Climbing the tree was different, again.

She'd expected it to be. She knew, of course, it was she who had changed, who needed time to test the new length and breadth of her body, as one needed time to move about in new shoes to decide how they really fit. But of course that change had been happening gradually, imperceptibly, all the time over the winter months, and so when she set her hands upon the bole of the monarch of the orchard it always felt as though it had changed, not she.

But it was familiar, too, a return to a pattern she loved as she found the notches and limbs she knew, their bark worn smooth over two summers of visitation. The tree seemed to greet her hands and feet like an old friend, clasping them in welcome.

Well, her hands, at least. It would be a ridiculous thing to clasp someone's foot as a greeting. She thought of Fiachra and his warm grip while he tied bells at her ankle, blushed at the memory and giggled before suppressing her own frivolity with a frown, and pressing onward into the upper branches.

She paused at her old favorite perch, glancing at it regretfully before climbing past it. The hollow junction of three limbs that had fit her like a throne when she first arrived had been too small for her by last spring, a rude awakening to the truth of how she was changing. There was no point even thinking of trying to settle there now, after another winter of letting out the seams in her clothes, of piecing gussets into the places there was no longer any extra seam to be let out. The rainy days since their visit to camp had been productively, if tediously spent—her new gown fit her perfectly, without pinching under her arms or stretching its laces embarrassingly across her chest, or being patched at the ribs and hips until she looked like a walking rag-bag. It felt fitting, now, to greet her tree in a garment as new as the spring.

She found a notch where she could sit comfortably, and leaned against the trunk, smiling into the stillness of warm air and humming bees. It was good, to get away from everyone for a while, to think where she wouldn't be interrupted. The tiny cottage, as much as she loved it, seemed very full at times, and the enforced confinement of inclement weather so soon after the release of spring had made her feel too big for her own skin. Moreover, she was not fond of sewing, finding it a difficult thing to attend to under any circumstances. Constructing a new garment to Coll's exacting specifications while sharing space with Taran, who was supposed to be working on his own new tunic and leggings but found the task as dull as she did, had been an exercise in frustration.

Her smile faded as she thought of him, almost resentful at how he seemed to intrude on her… even here, where she'd come explicitly to be alone! Her inability to be anything but distracted by his presence anytime he was nearby was frustrating enough, without it plaguing her when he wasn't even there. How like an Assistant Pig-Keeper to be so aggravating.

But there —she'd come up here on purpose to puzzle over him; what use was there in denying it to herself? If his behavior, and her own reaction to it, had been confusing before their camp visit, they had been nothing short of baffling since, with everything made all the worse by not being able to avoid him while they worked. The number of seams she'd had to rip out and re-work had testified to her mental state, and certainly not improved her mood.

It might be easier if she thought he piqued her on purpose—if she knew that those intense looks in her direction, the sudden silences, the stammering attempts at conversation deeper than supper's ready or the rain's letting up were meant to make her blush and look everywhere but at him. Perhaps then she could decide whether she wanted to feel so fluttery and breathless about it, and either encourage him to continue, or tell him where he could leave it. But he seemed as muddled by it as she was, and the easy camaraderie they had regained during their brief sojourn had evaporated, over the following days, into a haze of awkward communication and irritable bickering. She didn't mean to be short and cross with him, but somehow it happened, again and again. Even Coll's good nature had been tried, and on the second day he had ordered Taran off to his barnyard chores with an exasperated comment about finding fewer creatures to argue with outdoors. Dallben had withdrawn entirely, taking his meals to his chamber, to meditate over his turnips in peace.

Eilonwy laid her hot cheek against the cool bole of the tree with a sigh. All had been lovely last fall, after they had returned from the quest for the cauldron. When had everything changed? She could not put her finger on any single moment. Taran's odd behavior at the camp was only the latest in a series of encounters that had left her unsettled.

