[Fairleaf]

The sounds of the crowd grew louder as more people arrived at the Inn. Fairleaf attended to the various snatches of conversations as little groups passed by her. There were those who spoke quite simply and those who spoke quite grand. She listened in delight to the differences in cadence and tone and timbre. Sifting through her memory she remembered the sounds of different stands of trees as the wind caught them. Sparse leafed and thickly leafed, soft green-new leavess, and the thin scratchy voices of brown, winter leaves not yet fallen.

Another image, one closer to her wandering heart was that of roses. The smaller folk of this land with their bright, easy smiles, their open faces called to mind the hedgerows along the dirt lanes with their thick riot of wild, shrub roses. Crimsons and yellows and whites and lavenders. Just the hint of them as she rounded a bend made her smile in anticipation. The other roses, she thought, were more stately. The high bred flowers with their thick, smooth stems and their creamy petaled flowers, all furled until the warm sun’s light coaxed them to open. She glanced about the yard, noting several of these sort. They, too, were handsome, in their own way.

The band had begun another song, and some of the crowd, now replete with food and drink, took up partners, or entered singly, into a dance. She found her own rooty toes twitching to the lively rhythm. Even the Grannies had gathered in front of their vat to get a better view of the players and the dancers. Seizing the opportunity, Fairleaf moved slowly up from the back drop of trees ‘til she stood with an old oak that overarched the punch. Glancing about carefully for anyone looking her way, she lowered a slender branch tip toward the liquid . . .

. . . ah! . . . as I thought . . . delicious . . .