And then, suddenly, the puzzle reeled and danced before his eyes. It dissolved into a new and startling shape that brought him to his senses with a shock. There had been a swift shuffling of the figures.
Minks and his cousin were helping her into her cloak. She was going.
One of them—he knew not which—was offering politely to escort her through the village.
It sounded like his own sentence of exile, almost of death. Was he forty years of age, or only fifteen? He felt awkward, tongue-tied, terrified.
They were already in the passage. Mother had opened the door into the yard.
'But your way home lies down the hill,' he heard the silver voice, 'and to go with me you must come up. I can easily—-'
Above the leaves of the plane tree he saw the stars. He saw Orion and the Pleiades. The Fairy Net flung in and caught him. He found his voice.
In a single stride he was beside her. Minks started at his sudden vehemence and stepped aside.
'I will take you home, Countess, if I may,' and his tone was so unnecessarily loud and commanding that Mother turned and stared. 'Our direction lies together. I will come up—with you.'
She did not even look at him. He saw that tiny smile that was like the flicker of a star—no more. But he heard her answer. It seemed to fill the sky.