Dark and tall, Ailill's hall soared up into the air around them. The walls seemed to be made of living trees, their gnarled roots biting into the mossy floor. Lights were suspended here and there in the air like bubbles. It was beautiful, but still. Ailill set Giselle gently on her feet. The cloak went with her, snuggling around her shoulders and purring madly.
    "Good evening, my Lord," said a smooth basso voice. The short, stout Fae man who stepped out of the shadows paused at the sight of Giselle. "Lady," he greeted her, so calmly that Giselle knew he was covering surprise. He had dark hair trimmed neatly short.
    "Giselle, this is Kei, my steward. Kei, Giselle is not here."
    Kei never batted an eye. "Of course not, my lord, what a ridiculous notion."
    "She will be staying in the Bower Room."
    "Ah. Yes, my lord. Would you care to break your fast now?" the stout steward asked, a trifle hopefully.
    Ailill led Giselle into the shadows, between the trees to a grotto where ferns grew from the arching stone ceiling. A table was there, with the silverware busily setting a place for her. Wraith-silent servers brought in roasted quail's eggs, fern hearts, and smoked salmon. Dessert occurred in the form of glittering sugared fig tarts and elderberry wine, followed by an urn of something fragrant that tasted like a cross between chocolate and coffee with a dash of cinnamon. Ailill didn't speak much, just ate his meal and watched her eat. Giselle didn't mind. She was used to being watched. She drank the last drops from the delicate cup of steaming choffee. Ailill drained his cup and rose. Wordlessly, he put out his hand.
    Giselle let him conduct her up a curving, stair-topped branch into a bower with a ceiling and walls of stained glass. A delicately woven nest of grass hung in one corner, filled with milkweed quilts and curtained in shimmering satin. A dresser set of silver and mother of pearl lay on a dainty vanity table. The room was beautiful, but in spite of the effort someone had obviously taken, there was something wanting.
    "It's exquisite," said Giselle.
    "Your presence has improved it." He lifted the cloak from her shoulder. "Good night, my dear." And he left.
    Giselle sat down on the edge of the nest. From the edge of the bed she could see past a wing of glass to a gently steaming tub of alabaster. She stood, stripped off the iridescent gown that her mother favored and hung it on a hook. The hot water felt wonderful, and lilac scented soap took the faery dust from her cleavage and the grass stains from her knees. Clean, Giselle wrapped herself in a soft robe, wandered in to the bed and snuggled into the down quilts. She lay awake for a long time, waiting. Eventually she fell asleep.

    Giselle stirred sleepily, pulling herself up to peer over the edge of her soft, warm nest. The room was just as she remembered it, except that her dress was hanging neatly, clean and sparkling. Best to get it over with.
    "Good morning, Lady," Kei greeted her, bowing politely when she came down from the Bower. "Forgive me, we did not know what you might like for a meal."
    She slept around the clock, apparently, or around what passed for a clock in Ailill's realm. "Has Lord Ailill eaten?"
    "Long ago, Lady."
    "Has he left?"
    "He is not here," supplied the Seneschal. "I do not know when to expect him back," he said in anticipation of her next question.
    "He said nothing before he left?"
    "He said that you were to have whatever you wished for, that you were allowed the freedom of the realm, and that you were not to be followed or watched in any way," recited Kei. "How may I serve you?"
    Giselle stood for a long moment. "I will go for a walk, if that's all right."
    "Perfectly, Lady. My lord asked that you wear this for a little while, until his people come to recognize you." Kei produced the cloak, which all but leaped to her arms.
    "Thank you, Kei."
    The seneschal bowed and went away. Giselle let the cloak slide around her shoulders as she began exploring. She wound up in the stables. Two long rows of airy stalls with living birches as corner posts and a neatly raked aisle. Various fae horse heads poked curiously over their doors to look at her. A red mare with a white mane reached out to whiffle at Giselle.
    "Careful, miss, that one bites," warned a cheerful man's voice.
    A little human man opened one of the stalls further up the aisle and stepped out, closing the door. He grinned at her, flipping a long, long red braid back over his shoulder. He was so tiny he should have been fae, but there was no mistaking this one. He was as mundane as dirt. The little human set down a pail with clothes and a large bottle in it, then wiped his hands carefully.
