Yarrow (34 page)

A warm brightness rose inside her. Mynfel, she thought. I think I understand. This Otherworld
is
our world, but you were only here until I could take your place. It was in your care, and now it's mine— mine until it's time for me to go on.

The warmth she felt inside, she realized, was her own acceptance of her responsibility. Not borne as a burden, but as a gift, a deepness of spirit, a kinship with all that made this small corner of the Otherworld hers to care for. She was like the raggedy man that Toby had met on the Road, like the Borderlord in her own book.

That was why Mynfel hadn't—
couldn't
have— helped her. It was a lesson that Cat had to learn for herself. The lesson she should have learned long ago. But she'd been too busy taking— from Kothlen, from Mynfel, from the Other-world itself— to understand that she had to give as well. Otherwise she was no better than the dream thief.

It was because of this bond between the Otherworld and herself that she was a part of two worlds, just like Mynfel must have been before her. She'd been brought here so that the horned lady could go on. To where? It didn't matter. She'd find out when the time was right, when it was
her
turn to go on. When she'd found someone else who could live between the worlds, learning the same lessons, finding that same strength inside herself.

And it was, Cat realized, a lesson that couldn't be handed down in words. It couldn't be taught. It had to rise up from inside one's own self. It was a self-realization that had to be truly and instinctively understood to be valid. And it would have come sooner or later— even if there had been no dream thief— beause Mynfel and she
were
reflections of each other.

She turned to face her friend with shining eyes. Tiddy Mun regarded her with undisguised love, Toby with a bewildered smile. Her sudden good humor was infectious.

"A few hours have done wonders for you, Mistress Cat," Toby said.

She nodded. "Do you still want to learn magicks?" she asked.

"Of course. I'm still on the Road, as it were. The Secret Road—"

"'…while underfoot the merry Road, the gentle, winds to where it waits,'" she quoted.

Toby's smile grew broader. "The very one," he said.

"When I come back," she said, "I think I'd like to go a ways with you."

"You're going away already?" Tiddy Mun asked, his disappointment plain.

"But I'll be back soon. And if I'm not, you can always come and fetch me."

"I will," he assured her very seriously.

She kissed him on each cheek, then stepped back. "Goodbye," she said.

"Good-bye," they chorused back, and then she was gone.

Cat padded barefoot down the stairs and entered the living room. Ben was the first to notice her.

"Cat, are you…?"

"I'm fine, Ben."

Peter stood up from where he'd been slouching on the couch. "Things worked out then?" he asked.

"Thanks to both of you."

There was a long moment's silence, then Ben stood as well.

"We should get going," Peter said. "I'm dead on my feet."

Cat nodded and followed them to the door. Peter went on ahead, but Ben paused in the doorway. They both had losses to deal with, Cat thought. She had Kothlen and he had Mick. But if they could face their losses together… She put her hand on his arm as he went to follow Peter.

"Will you stay with me, Ben?" she asked.

"I…"

"We did have a date for dinner tonight, and dinnertime's not that far away."

Ben looked at Peter, who just smiled and closed the door on them.

Peter whistled as he went down the walk, pausing when he saw a big orange tomcat watching him from the far end of Cat's veranda. It wasn't Ginger or Pad, because both of Cat's pets were flaked out in the living room.

He and the cat regarded each other for a moment, then Peter gave it a brief salute and continued on down the walk. Just before going through the hedge, he looked back. The cat was gone, but there was a sound in the air. It could have been a snatch of song, or perhaps it was only the wind.

Smiling to himself, Peter went on home.

The preceding novel is a work of fiction. All characters and events in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

I'd like to stress that, while there is a speciality SF bookstore in Ottawa called The House of SF, neither it nor its owners should be mistaken for
Yarrow's
Peter Baird and his bookstore. By the same token, Cat Midhir's writing habits, inspirations, and the course of her career do not parallel either my own or that of any other writer I know.