There was that moment, during a winter evening by the hearth, as they had listened to Dallben read an old romance from The Book of Three, when she had let herself admire how the firelight played over the planes of Taran's face, sculpting out his brows and cheekbones and strong, clean jawline…how it captured the skill in his hands as he worked the leather on a pair of new shoes…how it kindled his green eyes to gold when he had looked up and caught her watching. How that single glance had shot her through with heat that had nothing to do with the fire.

There was the sight of him working at the anvil a few weeks ago, stripped to a leather apron as he managed the forge. How she had paused on a trip from the well, fascinated, to watch the interplay of muscle and bone in his back and shoulders as he wielded the hammer. How when he'd come to ask for a drink from her bucket, lacking a dipper or cup, she had impulsively offered him water from her own hands, and shivered when his chin grazed her fingertips.

There was the way he put Melynlas through his paces in the barnyard, Coll shouting instruction as the boy and the horse battled imaginary adversaries, all unaware that she was watching from a spot in a tree near them. In two years, he had gone from an ignorant novice in horsemanship to a master of the spirited stallion, and the two of them, moving as though with a single mind and heart between them, were a lovely thing to watch from any perspective. But she found it mesmerizing in ways she was sure Coll, focused purely upon its practical applications, did not.

And then there were all the excuses Taran made to find her, and cheerfully join in on the chores he had always groused about before. He came to the scullery and helped scour the iron pots and kettles, organizing them into their places on the shelves, lifting with ease those whose weight gave her difficulty. He skimmed the cream off pans of milk and thumped away at the butter churn while she hummed to its rhythm, stood beside her to chop vegetables for the animal troughs. He scrubbed laundry at the brook with her, hauled the heavy waterlogged linens back to be hung. And she would catch him grinning at her: that crooked, sideways slice of smile that made her heart skip, all the cheekier when she said something particularly tart. He seemed lately to be continuously underfoot, and if she were excessively aware of his eyes on her it was only because they so often were.

Innumerable glances, too long or too short, accidental brushes of hands, small acts of unusual thoughtfulness, each insignificant on its surface. None of these encounters were unpleasant. No, quite the contrary. It was the compelling pleasure of them that was unsettling. They left her warm and tingling, full of yearning for…what?

How did he have the power to make her feel such things? While simultaneously seeming unable to speak to her as he used to? It annoyed her; she should not allow him to affect her so much. Yet the more she tried to ignore and deny it, the more she lay awake every night in her loft, waiting for the soft tap upon the floorboards that signaled his goodnight, and wondering what he was thinking about in the meantime.

She groaned quietly to herself, in a turmoil of unfamiliar indecision. And at that inopportune moment, a familiar voice drifted up from below.

"Eilonwy!" Taran's voice; her mind rebelled against his intrusion even as the rest of her responded with a traitorous little thrill. "Eilonwy, come down from there!"

The note of anxious urgency in it was the only thing that kept her from snarling at his barking an order at her in such a fashion. As it was she did move, but not down…she pulled herself from her makeshift seat and reached for a higher limb, propelled by rebellious impulse. Let him grouse about it. She was not obliged to do anything on his say-so.

"Eilonwy, please!" His voice cracked on the end. She had not heard that in a long time. "You're too high! If you fall from there—"

"Don't be silly," she called down. "You know I do this every year."

"You get heavier every year!" he yelped—not an untruth, but its implications annoyed her. She pulled herself up further.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"I just…" He was stammering in his dismay. "You've grown, that's all, and those branches are thin!"

She rolled her eyes and set her foot upon another branch, sliding along it before shifting her weight. The limbs here were a bit smaller, but surely still able to bear her. Of course he would assume she didn't know how to gauge their soundness! "You sound like a wet rooster," she called, "fussing like that. You could come up and join me, instead of…"

A treacherous crack. A frozen moment when she knew, with dreadful certainty, what was happening, and her heart plunged before she did, left her suspended for an empty beat without time to scream or think or reach for an anchor. And then the terrifying chaos of falling: slashing twigs, bruising branches, a bone-rattling, lung-crushing impact.

