Chapter 3: Promises Made

A pretty young girl, just shy of her 19th naming day, Cora adjusted her loosely braided chocolate brown hair before shrugging the wooden pail yoke across her shoulders. She settled it into the grooves that had shaped themselves to her form as she grew, just as surely as if they were an extension of her own body; such was the daily rhythm of her life. It was hard work, but it was honest, as her father always said - not like shiftless gypsies or lords corrupted by decadence - and since it was the only kind she'd ever known, Cora couldn't fault his wisdom. Her mother had passed when she was small, just beginning to cut her adult teeth. Her mother had asked only two things of her daughter - the first and last requests she'd ever made - on her deathbed.

Cora shook her head as fat tears rolled down her cheeks. She'd have wiped them away, but she was too scared to unclasp her mother's clammy cold hands for even the briefest moment. Her father was outside, drawing up the cold water from the farm's well as he continued desperately trying to break his beloved wife's fever. "I - I promise Mommy. But only if you get better!"

Cora's mother smiled weakly at her daughter's childish attempt to force her to get better. 'Willful as a mule,' she thought to herself. 'Or her father.' She shook her head, the movement barely perceptible, thanks to her weak condition. "If I get better, I won't need your promise - I'd be here to see to it myself." The girl knew her mother was right, realizing how foolish she was being. "Now, do I have your word that you will do those two things?"

Cora nodded. "I promise Mama." Her mother squeezed her hand, and only the ghost of those strong, but gentle hands remained; the tears flowed harder.

"See that you do, my little sparrow... I'll be watching... with you every step of the way." She drew in a ragged breath that rattled in her chest. "Remember the nightingale..." With this message delivered, her hand went slack and the spark in her eye faded and then suddenly snuffed out all together.

Cora gripped her mother's hand even tighter, but received no response. "Mama? Mama!" She shook her mother's shoulder, tugging on the roughly-hewn fabric of her bedclothes, but only succeeded in causing her mother's head to loll to one side. Her breath hitched in her throat. "Help! Papa! HELP PAPA!" she cried out as loudly as she could. "Anybody! I need help!" Still her mother lay still, and Cora's head dropped to her mother's chest, forehead resting above her heart, and she prayed to any gods or fairies or daemons that would help her. "Mommy..." she mewled softly. "Don't leave me..."

The heavy sound of booted footfalls suddenly echoed in the small cabin and Cora whipped her head around when they arrived at the doorway, a look of hope suddenly alight in her face. "Papa! I - I think somethings wrong - she won't wake up! Save her Papa!" But when she saw his face the hope in her own vanished in an instant.

Her father, the biggest strongest man she'd ever seen, was as white as lamb's wool. All at once his knees buckled, and his hands went slack, sending himself and the wooden bucket of cold water dropping to the floor. He sank down onto his knees, then back onto his heels, as the bucket splashed and overturned. "Papa!" Cora cried. She gave her mother another look before reluctantly letting go of her hand and flung herself at her father. "Papa - are you okay? You have to be okay!" She flung her small arms around his large physique and held him as tightly as she could. "Papa!" she sobbed into his linen shirt. Slowly, she felt his strong, warm arms envelop her, scooping her up into his lap as the cold well water pooled around his legs.

The next morning, Cora's father and two strong young hands from their closest neighbor's farm dug a deep grave at the foot of her mother's favorite spot on their property, and Cora could think of no better place for her mother to rest eternally. The local wise woman had washed her mother's body as this was done, preparing her to return to the soil from which she sprang. When this was finished, she was wrapped in a white sheet of linen, spun from their own flax straw.

Cora had lost her second tooth just days before; her first two prized coppers, left by the Tooth Fairy, went into the ground that day, resting on her mother's eyelids, waiting to buy her passage to the afterlife.