    "What is your name?" asked Giselle.
    "I'm Gair, miss, I'm Lord Ailill's Stable Master, and you're Giselle-who-isn't-here."
    "Lord Ailill's horses are famous. Will you introduce me to them?"
    "A'course, miss. That cheeky thing looking to nibble on you is Ribbon. Here you, knock it off," he chided the tall, iridescent black stud that reached out to tweak his braid, slapping the arched neck fondly. "And this is Pahn."
    "He's beautiful. Is he the Pahn who won the King's Cup so many years?"
    "Aye, they finally asked us to quit entering him." Gair tousled the inky forelock fondly.
    "I'm surprised Lord Ailill didn't ride him."
    "Black Road did this one in for riding, miss. See those scars?" He pushed the horse back a step so that Giselle could see the long, terrible scars on the black shoulders. The stud's scars were still damp with some kind of solution. "Demon Prince nearly had him and the Lord Ailill both. Killed the old Lord dead as sausage. Them demons leave a nasty, infected wound. Pahn lost a layer of muscle from each shoulder to the infection. I rub the muscles that are left for 'im, and that keeps the old boy moving. He stands stud for us now, breeds us new winners, don't you old son?"
    Pahn whoofed at Giselle. He pushed her with his muzzle and Giselle rubbed his ears for him.
    "He likes you, miss, or you'd never get near his ears" said Gair, laughing. "Well, we shouldn't take up your time, miss, was there something you wanted?"
    "No, thank you. I was just trying to get the lay of the land."
    "The Kennel Master's out front there," Gair told her, and pointed. "I'm sure Llew'd be glad to meet you. Don't think Tracker's here today, but his missus might be."
    "Thank you."
    The first person Giselle found outside the stable door was a large, broad, hairy fae man with wildly curly hair confined in a sandy blonde braid. His pointed ears swept back along his head. He was shirtless and bootless, sitting stitching a falcon hood.
    "Mornin' Lady. Help you?" he asked.
    "Gair said that I should meet Llew."
    "Then you have," said Llew jovially. He stood up, and up, and then bowed. He looked at her up and down for a moment.
    Giselle raised an eyebrow.
    "Sorry, Lady, didn't mean disrespect. We're all a bit curious about you."
    "Why?" asked Giselle bluntly.
    Llew looked a little uncomfortable. "You're the Lady that felled Lord Ailill. No one expected to see the day that happened," he admitted.
    "You didn't want to answer that question, but you did. Why?" asked Giselle again.
    "Orders, Lady. We've our orders to answer you honest."
    "Then I had best be careful what I ask," said Giselle, smiling but serious. So, the lady who had felled Lord Ailill. Felled him. Giselle wasn't sure she liked the sound of that.
    The sound of hooves made her look up. Tall and ebon, a horse slid to a stop with the tall ebon Ailill mounted on it. The Lord dismounted, and Gair was in place to catch the reins that Ailill tossed.
    "They're looking for you," Ailill said. His dark eyes drank in Giselle.
    "I told you they would. Did you see my mother?"
    "Florimel had left before your absence was discovered, or perhaps before it was announced. Sometimes these things are a little unclear. I've loaned Finvarra the Tracker's services." The corner of the fae Lord's mouth lifted briefly.
    Giselle giggled at the smugness of Ailill's expression, and his smile came out into the open for a fleeting moment. "You're a rogue, my lord," she accused, still laughing. "What would people say if they knew?"
    "That you are deluded," he bantered, offering her his arm.
    Giselle laid her fingertips on it. She was aware of the way Gair was grinning, and Llew was staring. Ailill lead her through a misty dell into a formal garden.
    "Did you sleep well?" he asked.
    "I did, once I slept. I kept expecting you would come," she said softly.
    His face was still, and stone cold. "You do not love me."
    Giselle felt a stab of conscience. She was hurting him. It was the truth, but he had been so good to her and telling him the truth made her feel guilty.
