She took a deep breath and drew on the coat of feathers. Magic tingled the length of her body and down her spine. Her neck stretched, her legs shrank. Her skin exploded in feathers. The world spun around her as her vision took on a crystalline sharpness. The floor rose to meet her, then stopped with a jolt.
She was a swan.
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Doucette slapped her webbed feet on the floor. Dappled wings opened, flexed, and closed. She honked in triumph, then curled her impossibly long neck and preened a tail feather.
She looked like a swan. Could she fly like one? There was only one way to know. If she succeeded, the pile of discarded clothing, the open window, and the missing swan skin would tell her parents what she had done. If she failed, she would die.
Azelais and Cecilia had managed it, she reminded herself She would too. Swan-Doucette waddled to the window seat, hopped up onto the broad sill, and stepped off the edge. Flapping furiously, she fell.
Down, down, down.
Doucette dropped until the ragged rhythm of her wings smoothed into a steady thrum. The almond trees' reaching arms fell away; the earth receded.
She flew.
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Chapter Seven
***
D oucette pumped her wings and soared higher, delighting in the wind that bore her up. She didn't feel sick at all, as she had when Cecilia's Animated handkerchief had carried her to the sheep pens. No wonder her sisters absented themselves so often from their father's court!
If flying was even more marvelous than she had imagined, how much better might sorcery be? The decision was easily made.
Swan-Doucette pointed her beak northward, toward Luzerna county and her aunt's castle. At her back, the Château de l'Aire dwindled until it was the size of a villager's thatched hut, a child's mud fort, a clump of dirt. And then it was gone.
Below her, the countryside unrolled like an illustrated parchment. Threaded with streams and dotted with small villages, lowland fields alternated brown and palest green. Cypress trees poked sharp fingers into the sky; fruit trees wore frothy crowns of pink and white blossoms.
On a whim, Doucette flew straight up, leaving the ground so far behind that its contours blurred into a hazy patchwork. Then she swooped low, skimming over Beloc's fields, orchards,
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and vineyards. When she found the tan ribbon of the northern road, she settled into a steady pace above it.
As the day wore on, the land dimpled, then pushed up into low hills below her. Careful cultivation gave way to wilder country. Rocky, brush-covered slopes sprouted solitary oak trees. The air changed also. Doucette breathed in a sharp incense that made her feel light-headed.
Unless that was hunger.
As the setting sun gilded the left side of Doucette's airborne body with fire, she realized how many hours she had spent aloft. Her elation dissolved, and suddenly she felt weary to the burnished tips of her wings. She had better rest, and eat, before she fell out of the sky.
Some distance from the road, Doucette spied a chain of small ponds. Milky white in the twilight, they appeared from the air like a necklace of moonstones strung across the rocks. As Doucette descended toward the largest one, she noticed steam rising from its surface. Hot springs must feed the pools.
She splashed down awkwardly and paddled to the pond's edge, where the reeds grew thick. A naked girl would have trouble finding food and shelter on her journey, but neither should prove difficult for a swan.
After a few trials, Doucette found fresh vegetation that satisfied her swan body's desperate hunger. That need met, she waddled over to investigate the smaller, hotter pools. Surrounded by twisted shapes of rock, each pool nestled in its own grotto. The water felt unpleasantly warm on her webbed feet, though Doucette knew that her girl shape would find it soothing to
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sink up to her chin in one of the steaming baths. Jaume had mentioned these pools, or ones like them. He had talked about how delightful they were.
During her flight, Doucette had shied away from wondering how she would change back from swan to girl. The hot pools tempted her to try.
Although she hadn't heard another soul, Doucette sidled behind a tall juniper bush and into a vertical cleft in the rock where she would be hidden from view. Peering at herself first with one eye, then the other, she looked for a seam in her swan skin.
She didn't find one. Worse, she realized, she no longer had hands to pull it apart.
