Cold Grey

3.

So for the first time ever, I feel like whistlin’. Not ‘‘cause I’m happy, mind. It’s only ‘cause I want to know where she is. I’m kind of caught up wonderin’ about her.

“Psst.” I hear the soft beckonin’ through the leaves of a nearby tree.

“Are ye there?” I ask with a flick of anticipation.

“Who else were you expecting?” she breathes as soft as a feather.

 “Yer fair self?’

“I’m glad to hear it.”

I still know nought about her, ‘ceptin’ she’s a clever one, so I plot to keep her talkin’ to see what I can find out. “So … what be yer plan?”

“I want to come with you.”

Hey? I wasn’t expectin’ that.

“There ain’t be much room where I live. It’ll be cramped …” I say, though I’m thinkin snug. “…and not exactly palatial.”

“Palatial?” she says, with a hint of knowin’.

I twist me lip, but I reckon it pays to speak the truth.

“Well, I gather yer not from round here. Don’t exactly blend in, if ye don’t’ mind me sayin’. I’m certain me dwellin’ won’t compare to what yer used to.’

“Huh!” she scoffs. “The castle is not the palatial home you think it is. I’m sure your dwelling will suit just fine. For now.”

“For now?”

“Well, I’m not expecting to stay more than a night.”

She’s still hidden in them trees, like she’s a shy one. I can’t help but ask, “Um—I don’t mean to pry but why won’t yer come out, so I can speak to yer proper. Feels like I’m talkin’ to meself.”

“I‘m not very good at speaking in front of folk,” she replies through her leafy screen.

“Yer do realise I’m a couple of feet shorter than ye. Not like ye have to look me in the eye.”

“I suppose. Although I’m not sure I like the thought of you talking to my navel either.”

I snuffle a snort. The closest I ever get to a laugh. The picture of her navel’s set tight in me brain along with the word snug—snugglin’ up just fine.

“Yer need not be afraid, I pose no threat to ye.”

“Do you promise to keep your eyes even?”

“I swear to the Wise Oak, I’ll not seek ye out.” I nearly add: nor will I seek out yer navel. But can’t exactly make that promise.

“Alright. We have a deal.”

Then she appears. Her hooded cloak coverin’ every inch, pulled right over that lovely face. Only her pale hands show as she secures her coat tighter, furtherin’ her disguise.

“What’s yer name?” I venture to ask, doin’ as promised and keepin’ me eyes on the path ahead.

“I’d rather not say.”

“Well, what shall I call ye?”

She shrugs.

I ponder for a moment, tuggin’ at me long red beard. It’s not uncommon for folk in these parts to be known by another name. Makes it easier to avoid the guards, and steer clear of the Queen’s interest.

“Grey,” I blurt out. The one word that comes to mind coverin’ both her clothin’ and shady mannerisms.

“Grey?”