She kept her first promise from that day forward, taking up her mother's duties as best she could, without complaint. Her father never remarried, saying that it was unfair to take another woman into his home if he couldn't take her fully into his heart - and her mother had taken it with her to the afterlife. "You're the only little lady I need now," he'd say. 'But I need a mother', Cora would always think to herself, but never gave the yearning a voice, feeling guilt for even thinking it just the same.

It wasn't long before she blossomed into maidenhood and her father remarked that she had surpassed even her mother's skills in keeping a hearth, farm, and home. Her heart had swelled with a bittersweet pride at the remark, feeling at once guilty, as if she was showing up her mother. "A parent's greatest joy is lifting their child to stand on their shoulders, so that they may reach higher, sparrow," her father had told her. "Surely you remember what your mother told you."

Cora remembered nothing in her life more clearly than her mother's last words to her, of course.

She blinked and squinted as she stepped out of the barn and into the morning sun, milk buckets sloshing about, but never spilling a drop, and trudged back to the cabin. She would be alone until sundown, she suspected, as her father inspected their crops for damage. It had been a pleasantly warm spring this year, and their prospects were looking especially bright this season - that was, until last night. A strange cold snap had fallen over their little valley overnight, one which she could have mistaken for a typical winter solstice evening, if she didn't know better. Flurries of icy snow had blow in, on violent winds, and at dawn, disappeared as quickly as they'd come.

But the damage had been done. Their fields were sewn with a hearty strain of flax, but even it couldn't have come out unscathed by the mysterious cold snap. Instead of dew drops, the fields of seedlings sparkled in the morning sun, captured in tiny crystals of ice. Her father, anticipating this, was out to his fields without a bite of food that morning, determined to save what he could, leaving his daughter to do her best not to fret; distracting herself with any and every chore that needed doing that day.

Indeed, Cora's father had stayed out the entire day, not even coming home for his customary midday meal and lager. It wasn't a good sign. Chores done, she spent the late afternoon digging through their food stores, looking for anything special she might prepare for her father's meal when he came home. It wasn't much, but it was the only gesture she could make at the moment. It wasn't until the sun had dipped behind the eastern mountains that she truly began to worry. He'd never come home after dark in all her memory.

Nonetheless, she continued stirring the hearty chowder of cabbage, carrots, potatoes, and smoked salmon she'd found tucked in the back of the root cellar. The sound of creaking wagon wheels and heavy clop of horse hooves gradually faded in, eventually stopping just outside the small cabin, and Cora shot to her feet. She opened the door to find her father hopping off the back of Winny the Widower's apple cart. He absently knocked the side of the cart after he'd landed, indicating Winny could move on. Sighing, he pulled his wide-brim straw hat off, closed his eyes, and hung his head.

Her father had never looked old to her until that moment. His shoulder's slumped, his arms hung limp at his sides, hat barely still dangling between his fingers. It was as if he'd been deflated and his thinning hair stuck to his forehead in clumps. He rubbed the back of his neck with his meaty workman's hands, then ran it over the back of his head, over the top, and across his forehead. Finally, he sighed again and pulled himself straight, readjusted his hat, and looked up. "Cora!" he exclaimed, "I didn't see ya there..." He tried to keep his voice upbeat but she was too old to be fooled by such bravado anymore.

She took a step backward, out of the doorway, to allow clear passage, and he made his way in and promptly slumped down into his rocking chair. "Are you hungry, Papa?"

"Oh, no, honey. I'm afraid not. I hope you didn't go to too much trouble."

"Did you eat at all today?" She asked, already knowing the answer.

He looked up at her and the faintest ghost of a smile appeared on his lips, until finally he answered. "No... I haven't. But I'm not hungry." She immediately began ladling the chowder into a wooden bowl, just as he knew she would, and he shook his head. "More and more like your mother every day..."

"You have to eat - to keep your strength up." She held the bowl out, under his nose, the better to tempt him with it. "It's your favorite!" she added with false cheer.

"Alright, alright..." he mumbled, but after a few bites began to wolf it down hungrily. He stomach grumbled back to life.