For a moment everything stood very still. Her first attempt to breathe knifed sideways through her chest. She gasped, and groaned as her ribs expanded, shaking with the effort, but a painful breath did come, and then another, and she opened her eyes.

But nothing she saw made sense. A jumble of patchy green and brown and fluttering white, that was all. Her nose filled with the scent of apple blossom and bruised grass. And something else, warm and familiar. Her body was curved over something solid…something that moved, unless her shaken senses were mistaken. No, there it was again. The surface beneath her rose and fell gently, like a boat going over a swell.

Suddenly she recognized the smell and color in her line of vision: the rough homespun of Taran's jacket. He was flat on his back, lying beneath her on the ground, and the movement she felt was the rise of his ribs as he took a breath. He had…caught her, or at least he had broken her fall, and she…oh, gods, perhaps she had broken him.

"Taran?" she whispered, "…are you all right?"

He groaned a little in reply. "I'm…not sure yet."

A flood of relief at hearing his voice crested at the startling sensation of its vibration so near her ear, and Eilonwy stiffened as she took stock of herself —sprawled brazenly across his chest, facing him, her arms flung wide to either side, her cheek pressed against his left shoulder. His heartbeat thudded, strong and loud, at her chin. His arms were around her. The gentle weights that pressed between her shoulder blades, weighing her firmly against his chest, were his hands. Perhaps they'd landed there accidentally, upon impact. Or perhaps…

His ribs rose in another breath, buoying up her whole body, and she clawed into the grass, pushing herself up until she felt his arms slide away. Her own arms were weak from fright, trembling and unwilling to bear her weight. At best she could only put a few handbreadths of space between them before she had to pause. His hand gripped her wrist; perhaps he meant to steady her. Her hair had tumbled over his face in a tangled mess. She reached up shakily, caught its waves over her forearm and swept them aside, and there he was, looking up at her, as dazed and disoriented as she felt.

For a moment she stared at him, motionless, as though even to breathe might shatter both of them. Taran's eyes were wide, and bright with ambient sunlight; Eilonwy saw the shape of her own face reflected in them, as though there were a tiny version of her held captive in his irises. He let his breath out, finally, in a strained whisper. "You?"

She had already forgotten what she'd asked him, could not place the context of the returned question. "I…" she began, but could go no further. Her thoughts tumbled over like pebbles in a stream bed until she realized he was asking her if she were all right. Was she? She was not in great pain. But that wasn't exactly the same thing.

"I…" she tried again, trailing, "I…I'm…."

"You scared me," Taran interrupted, low, and somehow reverently. His face was serious, gaze intent, locking that tiny image of her inside, and for a moment she wondered wildly if she really existed there, instead of in her own physical body and its melting constellation of sensation.

Why hadn't he shouted the words, or gotten angry, admonished her and filled the air with told-you-so's? To that, she would have known how to respond. But this vulnerable admission was a novelty, a creature she did not know how to hold, for fear it would strangle in her hands, or turn and claw at her.

"If you say you told me so," she breathed, gazing steadily at him in defiance, "I will never speak to you again."

She watched his throat move as he swallowed, waited for him to take the bait, to snap back at her. He did not.

"I wasn't." His hand tightened at her wrist, but his eyes did not move. It occurred to her that he looked sad, somehow —stricken, as though he had lost something and only just realized it. A breath went by, and then another — hers, or his? She didn't know. She held the next, feeling that she might fly apart if he didn't say something.

"But I do wish," he murmured finally, "that you'd be more care—"

She muffled the rest, clapping her hand over his mouth, and smiled a little at the reassuring sense of restored normalcy. There it was—that resistance, that old, safe boundary. Taran's brows tightened just slightly, a sign of mild annoyance that was comfortably familiar, but he made no move to push her hand away.

"You just can't help it, can you?" she said, shaking her head, smugly triumphant at knowing him so well, at the solidity of her own defenses. "It's like an itch you've got to scratch."

