Bard and His Lia

CHAPTER FOUR: FOOTPRINTS

        Two days later, Bard stood in his kitchen, peering through the crack in his curtain, smoothing back his hair and taking a deep breath to steady himself.  He picked up a parcel from his table.  Wrapped with care in clean brown paper, the parcel consisted of a bundle of silken ribbon in three different colors – two shades of blue, and one of green, all meticulously chosen from his memory of the colors Lia wore, and the shopwoman's advice on what would best suit a flame-haired, blue-eyed beauty – for which he had fashioned a custom spool from an old oar handle, around which he had hand-wound the three long pieces of ribbon.  To accomplish all this, he had made a special trip into a nearby town where he knew he could find the ribbon, which had cost him a certain sum and a good few extra hours in the cold – a price he was more than willing to pay.  He couldn't wait to see Lia's smile when she opened this gift, and, more than that, he couldn't wait to see the ribbons in her beautiful hair.  He even allowed himself to indulge in a vision of her unwinding one of the ribbons and tying it up in her tresses right there on the spot. 

            Smiling to himself and taking a last deep breath, his heart pounding lightly, he made his way out his door and down his stairs, across the narrow lane, but, at the bottom of Lia's stairs, he stopped dead in his tracks.  He blinked a number of times to be sure, but yes, there on her steps in the snow was a clear set of male boot prints ascending the stairs, and try as he might, he found no evidence that this man had descended again.  Bard frowned darkly up the stairs toward the light emanating from Lia's kitchen, holding his breath for a moment, his pulse thudding loudly in his ears, but could hear no sound from above.  He felt his heart sink into his stomach, leaving it churning and uncomfortable. 

            You stupid old fool, he cursed himself.  Did you really think no one else would come to court her?  Did you think she would want an old, tired thing like you?  Go home, idiot.  Go home, have a crust of bread and some water, and go to bed.  That beautiful creature has better things to do than waste her time with you.

            He marched himself back up his own stairs and paused at his door, looking down at the parcel in his hands with disappointment, considering it.  He still wanted her to have it.  Whether or not he would ever see her face when she opened it, and whether or not he would ever see them in her hair, he still wanted Lia to have these beautiful ribbons.  She was kind and good, warm and welcoming, sweet and generous, and she deserved this kindness from him.  He went inside to fetch the basket she had brought him the day they had met, along with some thin rope, and fastened the basket to the laundry line.  Forcing himself to look away from her windows, he sent the parcel in the basket across the line.  Then he went inside and determinedly thought about everything in the world but her.

 ---------------------------------------

            In the morning, Bard woke stiff and cold and tired after a restless night's sleep, and found himself feeling grey and cloudy as the late winter sky.  The grey feeling was as familiar to him as his old coat, but even that he could not put on without thinking of her.  The coat was warmer now that it was whole again, easier and much nicer to wear now that it buttoned, and he had remembered the usefulness of pockets, also thanks to her.  This only served to make him more dour. 

            After a bowl of cold porridge in the dark, he dressed slowly.  Standing in his kitchen, he allowed himself to glance out the window across the way.  All was dark on the other side.  Maybe old man Grindley's house had never received a new tenant at all, and he had dreamed the whole thing.  He took in a great breath and sighed heavily, steeled himself against the cold outside and within, and opened his door.

            Stepping out, he tripped over something at his feet.  He looked down to find that the basket had returned once more!  Oh wonderful, terrible, beautiful, accursed basket!  He picked it up at once and raided it eagerly in the morning light.  Lifting the cloth that covered its contents, he found within a little note and a delectable-looking pie.  He closed his eyes and lifted the pie near to his nose, taking in the rich smell of apples and berries tucked inside buttery crust.  He set the basket down and unfolded the note, reading it with haste, then re-reading it, then re-reading it again.