Satisfied, Cora ladled a bowl of chowder for herself and promptly tucked into it as well. When they were both finished she retrieved a small loaf of honeybread and divided it into two, handing the larger half to to her father. "So... how did the seedlings look, Papa?"

He sighed heavily and turned the bread over in his hands, staring at it, rather than look her in the eye. "We'll be okay, sparrow. Don't you worry."

"I'm not a little girl anymore," she suddenly snapped petulantly. The day and evening spent worrying had left her temper shorter than she thought possible, and even she was taken aback by her tone.

"Honey-"

"I'm sorry, Papa - I didn't mean to... I just meant that you need to tell me. You can't protect me forever..."

Finally, he looked up and it was the first time she'd ever seen her father cry. Not even when they'd lost her mother. It frightened and saddened her all at once, and she suddenly found that she too way crying despite not knowing what news he had.

"It's all gone," he said quietly. He turned his attention to the small hearth, and its flames flickered in his dark mahogany eyes as he stared. "The ice choked the life out of them..."

"Okay, so we fertilize tomorrow-"

"It's no use, they've lost their foliage - every last one... they can't recover from that any more than a chicken lives without a head."

"So we replant!" she rejoined desperately. "We have seed left - it'll be a lean year, but-"

"You know as well as I that it's too late to plant - they'll never mature in time for the harvest!" his tone was harsh, though his voice remained quiet. "It's all gone, honey."

"There has to be something we can do!" the girl pleaded.

"We can wait. We can hope. But even next year will be tight, Cora." Her father sighed. "You know we get the seed for next year from this year's crops. We're lucky last season was so plentiful... else we'd have no seed at all and no gold to buy more. We should count our blessings... we have our lives, if simply no gold."

"Or food for winter!" He eyes darted back and forth desperately, wracking her brain for some way to make this all work. "I - I can take in stitching jobs, and we can sell some of Henrietta's butter if we drink less of her milk!"

Her father stared into the fire. "And I will rent out our mill to our neighbors and Lord Alys should he need it. That's where I've been all day, Cora. I must have seen half the county by sundown. No one needs extra hands this season - every farm has been hit, though not as badly as ours - so I cannot sell my labor. But I've struck some deals for trade. We won't starve, but we'll have almost no coppers coming in. What we make from the mill will go to taxes... It will be difficult, probably the most trying times you'll ever see, but we'll survive." He turned, though he still didn't meet her eyes, and his hands drew into fists, as if bracing himself. "But I'm certain we won't have - that is..." He looked up finally, his eyes glistening in the firelight. "I'm so sorry sparrow... I know you were expecting to be able to-"

"The dowry," she interrupted suddenly, finally realizing what news he couldn't bring himself to speak aloud. Her voice was soft and sad, as if she was the one breaking the news to him. "I understand, Papa. We'll need the gold, and the livestock, if we're to survive." As was customary, two years ago her father had begun to put away gold and collect what extra livestock he could to pay tribute to the family that would make his daughter a part of their own. The gods had been kind, as luck would have it, and they'd found themselves with bountiful crops which provided for a bountiful dowry. It truly had been seen as a blessing, because there was not a single young man of marriageable age in the entire county who was not already spoken for.

They had anticipated the need to take a pilgrimage to find Cora a husband, and that required liquid assets. They had sent a letter of intention to the widow matchmaker in the neighboring county and she had sent back word that there were indeed a few excellent matches for the young miller's daughter. Come harvest time, they were planning on spending the winter solstice in the matchmaker's village of Lakewood, and not leaving until they'd found her a husband.

Cora had heard of other regions where marriage was not treated so much like a business contract, and the fantasy of romance titillated her as much as any young maid, but the people here stuck to a strict schedule with such life steps. A girl not married by the age of 21 was looked upon with suspicion, as if some defect must be to blame for her spinsterhood. It was a fact of life that your typical villager didn't give more than a passing thought to. But Cora had never been typical. She had no particular interest in marriage, and made no secret of it.