Too late, she realized she had bent toward him, overly confident in her upper hand. Now his face was only inches away. Taran's eyes finally broke their steady lock upon hers, wandering instead over the rest of her face, lingering on her mouth. His chest rose and fell as he sighed, warm breath feathering her fingers. He let go of her wrist, and reached toward her cheek.

Her heart stuttered; she would have sworn it stood utterly still for a breathless moment. From the corner of her eye she saw his fingertips close on something entangled in her hair, felt a tug at her scalp as they slid down the length of one gleaming strand. The tension released, and she stared at a tiny apple bud nestled in his hand—a sprig of new life, torn from its place by her fall.

Something in its fragility, held fast in his gentle grip, caught her breath and held it hostage. She stared at the waxy sheen of its closed petals, and wanted, inexplicably, to cry. It would never bloom; she and her stubbornness had denied its right to summer, to warm rain, to the delicate dance of nectar-hungry bees, to ripening fruit.

What would he do with it? Toss it to the ground, most likely, which made perfect sense, and yet she couldn't bear the thought, and her mouth went dry as she searched for words that would implore him, nonsensically, to hold it safe. Taran gazed at her from above the muting wall of her hand. Apple petals drifted, bruised and scattered around them in layers of white ruffles like sea foam. They nestled in his hair, in the folds of his shirt; the sweetness of their fragrance made the air heavy. Too heavy to breathe. She couldn't…

"Mchamphbreef," he mumbled, behind her hand, startling her.

She hastily uncovered his mouth. "What was that?"

His face flushed, and his voice was strained. "I can't breathe."

"Oh!" she gasped, realizing how her weight must affect him, and pushed away in a desperate, clumsy scramble, falling back upon her heels in the grass. Her hands twisted into her disarrayed skirts while he sat up slowly and stretched his back. She wanted to ask again if he were all right, but her mouth felt glued shut. He rose and brushed himself off, and held his hand down to her; she hesitated, reached up, and let him pull her to her feet.

She swayed, dizzy from the fall and the fright and the…whatever this was, this thing that was still throbbing at her wrists and throat and melting away her insides. He reached out a hand at her back to steady her, and it stayed there, even after she was past danger of toppling over.

The silence stretched again, and she stared at their clasped hands, knowing that Taran did the same, sensing there was more he wanted to say, to do, waiting for him to do it. Why didn't he?

She swallowed and spoke. "Is there something else?"

His eyes met hers, then, feverish with something that seemed to pull her heart to her throat, instinctively she gripped his hand tighter as he opened his mouth to speak, hesitating —once, then twice, then…

He dropped her hand. "Dallben wants to see you," he said, in a tone from which each word had to fight its way out.

Eilonwy stared. The rapid rhythm of her heart stumbled over itself. Her spurned hand still hovered in midair. Taran looked away again, his features tight, almost as though he were angry.

"Oh," she whispered, a word pushed out before a flood of heat rose to her face. Humiliated, she dropped her hand, and muttered flatly, "Is that all."

The stricken, inexplicable grief in his eyes would have terrified her, had she not been so furious. Eilonwy turned on her heel to march to the cottage, leaving him standing beneath the tree, alone in that shower of ruined blossoms and broken limbs. She was halfway across the garden before she realized that he still clutched that single bud in his hand, held like a talisman over his heart.

Was it this that made her pause at the cottage door? Or the sense of foreboding that slid into her wrath, like a spreading drop of dye into a vat of water? She stood with her hand upon the latch, fighting for control of her own breath, of the sobs trying to rise to the surface of her aching chest. She should not go in to Dallben's chamber in such a state. But neither would he look kindly upon a delayed response to his summons. There was no time even to vent her feelings upon the fire, for Dallben would sense it if she used magic that way, and no doubt have questions she did not wish to answer.

Breathe. It's nothing, all nothing. You fell, but you're all right. Taran caught you because he happened to be there, that's all. How fortunate! Nothing to be so turned inside-out over. Nothing.

