‘You are quite wrong,’ said the golden-haired woman. ‘It is springtime and the flowers are in bloom.’They were both smiling now, and Agraine felt the red flush of embarrassment burning his cheeks. With great effort Owen Odell rose from his chair, his bony hand descending on the young man’s shoulder, ‘I am sorry, my boy; we do not mean to mock. But Megan is right. Where we travel it will be springtime. And there is a young man – little older than yourself – who is waiting to speak with an old poet. It is a circle, you see. Forgive me.’The golden-haired woman was standing beside the open door and the wind was sending flurries of snow against her bare feet. Taking Odell’s arm, she led the old man out into the winter night Agraine stood for a moment, unable to gather his thoughts. Then he ran to the door.
The two of them were only a few paces out into the snow-covered clearing, Megan supporting the poet who moved with slow shuffling steps. They stopped and the woman raised her hand. Light rose from her fingers in a fountain of sparkling gold, raining down over both figures. Round and round, like shimmer-ing stars, the golden flakes whirled about the poet and his lady.
Agraine blinked against the light – and the sudden darkness that followed it.
He blinked again. The clearing was deserted.
Owen Odell was gone.