But why she felt that way was a secret she guarded jealously.

Her father, and family friends, believed it to simply be that she'd seen how devastated her father had been when he'd lost his life mate. That she was afraid to get hurt. And she let them go on thinking that. 'Open your heart, Cora'. 'A life without love is a life squandered.' 'Better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all.' She'd heard the platitudes many times over since she'd turned 13 and made the mistake of telling her father she didn't want to be married. And yes, seeing what her father had gone through, she was cautious of love - but she didn't fear being hurt enough to push love away. No, it was about keeping her second promise to her mother. And to fulfill that promise, that oath, she couldn't marry the boys that her community had to offer. With one poorer than the next, she would be forever locking herself into the life of a farmer or an artisan, at best. She would have to do better. Even if he were to die young, leaving her a free widow, she would never be able to marry above her station as a widow. Princes and kings were willing to break the rules for a pristine, untouched beauty, but somehow no one's happy ending ever included rescuing a widow and her gaggle of kids from their shoe-sized hovel. They weren't worth the trouble. She'd found it a blessing then that young men were few and far between in her community - necessitating the pilgrimage that just might let her hunt down a man who could facilitate the destiny she'd dreamed.

But that was before this travesty. Her fears of being saddled with a poor, if good, man were demolished on this day. They had made way for a much more feared fate to be built - life as a lonely spinster.

"I'm so sorry, sparrow," her father managed to choke out, his voice heavy with the burden of knowing that his baby's future had very likely been killed in one short night, under a simple bed of snow. Nonetheless, he was going to do whatever he could to ensure his daughter's happiness - even if it meant leaving the farm and striking out for a region that wouldn't look so harshly on a maiden in her twenties.


Cora would never again live through so trying a season for the rest of her days. The spring itself had not been much different from any other she'd known. They'd replaced the fields immediately outside their house with summer vegetables, which would grow in far more quickly than grains, but that simply meant they wouldn't go hungry until winter. Still, this wasn't he reason for her distress. She'd scrimped and pled no appetite more times in the past two months than she'd done in her entire life. And as usual, though his heart with in the right place, her father was wrong about what was in her heart. Cora truly wasn't trying to save food - she truly wasn't hungry. Imagined scenes of her future nearly drowned her in the momentum of their flow from sun up to sun down.

It was for this reason that she despised the weekly chore of foraging in the nearby woodlands for wild edibles. Berries, mushrooms, root vegetables, and the occasional citrus fruit could be found fairly easily there. What had once been an opportunity for some small bit of independence and a time for daydreams, was now dreaded. It gave her way too much time to think. The inside of her head was a dark place these days, and the best she could manage was to whistle folk songs she'd grown up listening to her father sing. She herself hadn't much of a voice, and though that had never stopped her before, she found herself changing the lyrics into dark mockeries of her situation when she sang now, defeating the entire point of the exercise; she'd quickly concluded it best just to stick to whistling.

Her father had always told her how lucky they were to live so close to the Duke's forest, and her own problems aside, she had to agree. Duke Carroll Alys was a fair, if poor, noble and permitted any of his subjects to forage his woods so as long as they did not poach the wildlife. The agreement saw to it that he need only minimally patrol the woods as no one dared bring down the wrath of his neighbor for causing the privilege rescinded for a single rabbit or even young buck. It had, in fact, engendered a province renown for it's kindness. Should a neighbor, or even pilgrim passing through their land, fall on hard times, need charity Dike Alys' subjects would lend a hand. Though their generosity stemmed from a certain selfish place, in which their charity was based in their interests, the end result was that starvation was nearly nonexistent.