Panic beat in her breast. She stifled it with an effort of will. Azelais and Cecilia had changed back and forth with ease. There must be some trick to it.
Doucette closed her eyes and thought about what happened when her sisters returned to the Château de l'Aire. They would spread their wings wide for balance, then arch their necks and run their beaks down their chests.
She tried it, pressing hard. In her mind, she pictured the two sides of her swan skin separating along the center of her body, allowing her human form to slip out as neatly as it must have done when she was born.
Magic rippled over her. With a whisper of sound, her swan skin parted.
Gasping, Doucette fell out of it and sprawled on the ground. Juniper needles pricked her skin. Her arms and legs felt strange,
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her head too heavy, her skin too thin. She breathed hard, and the sensations passed. When she could stand, Doucette tucked her swan skin high on a ledge to keep it safe. She coiled her hair into a knot at the back of her neck and spent another long moment in hiding, listening to be sure she was alone. Then she eased out from behind the evergreen shrub, ran to the nearest warm pool, and submerged herself in its depths.
Heaven.
Big enough to measure Doucette's length twice, the pool was fringed with tendrils of a mint-smelling herb. Doucette rested her head against the fragrant carpet and closed her eyes.
When she opened them again, the sky had darkened to violet. Bats flitted through the twilight, squeaking in their high-pitched voices and snapping at insects. Doucette decided she had best change back to swan and find a sheltered place to sleep.
As she rose from the water, her hair fell out of its knot and streamed down her body. Laughing out loud at the sight of her skin, pink and steaming as baked fish, Doucette hurried to retrieve her hidden swan skin from its ledge.
Too close, a dog barked. A man's low voice answered.
Doucette pushed her way through the prickly juniper and squeezed into the rock cleft.
Had someone seen her?
In the troubadours' tales, men married swan maidens they caught unawares. Would Doucette, too, spend the rest of her days in a peasant's hut, pining for her home? Or would her family find out and ransom her? How would they know where to look?
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Doucette started to reach for her swan skin, then pulled her arms down, wary of revealing her location. Perhaps if she were very quiet, she wouldn't be noticed in the fading light.
She heard footsteps, then the click-dick of a dog's nails on rock.
"Who's there?" a low voice said.
Trapped!
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Chapter Eight
***
S he had missed her chance to change. If she tried now, he would catch her.
Doucette peered between the juniper branches at the tall man walking toward her. She was relieved to see his hooked staff. Shepherds were superstitious folk; perhaps he would avert his eyes and continue on his way, thinking her no mortal maid, but a wood nymph or rock sprite.
To Doucette's frightened, all-too-human eyes, the shepherd appeared rather spectral himself with his face hidden by the broad-brimmed hat they all wore. A herding dog capered beside him, lively as a jester in brown-and-white motley.
The shepherd stopped several paces from Doucette's hiding place, close enough for her to smell sheep, wood smoke, and the mint-herb that grew over the rocks. His dog bounded forward, yapping. A cold nose poked through the juniper, and the dog licked Doucette's bare toes.
She yelp
ed in surprise.
The shepherd pushed his hat back and scratched his curly head. "You see, Fidele," he said in the tone of one settling an argument. "I didn't imagine her!"
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The dog yipped and returned to bounce happily at his feet. Doucette crossed her arms across her chest while her thoughts tumbled over one another like gamboling lambs.
Jaume? How was that possible? Doucette must have flown even-farther than she thought, to catch up with a flock that had left Beloc several days ago. Perhaps she would overtake her sisters, too.
The shepherd touched his fist to his heart. "Good evening, Lady."
It was Jaume--she knew that voice! But the formality of his greeting told her he hadn't yet recognized her. Perhaps she should keep silent?
Doucette hesitated. The cold stone niche enclosed her, but she was hardly aware of the chill, since her body burned with embarrassment. Under the heat, a shimmering thread of excitement wound around her limbs. So much had changed since their last meeting. She was a swan maiden now, with a sorceress's freedom--and vulnerability.
