By the Light of the Moon [Sample]

Chapter 1

Chapter One

It was too late to hide. She could hear them coming: horns and shouts in the distance, the hard drumming of iron-clad hoofs tearing into the damp morning earth. A robin, perched on a piece of driftwood, interrupted its song and fluttered off towards the castle orchards. Fog rose from the lake, fresh and white, as it reached the shore. It wafted over the shiny gravel to the first tufts of grass and reed, where dew had turned spider webs into intricate gossamer jewelry.

Moira stood at the water's edge and looked down at the waves lapping at her naked feet. Her hands trembled, but she turned them outward in an open, embracing gesture. Then she closed her eyes, pushed the approaching hoof-beats out of her mind and breathed the pre-dawn air deep into her lungs. Damp and crisp, it had left infinitesimal drops of water in her messy red hair and she could imagine herself soaking it up, drawing it inside of her—air, water, mist and the lake itself—as though she could store freedom, like others stored food or drink or knowledge.

She did not move, not a muscle, as the horses drew closer. Sounds were jarring in this early hour, invaders from the daylight world, too substantial for the ephemeral sense of morning silence. Moira listened to it shatter around her, like glass, like a thin sheet of ice over the lake. A shiver ran up her spine, pulsed uncomfortably in the back of her head.

The shouting ceased when the horses came to steep halt behind her; their hoofs flung flecks of dirt through the air. They formed a vague crescent shape, arranging themselves in formation.

Moira lifted her hand to her cheek to wipe the mud away. One last time, she looked out over the lake. At this end, far away from the harbor and the fishing boats, it was eerily still—a silence that possessed power and gravity, which had worked its pull on her for as long as she could remember.

Only when the last horse stilled, did she turn around. She focused on the captain of the guard as he swung himself off the saddle. Gravel crunched under his boots.

"Milady," he uttered, and bowed as low as his stiff, aging back allowed. He took in the sight of her white nightgown, its hem stained with dirt and dew, her dirty pink toes peeking out from under the ruined fabric. There was a totemic presence about her that morning, a streak of mud on her face and the mist in her back, curling around her like a caress from a different world.

"I don't remember inviting you to my morning walk, Sir Clifton." Moira was calm, unsurprised, as she gestured the man to stand up straight.

She wrapped her white arms around her chest in an effort to establish a hint of decorum. The autumn chill cut through the air, now that it was laced with voices, the smell of horses, the sight of men in coats; even her feet finally felt cold. A night alone in the tame wilderness outside the castle had grounded her, but the crawling feeling under her skin, the desire to run reclaimed her body with every passing moment, every glance, every sound.

"Milady was not in her chambers when my Lord Rochmond noticed her absence," the captain explained, his voice involuntarily rougher to fight the onset of embarrassment. She was hardly dressed for company, much less to be standing surrounded by six rough-and-tumble men of his guard.

"And he sent you to slap me in irons?" she asked, the corner of her mouth twitching slightly.

The captain could not hold her gaze. It would have been shockingly impertinent, especially in her state of undress. But more so, she had the dark innocence of a hurt child that shone through any bitter and condescending superiority she might throw between the strong man and her feeble woman's body. It was disconcerting and in the rising mist, between bird-song and the murmuring waves, she held an eerie quality that wasn't quite as noticeable when hair was braided and coiled, when she was dressed in heavy, embroidered fabrics, walking the warren of passages and hallways of her father's castle.