“He needed no encouragement,” she said. “Believe me, there was no such enchantment laid. Is it so hard for you to comprehend, that such a man could love you, without the aid of the magical arts? Have you looked in your mirror? Have you not seen your own strength of spirit, and your loyalty, and your sweetness? It took him but the space of a heartbeat to see these things. If you had not been so strong, perhaps you would not have let him go. Perhaps your tale might have had a different ending.”

“But—” I said stupidly. “But why did he never say anything? Why didn’t he tell me?”

“He tried,” she said. Then she smiled, and shook her head a little, as if bemused by the folly of humankind, and she faded away to nothing.

And as I made my way down the hill and homeward, I realized that he had, indeed, tried to tell me; and that it was I who had not learned to listen. It had been there in the gentleness of his hands and the elusive sweetness of his smile. It had been there in his anger, the time I had gone off on my own and encountered Richard in the woods. It had been there in the way he had flinched when I touched him, the night John died. I don’t want your pity, he had said. It had been there in the tale he had told me on the beach. She was the woman of his soul, and he could not think of giving her up. But he had given me up, without a word. I realized, with a feeling like a stone in the heart, that he had done this because he believed the only thing I wanted was to return home with my brothers. How could he know that I loved him, when I had hardly known it myself? I had tried to give back his ring, and I had hurt him. So he had kept his promise, and let me go. And I would never go back. How could I leave the forest, for like the mermaid, I would not survive long outside the place of my spirit? Red had understood that. I walked home, unseeing, wrapped in my thoughts. Despite everything, despite the heartbreak of it, there was a small warm glow deep inside me. If I knew that he had loved me, at least for a while, it made the pain just a little easier to bear.

That same night, when we gathered in the warmth of the kitchen for supper, I wore my blue dress. I had washed it carefully, and the stain across bodice and sleeve was barely discernible on the faded fabric. Such treatment had rendered the gown soft and comfortable, but I had not worn it here before, for it held memories of pain as well as joy. That night I felt compelled to wear it, and the wedding ring on my finger was a badge of pride. My brothers noted both with their eyes, but made no comment, sensitive perhaps to the signs my face bore, of long weeping.