"Ah ha!" cried Cora aloud to herself. She glanced up at the hot sun that broke through the forest canopy for a moment before striding quickly to her destination: an old orchard from the dutchy's more prosperous days. The clementine trees were overgrown now, their canopies bushy and wild, tree's limbs intertwining so it was difficult to tell which branch belonged to which tree - but that didn't make their fruit any less sweet. The brunette gathered up her skirts, pulling the back ones forward and up between her legs, tucking in the excess linens into the front, behind her belt, to create what looked not unlike a man's breeches. She'd never been one for excessively boyish behavior, but it was the only way to climb a tree. She firmly grasped the lower branches and easily hoisted herself aloft; a lifetime of carrying milks pails, bailing hay, and general drudgery of farm life hand left her hands calloused against the rough bark, and her muscles strong. She was nothing compared to farm boys, but was positively muscular compared to the city girls - let alone noble ones. Truth be told, while her rustically tanned skin and strong frame had always embarrassed her when in the company of finer girls, she held some pride in her strength. She knew she could take care of herself, and that was a power none of those women had never known.

A few more branches up she sat on a sturdy branch that was probably as old as she, and began to pluck the sweet orange fruit dangling nearby, tossing them with easy accuracy into her wicker basket below. It wasn't long before Cora's brow beaded with sweat, and the noonday sun had inspired a terrible thirst; she was positively salivating to slake her thirst with one of the juicy little fruits. Shrugging to herself, and seeing only one more clementine in her reach, she picked it. A quick squeezed reaffirmed its ripe appearance and she whistled 'Maiden in the Mor Lay', a short little ditty she'd found herself coming back to often lately, and she peeled. The melancholy notes drifted across the treetops alone, her rusting about in the trees having scared off any birds that may have joined her, the song becoming disjointed as it was interrupted each time she popped a new slice into her mouth.

It was during one of these pauses that she suddenly heard a knocking coming from the trunk of her tree. She looked down and was startled to see a young man dressed in fine garb not entirely suited to tromping off the beaten path in a forest. She quickly swallowed, and unsure of what the etiquette was for curtsying from the trees, deciding that it least addressing him would be the first step opened her mouth, but snapped it shut again as the man quickly held a finger up to his lips. She mouthed a hasty 'Sorry, my lord' to him.

He nodded curtly before glancing about him. Satisfied by whatever he'd observed, he carefully, though a bit clumsily, hoisted himself up the first few branches, making his way up to Cora, who was suddenly hoping that she makeshift breeches were properly tucked. As he settled next her, Cora realized this was the closest she'd ever been to a person of nobility and quickly bowed her head down, averting her eyes. Nonetheless, she couldn't help but study him as he seemed to be listening for something.

He was built stockily, almost more like she imagined a dwarf. His frame was not overly built, but meaty; the type of strength that usually went to fat as a man entered middle age. His baby fine, nutmeg brown hair stuck in short curls to a forehead a bit too far back for someone his age, and while he was not short of breath he had clearly been exerting himself for at least a few hours. It occurred to her that this is what she imagined a young bulldog might look like were it turned human and hid a small smile behind the back of her hand. Still, he was not an unattractive young man, and his neatly trimmed goatee, coupled with the fine clothes, gave him a certain dashing flair. It was then that she noticed the clasp pining together the collar of his coat. It was made from gold, real she was sure, and was the most finely crafted representations of four hares in an interlocking circular pattern - the Alys family crest. Only members of the family were permitted to wear the insignia. Which meant he must be- "Whaaa!" Cora cried out as distracted by her revelations she'd forgotten herself and leaned forward - a bit too far forward - and tumbled off balance.