The cottage was quiet inside, empty of all sense of life, but Dallben must be there. She never did feel his presence as she felt the others; he was too good at shielding himself. She knocked at his door, heard his raspy "enter", stepped inside and shut it behind her, feigning neutrality.

"Taran said you wanted to see me."

He waved her to her usual spot on the bench with a grunt and she sat, and stared at the uneven edge of his worn table, trying to think of something other than the grip of Taran's hand at her wrist, the sense of his protective arms surrounding her and the steady, wistful ache in his eyes. What had that expression of his meant; why had…

"Princess," Dallben said, "I have news that will be difficult."

The gravity in his voice, missing its usual undercurrent of amused irony, arrested her thoughts at once. She snapped her gaze to his face; his pale eyes were thoughtful as always, but also sad and guarded, an expression she had rarely seen from him.

"First of all," he said gravely, "despite what you will be tempted to believe, hear me. You are very dear to me…to all of us here."

How could such a lovely sentiment sound so ominous? She twisted her skirts in hands suddenly gone cold.

"It is a rather strange circumstance," Dallben continued, "for a young lady to grow up in such company, but you have been happy here, I think. And so have we all. The years you have sojourned with us have been brighter and merrier for your presence, and while it is in my power, you will always have a home at Caer Dallben if you so choose."

She stared at him, heart pounding, through this mesh of words that seemed to be going somewhere, leading like a path to a door she felt was about to slam behind her. "I…I don't…"

"You have kin, as you may remember," Dallben went on, very gently, as one might speak to a wounded animal. "Distant relations of your mother's people. I contacted them shortly after you came to us, and discovered that, as had been guessed, no one knew anything about you. They wanted you to come at once, but I felt that it would do you good to live with us for a time. I believe it has. However…" He hesitated, as she began a slow shake of her head, but nevertheless continued relentlessly, "It is time you learned more of the world, and your place in it, than you can experience here."

"My place in it?" she repeated, dumbfounded. "This is my place in it. Here, right here! I want no other."

He maintained an even look that said he had expected just such a reaction. "Nevertheless, you were born to more," he said, "and though you may, in the end, choose the simplicity of this life, let it not be because you had no other choices. It is hard to understand now, I know—but all signs tell me this must be done."

"What signs? What must be done?" she demanded, voice rising in alarm. "You make it sound like I'm about to have my throat cut on an altar."

"You will journey to the land of your kindred," he said, with excruciating calm, "where the rulers of the isle of Mona are eager to welcome you into their household. They are good folk, and those with the strongest connection to the House of Llyr. There, you will have a chance to learn much more about who you are."

"But I already know who I am!"

"Ah," Dallben said. "Do you?"

She gripped the table edge and took a breath, but no words could push themselves past the choking tightness in her throat. The room tilted savagely around her. Dallben's face swam in a haze. His eyes were compassionate, empathetic, but he wouldn't stop talking, wouldn't stop saying these terrible, unfathomable things.

"This is no place," he said, "for you to learn to conduct yourself as befits one of your lineage. Despite the fall of your House and its domain, you do have some responsibility toward your heritage —even if it is only to choose wisely what of it to keep. That is wisdom I cannot give you, but I hope you may find it yourself near the land of your ancestors, and in the company of women who can guide you as I cannot. The Queen of Mona is no Daughter of Llyr, but their blood runs in her veins nonetheless, and she knows as much of your history as anyone living."

Was this intended to comfort her? "In the company of women!" she exploded. "In a royal house? I remember what that is—being dressed up like a doll and told that everything I most enjoyed was unladylike! Is that the wisdom I am to learn?"

The candle on Dallben's table sputtered to life of its own accord. He pinched off the flame, and held up a warning hand. "Gently. You must stay—"

"And there's that!" she interrupted. "Who will teach me how to control it? Who but you can show me…"

"You already have all I can give you," he said, laying his gnarled hand over hers. "The powers of Llyr are none that I can wield, for its mysteries were shared only from mother to daughter, woman to woman. I have allowed you space to learn, to be safe from your own mistakes and heal your mind and heart. Should you follow the path of your foremothers, your feet will be steadier than they would have been otherwise. But I cannot tell you how to follow it. If you are meant to do so, it will come to you."

