The Watchtower

simply too sweet, dear sister, to contemplate you with that filth until you perish!” Her fangs seemed to gleam with relish. “So I accede to your wishes, with the conditions being that all of your descendants will be mortal, and the first female born in each generation will continue your appointed role of Watchtower, guarding against usurpers and vipers crossing the boundary from mortal to immortal in either direction. And even guarding humankind, loathsome as it is, along with ourselves, from those malefactors like werewolves, shape-shifters, incubi, or—”
    Morgane looked over Marguerite’s shoulder as if contemplating the eons through which Marguerite’s descendants would struggle. The view seemed to amuse her. Her mouth curled back over her fangs in a cruel snarl.
    “—or vampires who would seek to conquer or destroy humankind, or we fey or both. You must especially swear to abhor all vampires.”
    Marguerite nodded and uttered the words required to seal the oath, with a sense of relief despite Morgane’s insults. The obligation required as compensation could have been far more onerous. Or so, at least, she wanted to think.
    “Go then, wretch. May you never besmirch my presence with your foulness again. And that will go for your descendants as well.”
    “Nothing horrible you say makes you any less my sister. No matter how much you hate the thought of it. I still love you.”
    “You are no sister to me. Nor are you fey any longer, except in name and your one obligation on pain of annihilation. Never again in spirit, or blood. Go, thing! Of two worlds that together are none! Go!”
    Marguerite hesitated. “Is that it? Nothing else happens? How do I know that I have been … changed?”
    Morgane sneered. “You will know soon enough.” She dived back into the pool, ripples from her plunge visible in the first blush of dawn.
    Marguerite stood and watched the ripples in the water dissipate. It was fine for Morgane to say that she would “know” that she had become mortal, but she required proof. She stuck her cloak pin, shaped like a small dagger, into her index finger. She gasped at the pain and then stared in fascination at the drop of blood that welled up, beaded, and spilled down her finger. She regarded this proof of mortality somberly. An appropriate mood, she reassured herself. What kind of person would she be if she weren’t somber at a moment as portentous as this?
    Marguerite turned to walk back to their room and awaken Will to her glorious news. She went up the grassy slope, pausing for a moment to listen to some stirring in the woods, but she no longer possessed the preternatural senses to detect what nocturnal creature might be moving there. And an unaccustomed sensation pricked her bosom as sharply as the pin had her finger. Fear of the unseen. How do mortals do it, she wondered as she passed through Paimpont’s main gate, how did they live with such blindness and uncertainty? Then came a second sensation she’d never before felt—fatigue. The physical part of the sensation wasn’t new; even as an immortal she’d felt weariness and a need to sleep. But this feeling was more … it was fatigue with an edge. In her blood as well as in her mind—in all of her the deep tiredness of a body that has learned for the first time that it is going to die. Mortal fatigue.
    Passing under the granite arch that welcomed visitors to Paimpont, she shed a single tear of regret. Instantly, the thought of Will waiting for her warmed it gone.

28
    The Brooch
    We watched Marguerite go into the inn from the shadowy archway of the town gate. Five minutes later she reappeared, her face gleaming wet in the moonlight. She looked frantically from side to side as if unsure what direction to go in. It was painful to watch the self-assured immortal creature of half an hour ago suffer such mortal uncertainty, but even more painful to see Will witness it.
    “I always wondered how she reacted to my theft and desertion,” he whispered. “I’d always hoped it was with anger.”
    “I think she’s in the denial stage,” I remarked clinically. “But I bet anger will be next.”
    “ You sound angry. Have I done something to offend you?”
    “You wanted to stop her, didn’t you? If you’d stopped Morgane from making Marguerite mortal, the two of you could have stayed together as you are right now.”
    “That’s not my wish, Garet. Why—?”
    I silenced him by grabbing his arm and directing his attention