She barely had time to register that she was about to faceplant to her doom before a pair of strong hands in leather gloves caught her wrists, halting her plunge. She instinctively locked her hand's around his forearms before craning her neck back to look at his face. His brow was knit, his eyes reflecting genuine concern. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah," she managed to get out, the awkward position of her body weight compressing her ribcage and therefore difficult to get more than a gasp of air. 'No thanks to your oafish intrusion, ' she thought in annoyance. She'd never understand why so many royals had more gold than manners even though they could easily afford both. After all, were they not called nobles for a reason? If she 8 an aristocrat, she'd consider her role as something to aspire to and set a regal example for her subjects. Her mother had once lamented to her father that children of the aristocracy only showed the courtesy of politeness to their betters because they were comfortable and lazy. Once you forget ambition, ambition forgets you. You always had to be hungry for more. Where would salmon be if they simply stopped swimming forward? They and their offspring would eventually be washed out of the pool and downstream. If your trajectory wasn't upward you were failing.

The young man gave her a smile and nodded. "My deepest apologies, my lady. I seem to have inadvertently to put you in danger, miss...?"

"Help me down!" she relied tersely. "I'd rather not break my neck."

His eyebrows shot up as it seemed to dawn on him that she was still dangling. "Oh, my! Sorry." He slowly lowered her. "There's a sturdy branch next to your right foot. Simply rest your weight on it and tell me when you're safe."

Cora fumbled around, feeling for the branch with her foot, and tested its sturdiness through the soft leather of her shoe. Satisfied with its safety she nodded. "Go ahead." He gently released his grip and transferred her weight from his hands to the branch below. Once both her feet were firmly only the forest floor she quickly unfolded her skirts and lowered herself into a deep curtsy. Whatever she thought of him, he was still royalty and as her mother had always told her, you never know what may result from a first impression, so better make it a good one.

A pair of black soft leather boots landed a foot in front of her nose, but she kept her eyes to the ground. "Please," the young man's said kindly. Cora, not sure if that was a please don't bow or something else, simply stayed in position, contemplating her best move. She her a quiet chuckle. "Then you leave me no choice but to join you," he said jovially and Cora was surprised to see his boots cross each other into the distinctive position of a cursty. And, sure enough, he bent his knees and squatted, arms extended. Finally, unable to stop herself she peered upwards, though her head remained down, and found herself locked in a gaze with the odd young man, whose eyes sparkled with a laughter. She quickly averted her eyes down, only to find her chin met with one of his fingers soon under her chin, gently pressing it upwards. "Please, no lady should bow before a man who nearly caused her grievous injury just moments prior."

Cora blinked, but drew herself back up, glad for any excuse out of the groveling position she felt obligated to take, rather than any real respect she felt. The first man in this boy's family that had pulled himself up above his peers - he deserved respect; but not his descendants, who were simply lucky. As the young man also drew himself upright, she nodded her head nonetheless. "I am no lady, sir."

He cocked his head to one side, seemingly thinking about this statement more than it warranted. "No..." he said slowly, "I should think you're a nightingale, free from her curse."

This was about the last thing she expected from his lips, but was taken aback, for only one other person had ever called her as such. And how does one respond to such a strange comment - was he simply joking? "I - I, uh..."

"It was you I heard in the trees, wasn't it? The song ceased when I came upon you, and did not resume even when we were both still."

"Well, yes, I suppose it was I that you heard, but," replied Cora.

The young man smiled, but didn't wait for her explanation, as he suddenly seemed relieved. "Ah! Wonderful! I was afraid I might not fight a nightingale in time!"

"In time for what?" she blurted out.

"In time to save my father, of course!" he replied.

'Yes, of course to save your father,' thought Cora sarcastically. 'Because the world revolves around you and all simply must know when tragedy befalls your house. No one else ever has any problems...'

The young royal, seeming to take her silence as acknowledgement, stepped forward and took one of her hands. "And what luck - in human form! Quickly! You must come with me at once. There's no time to waste!" He spun, her hand still in his, as if to take off; Cora drew her hand back beside herself.

"Human form? My mother told me I'd be a nightingale as a woman, but I am no cursed beast!" she cried. She quickly slapped her hands over her mouth. If her mother could see her now - disrespectful to a noble!

"But the song I heard was so beautiful and yet... so sad." He met her gaze. "Much like your eyes."