    "Well, but… I… owe you a debt. I would not turn you away."
    Ailill looked down at her. The fire that burned behind his eyes frightened the breath from her lungs. Then it was gone, hidden again behind a chill mask.
    "I have asked that a workroom be prepared for you. Please ask Kei for anything you might want. Until you decide to leave this place is your home."
    A bean-tighe was tidying the spotless workroom that Kei showed to Giselle later that day. A great double beamed, sixteen harness loom stood by an open wall looking out on the meadow, a hearth with a pair of flax wheels on the hearth displayed numerous great pots for dyeing cloth, and a double stone sink ran endlessly with clear water. A great kiln occupied one corner, and a bench with jeweler's tools was against that wall. A great table stood in the middle of the room, ready for whatever work was undertaken. Giselle looked around the wondrous room and cried out in delight, throwing her arms around the disgusted steward. She planted a kiss on the balding spot on the back of Kei's head. The bean-tighe hurried to bob a curtsy to Giselle.
    "I'm Anna. We didn't know what sort of supply, Lady," said the old house sprite anxiously.
    "None but what I bring with my own hands," Giselle told her, a plan forming. Whether he admitted it or not, she would owe Lord Ailill for his shelter, and if he did not take the debt from her body, then he would have what she could give him.
    The bean-tighe nodded, pleased. The next morning, when she had breakfasted with Ailill, Giselle went through the stables. She asked for a pony with a pack of baskets, then led the stout little gelding past the cow sheds as a truly hideous old graugach took the white cattle out to graze.
    "Old mother, where do the nettles grow?" called Giselle.
    The graugach sucked her blackened gums and squinted out of her rheumy eye. "Down past the cow ford, Lady."
    "Will you show me?"
    "They're along the way. If you walk with me, you'll find them." The cowherdess looked doubtfully at Giselle's narrow bare feet and fine gown.
    "Thank you, old mother."
    She followed the cattle out, and in the evening she came back with the laden pony in tow. Nettles, bundles and bundles of nettles were stacked and tied onto the pack saddle. Giselle heaved them off in front of her workroom and took the pony back to the stable. Gair looked at her blistered, bleeding hands and shook his head, tsking.
    "You'd best let me give you somethin' for those hands, miss," he offered.
    Giselle shook her head, holding her aching hands against her body. "They're not so bad."
    "Oh aye," said Gair doubtfully.
    Giselle soaked her hands in healing rose water and bound them up. By the time Ailill returned to dine her hands were well enough, and the gown had rinsed almost clean in the tub. He said nothing about the one small stain that hadn't come out, and they talked until far into the starry night. The next morning there were a hundred gowns for her to chose from, everything from the plainest frocks to the sort of bubble-fine gauze that she'd been wearing. Giselle shook her head, laughing, and called Morogh, Ailill's brownie valet, to tell her what he thought his master would like the best.
    It took Giselle a full cycle of the moon to beat the nettles out and separate the fiber. Another moon was born and died as she spun the fiber into thread and dyed it with iris roots gathered by her own hands. When the third moon had come and gone Giselle had finished the shirt she had set out to make. No seam and no needlework marred the smooth black shirt, meant to be worn beneath a tunic. She had to weave it in its final form, for no scissors would cut the stuff and no needle could pierce it. As with shears and needles, so it was proof against sword and spear, and even bullets. Magic sloughed off of it like water from a swan's feathers.
    The next morning Ailill was not at breakfast. Giselle ate her breakfast alone. Later that morning she missed having him come into her work room to see what she was working on. An air of expectancy and apprehension had hung over the house. Servants avoided her as if she were contagious. Finally, frustrated, Giselle cornered Ailill's valet, Morogh, in the library. Poor Morogh danced from foot to foot, wringing his small hands.
    "What is going on?" she demanded.
    "I… Lord Ailill is fighting a duel today."
    "What?! But he didn't… when?"
    "It is already started."
    "Tell me all," ordered Giselle.
    Morogh sighed as if in pain, or relief. "A sorcerous duel with Callum, to the death."
    Giselle's heart stuttered. She remembered Callum too well. A sorcerer of power, rising the court. He was cruel, and he was clever.