Ice touched her spine. If Jaume took her swan skin, she would have to follow him.
She shook off the fearful thought. Jaume had never treated her with anything but kindness, even when his brothers teased him for it. And here they were, alone together in wild country, and he was waiting for her to speak.
Doucette's skin tingled with a mixture of anticipation and pure mischief she had never felt before. "Good evening, Man." She tried to make her voice sound like a rock sprite's, or like Azelais's, haughty and aloof, but an inadvertent giggle spoiled the effect.
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Jaume went completely still and then one giant step brought him so close that only the evergreen bush separated them. "Doucette?" His voice was raw with surprise and alarm. "Where's your escort? What happened to--" He reached through the juniper and seized her shoulder, then jumped back, as if the touch of her bare skin had scalded him. He glanced down and raised his eyes at once, his expression horrified. "Where are your clothes? Don't tell me--you've been attacked.'" He whistled, shrilly.
Fidele stopped capering. The dog's hackles rose as she planted her forefeet and growled.
"No, Jaume, stop," Doucette said, as he showed every sign of calling the rest of the shepherds to her aid. "It's nothing like that. I'm fine.
"What?" His crook raised like a weapon, Jaume had turned to survey their surroundings. After the one scandalized glance, he seemed unwilling to let his eyes rest on her barely concealed nakedness.
Not sure whether she was more exasperated with him or with herself, Doucette made a face at the shepherd's back. She was sure this kind of thing didn't happen to Azelais or Cecilia. Naked or clothed, her confident sisters would never be so clumsy in the presence of a man. And, after her first fright, the situation had seemed so promising. Romantic, even, like a scene from a tale. Destiny bringing two young lovers together... until she bungled it.
"I'm not harmed, Jaume."
"No?" Still, his eyes searched the rocks. "Then what--"
The sound of branches snapping brought both their heads around. Jaume stepped in front of Doucette's hiding place, his shepherd's crook ready to defend or attack.
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Doucette wanted to cry with mortification. If this was one of Jaume's brothers, coming to her "rescue"...
Brush crackled, and a large animal leaped toward Jaume. Teeth flashed in the gloom.
Doucette screamed, only to feel woefully stupid as Jaume held up his hand.
"Osco."
The dog woofed, then sat on his haunches in front of them.
"Good boy." Jaume scratched the guardian's ruff. "Out with it, Lady Doucette,' the shepherd said, his back still turned to her. "Is this your sisters' doing? Have the witches left you defenseless in the wilderness?"
He sounded, Doucette thought, as if he had caught Vitor or Eri in an ill-advised prank and somebody was about to get a big brother's cuff on the ear. But she was only four years younger than he, and not his little sister; she wouldn't be treated so. "I came by myself, for your information. I flew."
"Flew?"
Jaume's disbelief stung. The sweeping reverses of the past few moments, from terror to elation and back again, had left Doucette feeling as though she had been put in a bag and shaken. The words spilled out of her.
"Yes. My parents hid my swan skin, but I found it, and I'm going to Tante Mahalt's to study magic with my sisters. I don't care what you think about the High Arts. You can't stop me. I'm a swan maiden, after all."
"A swan maiden," Jaume said, his voice completely neutral.
"Yes."
"A sorceress."
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"Yes." Doucette sniffed. "That is, I'm going to be. I can do the one Transformation spell already."
"Well, now. That changes things, doesn't it?" Jaume rubbed the back of his neck and sat down on a rock. "A sorceress."
Osco and Fidele arranged themselves on either side of him. Both dogs cocked furry heads at Doucette, as if they, too, were curious to hear her explanation.
"Yes." The light had almost gone, but if Doucette couldn't read his expression, he couldn't see her clearly, either. "So, I thought," she began, a little timidly.
"Why'd you follow me, Lady Doucette?" Jaume said, still in that calm voice.