Somehow she found herself both blushing and irritated simultaneously. He'd some how seen something in her even her father has missed - but what right has he to say such a personal thing? Irritation won out. "I'm perfectly well!" she snapped. "And that song was nothing like a nightingale's."

"My apologies - I didn't mean to offend. But I shall not apologize for calling you a lady. I've always believed that comportment made the lady - not their station."

'Easy for you to say,' Cora thought to herself bitterly, instead saying, "Thank you, m'lord...?"

He bowed before settling on the trunk of a fallen oak where he began to pull his gloves off, finger by finger. "My proper title is Lord Henry Alys the Younger, Earl of Grimholde. But you can call me Henry," he added with a smile. "And what is your name my lady?"

"Cora, m'lord," she replied with a curtsy.

Henry shook his head. "Enough of that, miss Cora. I haven't the time to waste on such pleasantries in my search. Once I have lightened my load, I must move on. Now, please, make yourself comfortable." He unclasped his frock coat and shrugged the heavy garment off. His fine linen shirt was soaked with perspiration, and which was also starting to seep into his waistcoat. "It's quite warm today."

"As you wish... Henry," Cora replied hesitantly.

Henry flashed her a smile. "If only my courtiers could learn to address me as I wish so quickly."

"Well, we're alone in the forest; I needn't worry about whether other lords may take offense at such address," replied Cora her nerves settling with her as she draped her skirts on a large mossy rock.

"I suppose so," he replied. He pulled a small leather flask and a kerchief from his hip pouch, pouring water over the cloth. "I must look quite the fool, traipsing among the wood in such a costume."

She raised her eyebrows sardonically. "As you say so, Henry."

"I know - I shan't deny that I live a life sheltered enough that I do not even seem to know the proper garb for true wilderness. It's why I insisted taking on this responsibility."

"And what would that be, if I may ask?"

"My father has fallen deathly ill. And while he is aged, I do not feel ready to lead. Father says my uncertainty is a sign that I will make a thoughtful, good ruler, I'm afraid I-"

"- have no such faith in your abilities," said Cora, finishing his thought.

Henry nodded. "I was going to say simply need more time, but yes, I suppose that could be it." He laughed. "You see, I'd rather follow than lead!" He shook his head. "In any case, he has been getting worse for months, and no physician had been able to help, so we released a call across the kingdom for a soothsayer. As luck would have it, one was peddling his service not just a village over and came at once. He says that the only thing that will save my father is a special tea, made from the blossoms of a forgotten love, which he must drink while listening to the most beautiful song in all the land - that of the nightingale." He sighed. "I have been searching all day and have found neither. When I heard your song, I thought I had found the bird, at least."

Cora nodded. "Well, as far as your blossom of forgotten love, I think I may be able to help." She stood up and crossed behind him to another tree from the abandoned orchard and gestured at the trunk. A heart containing the message 'SA + LFO' was carved into the bark. It was clearly quite old, and barely legible.

"I don't understand," replied Henry.

Cora broke off a small, still green twig of a branch that was sprouting not far from the carving and handed it to the young lord. "Even if that love is still remembered, I think I'm the only one who still remembers this orchard, which surely must have been the love of its gardener, if nothing else. These blossoms make a wonderful tea in any case..."

Henry took the twig and examined it for a moment before storing it safely in his hip pouch. "Then I am in your debt," he replied genuinely. "Surely, a beautiful and wise girl such as yourself, who sings the nightingale's songs, knows where to find one," he stated.

Cora chuckled. "Certainly - they just sit on my windowsill listening to my songs while I spin my father's straw into gold!" she said with a laugh. Nightingales were rarely seen in this part of the kingdom, and, as their names implied, only came out at night in any case. His entire tale sounded like some impish gypsy was looking to line his pockets with a some extra gold by weaving a task impossible to accomplish, but she knew better than to call the Henry or Duke Alys a fool to his face. She also guessed the palace court had taken the same tact; when he failed at his task, Henry didn't have to worry about taking the blame like a servant would. "Alas, my father's flax crop was destroyed by that cold snap, so I have nothing to spin," she added with an exaggerated sigh. "Otherwise I'd simply bring them to you!"

