Warped (Maurissa Guibord)

deep green of the northern woods. She was surprised to see that she'd run this far. Her steps slowed and led her closer to the forest. The shelter and secrecy looked so tempting. But she shouldn't go in. Those woods belonged to the Earl of Umbric. They were to be used expressly for his pleasure in hunting. No one was to trespass.
    Carelessly she dropped another bit of wool onto the grass. She was at the edge of the forest now, and could see the deep shadows beneath the oaks and chestnuts. A draft of cool, wood-scented air washed over her skin, reviving her like a tonic. Lam Doddle would never look for her in there, she thought. He wouldn't think her brave enough to dare it. Indeed, it would be completely imprudent. Unmaidenly, even. Ha! She picked up her skirts, imagining as she did the clucks of disapproval that the village women would make if they saw her. She ran between the trees and stopped, turning to peer out at the meadow. She froze.
    A rider on horseback stood motionless on the rise of the hill. The girl narrowed her blue eyes, taking in the tall form that sat with an easy grace atop a huge black horse. William de Chaucy, the earl's youngest son.
    The girl let loose a startled curse and stepped back, deeper into shadow.
    What was he doing? Why wasn't he off studying, as usual? Everyone knew he fancied himself a scholar. The talk in the village was that William de Chaucy spent half of his time with his face buried in dusty books. Which was a pity, all agreed, because it was a handsome face. Clean-hewn, with a strong nose, and lips sculpted like a taut bow. And his eyes were a tawny golden brown, fringed with dark lashes. It was the sort of face, the girl thought, that made the village maidens stare.
    But she didn't like to be made to do anything. So she didn't stare. In fact, the only looks she ever gave to Will de Chaucy were scowls. Not that he ever noticed.
    For they were worlds apart.
    Had he seen her? He would ruin everything. If she was caught in these woods, she could be punished as a poacher. A twist of nausea rose from her belly to her throat. Poachers had a thumb branded, or perhaps a hot nail pushed through their ear for their crime. Which would be worse? It hardly bore imagining. She peeked out again.
    Another rider had joined William de Chaucy. By his short, square build he looked to be Hugh, the elder de Chaucy brother.
    He must have seen her. Perhaps even now he was telling his brother he'd spotted someone sneaking into the woods. What if they came after her?
    She had no choice. She had to hide. Turning, she ran deeper into the darkness of the forest.
    Tessa woke up. Well, not exactly woke; she was pretty sure she hadn't been sleeping. And not exactly up; she lay sprawled on the floor. She raised a hand to the back of her head. No lump. Nothing hurt. What had happened? She gazed around her room. The time glowed 6:46 p.m. on the clock radio. She hadn't been out for more than a few seconds. And she couldn't have fallen very hard or her father would have barreled in to see what was wrong.
    She'd been dreaming. Images and sensations flooded back: of sunlight and shadows and the sweet smell of grass. Someone had been chasing her. Yes, a really vivid dream. A daydream. The details were disappearing.... She frowned, trying to remember. But it was like trying to grab a puff of smoke. The memories slipped through her fingers.
    Weavyr let out a gasp. "Did you see that? Just now?"
    "What?" replied Spyn, startled. She clutched a diaphanous golden cloud that was half spun and hurriedly twined it together with a brilliant black thread. Twins.
    "There was a disturbance in the Wyrd. Here." Weavyr pointed to a fine blue filament. "This one. It folded back on itself. It's not supposed to do that." She smoothed the thread back into place.
    "What does it mean?" asked Spyn.
    "How should I know?" snapped Weavyr. "It's never happened before!"
    Scytha floated up behind them like a draft of cold night air. "Show me," she intoned.
    Weavyr traced the path the errant thread had taken.
    "Back in time. Five hundred years," said Scytha. "To when the missing threads disappeared. Interesting."
    "I'm glad you think so," muttered Weavyr.
    "It is no coincidence," said Scytha. "There must be some connection to the stolen threads."
    "That's what I've been trying to tell you," snarled Weavyr. "Nobody listens to me. And mark my words," she added with a grim sort of satisfaction, "this isn't the last of it. Something is very