She pressed her shawl to her nose, overwhelmed by the miasma and the labyrinth of roads, but the horse, sure-footed, kept clopping, trotting, almost cantering, hoofbeats echoing on the stones as they traveled farther and farther within. The buildings grew jumbled. The streets twisted, intersected, turned upon one another, growing darker with every corner. Rae clung to the horse’s mane.

And then all at once, so abruptly Rae nearly went tumbling over its neck, the horse stopped. It put its head down.

Grazing, Rae realized as she caught her balance. She heard its teeth ripping great mouthfuls.

Confused, she pressed her heels, trying to nudge the horse forward. The horse continued eating—it could not be budged. Had they left the city? Entered one side and come out the other?

Dismounting, she felt the softness of grass beneath her feet. A few more steps—her hands discovered the narrow trunk of a tree. Where was she? The moon had set. No lanterns were lit. She could see nothing—just dark open space. Frustrated, she sat beneath the spindly tree, leaning against its smooth bark. She would have to wait until light broke to find the palace.

She closed her eyes, listening to the horse graze and stomp. All the fatigue she’d been carrying began to loosen in her body.

Just an hour or so till the sun comes up, she said to herself. Only an hour or so.

Rae woke to an unsteady splash. Off and on.

Splash.

Splash.

Droplets and the sound.

Splash.

She opened her eyes.

It was earliest dawn, still sunless gray light.

The horse was gone—nowhere in sight. But standing nearby was a figure wrapped in long, pale cloths. Rae, now fully awake, heart in her mouth, wanted to run, but she held herself still. The figure was turned away. Perhaps she hadn’t been seen.

Splash.

Tall, long-limbed, the figure was holding a stick and standing, Rae saw now, on the edge of—what was this? A pond of sorts, but the water hemmed in by stone. Where had the horse brought her? Yes, she was beneath a tree, yes, she lay on a patch of grass, but she was clearly not outside the city. The spindly tree stood alone, the grass was held back by stones and bricks that shaped it into a square, and great gray walls bordered everything all around.

At the water’s edge, the person slapped the stick, splash; he poked the stick at the ripples, splash. Over and over.

Was this person a child? Rae could not tell. He was tall, but his stick-splashing seemed purposeless—more what a child might do. The way he stood by the water reminded her a little of how she used to belly-lie on the stream bank for hours watching water bugs. But he… he wasn’t watching anything.

Attempting to poke a particular something, the figure half turned. Now Rae could see the profile—a boy? a man? Clearly, he was old enough to be a man, but his face… there was some kind of wanting in it that did not seem to belong to an adult. She almost felt sorry for him—the wanting was so desperate. But… another hearty poke—a fish leapt out of the water—and the face changed. The childishness was replaced with something cracked, something flat, something ugly and overbaked.