Henry gave her a confused look but quickly nodded. "You must enjoy living simply if you can spin flax straw to gold - quite admirable."

"Oh, yes, who needs fine food and elegant dances when you have a full belly and a yearly hog faire?" she replied with a sarcastic smirk.

"Indeed. More people would be happy if they could take such values to heart. I know my family is hardly destitute, but we are poor in the eyes of other aristocrats. Still, we're happy." Henry's face fell. "At least until recently. I suppose it was too much to ask that you should have everything I require." He got to his feet. "I should get on in my search."

Had he not understood her sarcasm? Surely not... should she say something? He seemed kind enough , but so did a bully until he decides he doesn't like you. "I, uh..."

"Yes?"

Cora quickly picked up her basket and help it out. "Would you care for a snack for your journey? They produce the most delicious fruit!"

Henry smiled and nodded . "How gracious of you! That sounds terrific about now. I knew you were a lady," he added with a wink. "But I wouldn't be a gentleman if I didn't offer something in return." He picked up his frock coat from the log, removed the clasp bearing his family crest, and draped it over Cora's outstretched arm, exchanging it for two ripe clementine oranges.

Cora shook her head. "Oh! No, no, I can't! It's far too much for two pieces of fruit that you could simply pick from another tree!"

Henry shook his head. "But not too much for my father's health. With any luck I shall find the bird I seek - they must be plentiful if a group gathers whenever you whistle. Besides, you said your father's crop has failed. As your lord, it is my duty to help my people," he added with a gentle smile and gave her a quick bow of his head. "I'm sure it will fetch a fine price in town, and I don't relish the thought of carrying it the rest of the day in this heat. But I really must be off." He turned, and began to head into the under brush.

Cora stood in amazement. Never had she received so fine a gift - well, certainly more personal and thoughtful, but never one worth so much. Finally, she found her voice. "But - but- Henry!" she called after him.

He turned around. "Yes, my lady Cora?"

"There aren't any..." her voice caught in her throat. If she told him now, he'd surely take back his coat, and if they played it right, it just might bring enough at market to get them through winter - or maybe her dowry instead. In any case, the duke is old and bound to pass away soon enough as it was. Henry was probably on a fool's errand anyway. She swallowed hard, the rationalization weighing heavily in her gut. "There aren't any in that direction. They, uh, prefer the edges of the forest, near water. And keep your eyes at the scrub brush - nightingales prefer bushes to trees."

His eyes twinkled. "If my nightingale says so, then it must be so! Rest assured, the gods will reward your grace!" With that, he continued on his way, picking at the second clementine's peel as he disappeared into the foliage.

A strange, tingling energy filled her chest at this last exchange, but whether it was the result of what Henry had said, or what he had given her that day, she would never be able to say. Whatever the case, a broad smile didn't leave her face the rest of the day. Perhaps she would be able to keep her promise to her mother after all.


"When my mother returned from the Duke's forest that evening, she relayed her story to my grandfather, showing him the fine coat she'd been given, and they immediately-" The glass doors to Emma's office swung open violently, interrupting Regina's story, and a young man of perhaps 20 came storming in.

His thick shock of orange hair was mussed, giving him a wild look to match his frenzied voice. "Sheriff! Queen Snow! Come quick!"

Emma grabbed the young man by the shoulders, stopping his manic pace. "Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Reign it in and take a breath!"

The redhead grit his teeth, forcing himself to take a deep breath. Satisfied, Emma put her hands on her hips, resting her weight nonchalantly on her right foot. "Good. Now, what's the emergency, Pete?"

"It's the Lost Boys!" he replied urgently.

Emma nodded. 'Of course it is,' she thought.