"If it's meant to be, why must I go somewhere to find it?"

He sighed. "It is not just anywhere. Your connection to your homeland and heritage—what is left of it—is part of you and your magic. How much, and what it will mean for your future, I cannot say. But I believe it is crucial that you discover it."

"But now? Why now?" She scrubbed angrily at her eyes, at the hot tears that welled uncontrollably up, despising them; why must she always cry when angry, lose all control just when she most needed it?

"There are reasons," Dallben answered, "above all, your age and season of life. I am not privy to the rites and rituals of the Daughters of Llyr, of course, but I do know that you are at the cusp of a transition. Had you grown up in your designated role, there would be certain ceremonies. An awakening of power…a transferring of responsibilities. A dedication to your people's ways and all that they reverenced." His gaze strayed to her pendant, thoughtful. "Not that I say you must do any of these things. Only that the time is ripe for a turning point, in one direction or another, and there are choices you must make that will be better made independently of…" He hesitated a little, cleared his throat, and finished, "…of influences here."

Her lungs heaved on a voice-cracking breath. "When?"

"Not for a month, I think," he said. "Likely you will leave just on the brink of summer. I have sent my decision to Mona with Kaw, and you know what he is. Once he has delivered the word, it will take some time for them to arrange an emissary for you; Mona is typically a three-day journey by ship. I tell you now, to give you the chance to make peace with the idea. Believe me, dear one," he added gently, "your departure will give me no pleasure. We shall all miss you, and look forward to your eventual return, if you choose it."

"Eventual," she gasped. "What does that mean? How long must I stay away?"

"That depends on many things," he said, and ran his hand across the leather cover of the book before him. "I cannot say for certain, but you should prepare yourself for a few years at least."

Years! An eternity. She felt dizzy, almost sick. She knew well enough that when Dallben passed a decree, there was no use in making a scene. A quiet, well-reasoned response would be the sensible thing, now, proof that she was stable and trustworthy and didn't actually need any more training in secret mysteries or time in self-examination, was perfectly able to make good decisions from right here where she belonged…

The bench clattered as she sprang up. Magic flung itself into every corner, blasted his chamber door open, rattled the crockery on the shelves, banged shutters against their frames. The hearth fire roared and the water in the hearth-kettle went up in a cloud of steam as she stormed through the common room. At the doorstep she slammed blindly into Coll, come hurrying to investigate the commotion; he fell back before her with an alarmed oath. By the time he rallied to call after her she had fled, and his faint cry was drowned out by her own grief.

She ran through the garden, the orchard, the barley-field, soft with new planting…her feet knew these paths, and needed little help from her tear-blinded eyes; just as well. She did not want to look upon any of it, not when she was to be ripped away.

What good was it to love things, if you could not hold onto them? Perhaps she had loved her parents once, too, and her childhood home; perhaps she ought to be thankful not to remember them, if it felt like this…this tearing out of heart, this shattering of self.

At the edge of the woods she snagged her gown in the underbrush and went down, heard the ominous rip of her brand-new garments, came up with mud down her front, grass stains smeared over elbows and knees. This is no place for you to learn to conduct yourself as befits one of your lineage.

Blast my lineage! No doubt her ancestors never tripped in the mud or ripped their gowns or fell out of trees, or lost their tempers and burned things to the ground. If the Daughters of Llyr were too proper and royal to put their bare feet on the earth then she wanted nothing of them. She hadn't asked for such a heritage; her own mother had abandoned it. She had always been Eilonwy of Llyr in name only, and now that name would bar her from her only home.

She would gladly have been Eilonwy of Caer Dallben, forever, if anyone had bothered to ask. But no one had, and now she would be Eilonwy of nowhere.