother had gotten to see an old friend. It was not a difficult day.

The horses tied by the whitethorn tree caught her attention as she returned to the house, and she stopped for a moment to pet them. "Hello, little ones," she murmured, stroking the neck of the knight's chestnut mare. The horse whuffed softly at her and lipped the hem of her tunic. Willow laughed and scratched the mare's neck in return. "It's very nice to meet you both. We don't often have such splendid visitors, just Old Braith's mule when we borrow her for tilling. And you're much more noble. A steed for a proper knight."

Willow had never seen a knight's horse before, nor hardly any horses. Living on a road that led to nowhere, tucked up under the shadow of the Shrouds, the truth was that she hardly saw anyone at all. It was, she thought, still a good compliment to give a horse. The mare certainly didn't seem to disagree, her ears flicking back and forth.

"Willow."

She looked up from the horses and back to the cottage. Her mother was walking towards her, chestnut brown hair shining in the gentle sunlight.

"Is the boy okay?" Willow asked. "He had just a little cut from the whitethorn, and I fixed it. I don't think he was sick. And he didn't eat any strawberries, either."

Her mother smiled down at her, wrapping one arm around her daughter's shoulders. "No, he's fine. You shouldn't have healed his finger, though."

Willow laughed and held out her own thumb to her mother. "Look, it's fine. It was only a little thing, and mine's not even bleeding." Her smile faded, though, at the look of concern on her mother's face. "Why? Did he say something was wrong? I didn't make it worse, I only laughed at him a bit for pricking his finger on the whitethorn. But he should've known better, truly."

The woman's eyebrows lifted and the corners of her mouth twitched as though she was fighting back as mile. "Was it the whitethorn?" Willow nodded, and her mother laughed. Willow didn't know why the whitethorn being the culprit had brought her such joy, but she was glad to see her mother's smile return. "But you frightened him, Willow."

"Why? Surely he's had worse injuries healed before by proper healers, or at least the knight has." Willow turned back to scratching the horse's neck. She was young, she knew, and certainly not a healer like those in the castle, but she had fixed his finger up well enough. "He didn't even thank me. He's a squire, I thought they were supposed to have better manners than that. I should be the one offended." Her words spilled out one after the other as she tried to justify herself. Her mother was upset, but Willow was quite sure that she hadn't done anything wrong.

Her mother sighed, and at the sound, the knight's chestnut mare turned to rub her nose gently against the woman's leg.

"I'll go inside and apologize to him if you want me to." Even though I didn't do anything wrong.

Her mother sighed again and shook her head. "No. No. But you can't..." She lifted her head and took Willow's face in her hands. "You shouldn't have done that. Otherwise they wouldn't have..."

Willow stepped back, pulling her face from her mother's grasp. "Wouldn't have what? You told me I couldn't do it to people I didn't know, and you know them. You said so." She shook her head. "And you said I couldn't do it if it was something that would really hurt me. It was just a little cut, it's not even bleeding." She raised her thumb again, as if to prove to her mother that she was unharmed.

"That's not the point. The point is—"

"What, that he got sick after? I'll apologize to him, I said I would." Willow crossed her arms over her stomach. "If he wants me to, I'll even heal him of that and just go to bed for the rest of the day. I don't know why you're upset with me when I didn't do anything wrong!"

"Willow. Take a breath, and stop behaving like a child. This is important."

Shocked, Willow dropped her arms to her side. She and her mother rarely quarreled, and her mother hadn't spoken to her in such a tone in many years, not since she was a little girl cradling a dead bird in her hands by the whitethorn tree... "Okay." She nodded. "What is it?"

Her mother took her one of Willow's hands in hers, and gripped it tightly. "The Knight... Sir Ardál. He's asked if you would come to the castle to help a young man with a sickness. Would you?"

Willow's eyes widened with excitement. "To the castle? Where the kings and the knights live?" She had never traveled more than a few miles away from their little cottage before, let alone seen knights and nobles told about in the few yellow-paged books that were nestled safely on a shelf inside. "I would, I would!"

A deep shuddering sigh shook her mother's shoulders, half in relief and half in resignation. "Are you certain?"

If Willow had heard the conversation that had taken place inside the cottage minutes before, she would have known that her answer made no difference in whether she would be taken or not. Blissfully unaware, she nodded, smiling brightly. "I am! It's... It's a quest, like in the stories. Like Prince Sreng saving the Nymph Queen Philomena and falling in love..." Her smile flickered for a moment. "But why doesn't he have a castle healer help him instead?"

"They're..." Her mother hesitated, her gaze flicking from Willow back to the door of the cottage, where the knight and the squire remained inside. "They're afraid. It's a sleeping sickness, one they haven't seen before, and they're afraid that they wouldn't wake up."

The breeze lifted again, rustling the forest-green leaves of the whitethorn tree and sending wisps of Willow's dark brown hair flying about her face. "I won't be scared. I helped Old Braith with her stiff leg that had bothered her for ages, remember? And it only bothered me for a fortnight. I will be fine." She smiled brightly at her mother, who did not offer a smile in return. "And we'll come back after it's finished."