"I didn't," Doucette said. "Weren't you listening? That is, I did follow the sheep, because that's the way to Tante Mahalt's, but I wasn't looking for you." You conceited thing, she let her tone imply.
"Then it's an accident, our meeting?"
"You told me about the hot pools, remember? It's your fault, if it's anyone's."
Jaume bowed his head. His voice came out muffled. "My fault."
"Not that I'm unhappy to see you. I mean, since I'm a swan maiden now, and you said you admired me..." Doucette's voice trailed away. Did she have to spell it out for him?
When Jaume didn't answer, Doucette poked her head out of the concealing juniper. The man's shoulders were shaking. "What's the matter?"
"The matter?" His head lifted. He was laughing, soundlessly, in great gulps of air.
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Doucette's soul shriveled. She'd as good as offered herself, and Jaume thought it a great joke. It had all been a lie, what he had said before, she realized with terrible clarity. Soothing nonsense meant to comfort a hurt child.
Jaume was a friendly soul, after all. No blame to him that she had read more than he meant into his compliments, into his offer of help.
Shudders wracked Doucette's body. No matter how hard she clenched her hands over her arms, she couldn't stop shivering.
Stupid, stupid, stupid!
Why had she thought the swan skin would change her into someone as compelling, as desirable as her sisters? She was still the drab one, the drudge. But she would show him! She'd show them all--her parents, the court, everyone! She would study harder than Cecilia and Azelais combined and become so great a sorceress that no one would dare laugh at her again.
If they did, she'd turn them into--into sheep!
"Leave me," Doucette said. At last her voice sounded like a true sorceress's, as cold as the river Immeluse, foaming around the castle where the Queen of the Birds dwelt in splendid isolation.
Fidele yipped. Jaume shook his head, still unable to answer her for laughing.
"Go away," Doucette said, more forcefully, but he didn't.
Not caring whether he saw her or not, she reached for her swan skin. "Then I will."
"Lady..."
Her arms full of feathers, Doucette looked over her shoulder to see that Jaume had fallen to his knees.
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"Doucette, stay." Jaume extended his hand. "Sweetheart. Will you marry me?"
"Marry you?" Doucette stiffened with outrage. "I don't care how handsome you are, Jaume of Vent'roux, you can't laugh at me, then propose. I never want to see you again. I hate you."
"Please, listen," Jaume begged.
"No!" Frantic to escape f
resh humiliation, Doucette stepped out of the crevice and flung the swan skin over her shoulders. As if it were a pool of water, she fell into her swan shape.
Osco growled; Fidele barked madly.
Swan-Doucette stretched her neck and hissed at both of them. She shot a warning look at the shepherd and bobbed her head in satisfaction when Jaume called off his dogs. As swiftly as she could paddle her feet and flap her wings, Doucette regained the sky, and freedom.
She wasn't running away, she told herself, wings pumping fiercely. She was running to something, which made all the difference.
Didn't it?
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Chapter Nine
***
A s she labored through the pine-scented air, Doucette's wings trembled with fatigue.
Shortly after leaving Jaume the previous night, she had found an island in a larger lake and tucked her head under her wing. Sleep, however, had eluded her. She started at every unfamiliar noise, and when at last she had slipped into an uneasy doze, she dreamed of falling. Mouth open, she screamed without making a sound, until a shepherd's crook pulled her out of the sky and into an embrace that smelled of wood smoke and mint. She had woken with a jerk and not slept again.
Taking to the air at first light, Doucette had found the Immeluse, then flown above the river without stopping. Far below, the rocky scrub changed to meadow and then to forest. After many weary hours, she glimpsed her destination ahead.
Pearly gray in the morning light, the castle's stone shoulders parted the river like a lady rising from her bath. A most private lady, who disdained company. No bridge spanned the torrent that poured past the island stronghold. The closest road, hardly more than a dirt track, emerged from the forest to cross a shallow stretch downstream from the castle. Beyond the ford, the road disappeared once more into the trees.
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