Warped (Maurissa Guibord)

against his neck broke the heavy stillness.
    Will shook his head. "What am I doing here?" he murmured.
    As if in answer, the horse threw his great dark head, making his livery jingle.
    "You're right, it's foolish," murmured Will with a smile, looking around. "I might as well hunt pixies." And he was talking to his horse . Hugh would be vastly entertained.
    Then he saw her. Her face peeked out at him from behind a curtain of leaves. She didn't move, and for a moment he thought it was an animal, or some trick of the shadows. But no forest creature had eyes like that. They were deep blue, like faceted jewels. And they met his own and held his gaze for the length of a breath. Her skin was pale except for two spots of color on her cheeks where her exertions had made them rosy. Her dark hair was in a gleaming tumble upon her shoulders.
    "Hello?" he said at last.
    She bolted, tearing through the undergrowth with a faint cry.
    "No. Don't--wait!" Without thinking, Will dropped Hannibal's reins and dashed after her. But he soon realized that he hadn't a prayer of catching her. He only glimpsed the flash of a pair of slim legs leaping over a bent sapling before she was gone, as quickly as a will-o'-the-wisp.
    He'd frightened her. He hadn't meant to.
    Will stopped running and listened. There was only silence, not even the chatter of birds. He took a deep breath, filling his chest with the liquid scent of the forest and letting it out again. His breath made faint plumes of vapor on the cool air. It was getting darker, and the girl couldn't know these woods. How the devil did she think she'd find her way back?
    "Hello?" he called again. "Mistress?" Leaves brushed his shoulders, and small prickly vines tugged at his boots as if they were reaching out to embrace him, or to hold him back. "Are you there?" he shouted.
    Then he came upon it.
    Tucked among the trees there was a small--Will squinted at it--house? Little more than a hovel, really, and nearly invisible. It was hidden, not just by its location, which was some distance from the path and without any clearing of the surrounding trees, but by the curious way it was fashioned. The walls of the structure seem to be woven . Young living trees still rooted in the ground made up its framework, and between these were laced green leafy branches, to make solid walls. One rounded opening made a door, around which paler green vines twined, sprigged with small, bell-shaped yellow flowers.
    Will went closer, examining the small cottage in amazement. He tore a leaf from one bough and fingered it. A living house.
    "Welcome," said a voice from inside.
    He went in, ducking his head.
    In what might have been a trick of the darkness, an old woman seemed to appear before his eyes, taking form from the green shadows around her. Her frail, bent figure and her shabby clothes were unremarkable, resembling those of any grandmother from the village. Except for one thing. The old woman watched Will with the smallest, blackest eyes he had ever seen. They were flat and depthless eyes with no shine to them at all. The woman stood beside a huge loom. He glanced around the rest of the tiny room. It was empty.
    "I have looked forward to this meeting, young master. " The crone gave a curious emphasis to the last word and smiled, showing a dark, toothless mouth. "You are the earl's son."
    "Yes," Will said, puzzled. "I am William de Chaucy. These are my father's lands." He straightened, and the top of his head nearly brushed the roof of the strange little house. He'd never noticed such a dwelling here before, nor this strange old woman. "You're not from the village," he remarked. "Who are you?"
    "They call me"--she paused, with the air of trying to remember an unimportant fact--"Gray Lily. Just a simple weaver, milord." She beckoned to him with a withered hand. "Come closer. May I show you my work?"
    Will stepped forward, wondering how many coins were in the pouch on his saddle. He would give the old woman something; it would ease the sting of having to tell her she must leave. But he pushed these thoughts aside as the object in the center of the room snared his attention. It was a loom, but unlike any he'd seen before.
    The huge frame was made of a dark, oily wood. An unfinished piece of tapestry work was stretched upon it. The brilliantly colored yarns wove through thick, lengthwise threads of a white, glistening material strung through notches in the wood. The support threads reminded Will of something, but