The knight—No, Sir Ardál, Willow reminded herself—emerged then from the door of the cottage, his squire trailing close behind. Willow ignored him; if he couldn't be bothered to thank her for healing him, she couldn't be bothered to care.

"You'll have to go alone," her mother murmured, her knuckles white as they gripped Willow's hands even more tightly. "I must stay and watch the orchards, and help Old Braith with her planting. Sir Ardál will look after you."

The knight nodded, his hands crossed behind his back. "I will. We'll return you back to your mother as soon as everything is finished."

Colm said nothing and kicked at the grass, and Willow was annoyed for only a moment before reminding herself that she was ignoring him.

She nodded at the knight. "How many days is it to the castle?"

"Three if we each had a horse to ride, perhaps a few more as we are. We'll be back soon enough."

The young woman nodded again. I'm going to the castle, she thought. It was a grand and glorious adventure, and one that would see her comfortably home in a short period of time. "When do we leave?"

Back inside the cottage, her mother set out a pale blue linen tunic and a pair of loose, dark brown breeches that Willow didn't recognize. "Where are those from?"

"Sir Ardál brought them for you," the woman replied, her tone unreadable. "He thought you might not have any, and you wouldn't want to be riding a horse without them."

The knight had presumed correctly; Willow had never set astride a horse before, and her clothing consisted of nothing but loose tunics and soft, well-worn leather shoes. She ran her fingers over the tunic, lingering on the dark blue trim embroidered with knots that crossed over and around each other. It was impossible to find the start or the end of any of the knots, for they looped about in an endless, repetitive pattern. She'd never seen, let alone worn, anything half as fine.

Her mother, sending her admiration of the clothes, huffed and busied herself gathering bits of bread, cheese, and onions into a drawstring bag. "Get changed."

Willow did as she was commanded, then set about untangling her long hair with her fingers and plaiting it loosely into a long braid that hung down her back. There was even a bit of fabric that matched the blue trim, embroidered with the same knot-like pattern, to tie in at the end of the braid. Willow looked down at herself in satisfaction. It was strange, the feeling of new clothes against her skin, but it sent excited shivers down her spine.

When she looked up again, her mother was staring at her with reddened eyes, tears streaming silently down her face. "Mum? What's... Are you hurt?" Willow rushed forward, taking her mother's hand in her own.

The woman shook her head, one hand covering her mouth. "You look... You look very grown-up."

Willow smiled. "I am grown up. And I'll be back soon."

Her mother smiled back at her, tears still gathering in the corner of her eyes. "I know you are." She swallowed back a sob. "Don't be afraid of them. You are... You are stronger and greater than they are. You must be brave, no matter what."

Her words were so urgent and fervent that Willow could only nod in agreement. She wanted to reassure her mother, to tell her that it would be only a short time and that she would come back with tales of the castle, but the words froze in her throat and she only nodded again.

They stepped back out of the cottage, Willow with a small drawstring bag slung over her shoulder. A few changes of clothes, a few bits of food for the journey; it had everything she could imagine needing for a few weeks.

The squire was standing outside the door, still kicking the ground. Willow smiled at him. After all, she thought, if they were to be traveling companions for the next few days, it would do to make friends. Willow had never had a friend her own age before. "Are you feeling better?"

He blinked at her, mouth opening and closing as it had after she'd fixed his finger. Like a fish. Willow bit back a laugh.

"Th-Thank you for helping me." The words were barely out of Colm's mouth before he turned to look at Sir Ardál, who nodded in approval. "You can ride my horse first, I'll walk."

Willow laughed, shaking her head. "No, you're sick. You ride for the first bit, and I'll walk until you're feeling better." If they were to be friends, they would need to look out for each other. "I don't mind."

"That's settled, then," Sir Ardál barked. He swung up onto the back of his chestnut mare. "Hurry up, Colm."

The squire--Colm--seemed eager to escape and trotted back over to where his little gray horse was standing. He mounted up in a moment, backing the horse away from the cottage and facing towards the road.

Willow turned back to her mother, who stood in the doorway, her hands clasped together. "I'll see you soon, Mum. I will." Willow embraced her tightly and gave what she hoped was a reassuring smile. Her stomach tightened in anticipation and excitement. "I love you."

Her mother nodded, the wind tossing her chestnut curls in the air. "Be brave."

"Of course I will. I'm your daughter."

And with that, Willow, turned and trotted across the yard, following behind the two horses and turning back every other moment to wave and blow a kiss to her mother until the little cottage receded from her view.

The girl's head swam with excitement and nervousness. Her bag thumped lightly on her back with every step that she took, and she looked forward to when they could have lunch. There was surely cheese from Old Braith's goats in the bag, and that had always been her favorite.

Back at the cottage, her mother watched until the trio had faded from sight. She then returned to her little cottage, now silent, and sobbed for the daughter that would never see again.