    "Why, what possible reason could they have to fight?"
    "Callum wants to take this holding. He said that Lord Ailill never dueled proper for it. That's true, in its way, but he fought the demons for it, and aren't that enou'? Still, Callum had the right of the law's word, so the Lord agreed to fight the duel."
    A warning flag went off at his tone. "You are not telling me everything. What are the conditions of the duel?"
    "I… I… he wouldn't tell me," whispered the brownie, hanging his head and combing his fingers back through his hair in anxiety.
    "It's all right, Morogh," soothed Giselle, laying a hand on the poor creature's shoulder.
    The brownie burst into tears and fled. Afternoon came, and Ailill did not return. Evening faded into night, and Giselle sat in a chair in front of the stable. Kei, whom she had never seen come out of the house, brought her choffee, a lantern, and a quilt to cover her knees.
    "Thank you, Kei," she said quietly.
    "We've had a note from the palace. The king thanked Lord Ailill for ridding him of Callum and hopes Lord Ailill is healed of his wounds," whispered Kei.
    "Bring Tracker, and a horse…" began Giselle, then cried out as her eyes made out a tall, black shape coming slowly into the stableyard.
    Jettison was walking. One step at a time, the stud put his feet down as if he were walking on eggshells. Sitting hunched over the pommel, Ailill swayed in his seat. Giselle darted forward, laying shaking fingers on his leg.
    "Ailill." She breathed his name.
    He looked down at her and smiled with bloodless lips. Then he toppled from the saddle into her arms. They took him to his rooms, where Giselle had never been, and laid him on his bed. Ailill's black tunic was sodden with blood. A terrible gash had laid his side open until the white flash of his ribs showed. They tried to bind up the wound, but no matter what they did Ailill's life ebbed. Healing potions did no good, nor did magical bandages. A heap of bloody clothes piled up beside the bed, and when they tried to stitch the wound it only tore away around the sutures. Giselle blinked at tears of frustration and fear. If they didn't stop the bleeding soon he would die. The prospect ripped at her heart like savage fangs. He would die. He couldn't die, she wouldn't let him die.
    "Ailill, Ailill wake up," she nearly sobbed out the words. "Please, Ailill, wake up!"
    He had never failed to do as she asked. Ailill's dark eyes opened slowly, as if lifting the lids were the greatest labor in the world.
    "What were the conditions of the duel?" asked Giselle, catching up his hand. "We cannot stop the bleeding, you must tell us how to do it."
    Ailill shook his head weakly. "The cure is not to be had. Leave it bleed." His dark, falcon's eyes closed.
    "NO!" She caught his shoulders, letting her head fall down on his bare chest. "Nooooo…"
    Giselle's tears spilled down her cheeks. Wiping them with her hands, she fumbled to hold the gash in his flesh together. The bleeding slowed a little. Ailill sighed, then his eyes dragged themselves open in surprise.
    "Giselle," he said weakly, "you… love me." It was not a question. His eyes burned like furnaces with certainty. He lifted a hand to stroke her hair.
    "Of course I love you, you great dolt!" she sobbed, hitting his shoulder with an impotent fist.
    "Wipe your tears across the wound."
    Giselle rubbed her wet cheek along Ailill's torn side. Her tears bathed the dreadful wound and it began to knit itself up. Ailill wrapped his arms around her. He drew her up to kiss her wet, trembling lips. She rained kisses onto his mouth, laughing and weeping, stroking his face, greedy for reassurance. Ailill rolled her onto her back as his strength flooded back. Suddenly embarrassed, Giselle pushed against his bare chest a little.
    "Morogh…" she whispered, blushing.
    Ailill's triumphant laugh rumbled up out of his chest. "I love you, and he's already left."
    "I love you."
    "I know."
    "I love you."
    "You just said that."
    "I…ahhhhhh…"

*****

That night in Finvarra's hall, Dagda played a harp of dragon's bone, and his rich voice filled the night air.

"…Tell her to make me a cambric shirt.
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme,
Without a stitch, or needlework.
For then she'll be a true love of mine."