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loved her.
    And so . . .
    This was not an affair that would ever mean anything. It was just an affair, because she did want something wild and exciting before she settled down to have babies with Roberto and grow old and worn as her mother had.
    She walked quickly along the path, praying he would come for her, because the walk to their place of assignation was long and hard. And yet . . .
    Since they had met . . . since his eyes had touched hers . . . she had known. It was like a fever in her blood. She had dreamed about him, coming to her at night. Such a beautiful dream . . . white curtains blowing in the breeze, her flesh, naked, the feel of fiery lips upon her . . . her arms, trembling as they settled around the man. His lips upon hers, whispering words in her ears, settling upon her throat, her breasts . . .
    The dream was strong. So strong. She had to be up, and she had to be walking along the path, because she must have it, if just once, in her life. Then in the years to come, she would have the memory.
    She did wish, however, quite fervently, that the light would come. Just a few rays! But at this time of year . . . ah, well. She had lived here forever. She knew the path, despite the fact that not even the moon seemed to break through the clouds, and she could barely distinguish shapes in the darkness. Ah, at last! A cloud shifted. There was not really any illumination, but now, she could see the road, and the shadows that made up the trees, and where the trees broke, and the world became sky.
    Hurry, hurry . . . there would be so little precious time.
    Despite her sense of urgency to move quickly, she suddenly became aware of a cold that seemed to trickle along her spine, as if someone walked behind her.
    Someone, or something.
    She stopped, looking back the way she had come. The darkness had already swallowed her home. But she could see nothing.
    She turned, thinking it ever more important that she reach her would-be lover in all haste.
    She heard the labored sound of her breath. Then . . .
    Something like laughter. No. It was her imagination. It was only the trees. But there wasn’t really a wind that night.
    She quickened her footsteps again. Her limbs felt heavily laden.
    Maria . . . Maria . . . Maria . . .
    Her name seemed to echo on the night air, not even aloud, just within her mind, and she thought that she heard the laughter again.
    Was this her conscience talking to her? Was she going to go to hell for what she intended to do? No, if there was a God in heaven, He understood. He knew that she would do all that would be expected of her. She would marry, and when she did, she would be a good wife. She was a good daughter, and she would be a good mother.
    But the cold . . . that trickle of cold going down her neck . . .
    She turned abruptly, thinking if there was something there behind her, she would see it now.
    There was nothing, except . . .
    It seemed as if the darkness itself was a great cape. As if it flowed in the air like a malignant shadow, coming after her.
    She swallowed hard. It was just the darkness. She knew the darkness that could come. She had lived here all her life. She had heard the legends about demons, and laughed at them—when she had not sat with others her age in a car somewhere, and acted delightfully giddy and frightened. These woods . . . the fields, valleys, cliffs, and tors . . .
    She had walked them all of her life.
    Maria, Maria . . . you cannot run, Maria.
    And again, the sense of laughter in her head, evil laughter, as if . . .
    She stared behind her, at the darkness, the giant, sweeping shadows. Suddenly, more than anything in the world, she wanted to go home. But instinct warned her that she could not run that way, she couldn’t run into the arms of the shadow.
    And so she turned, and ran ahead hard.
    She blinked as dust flew into her eyes. Then she slammed against something hard and warm. And she looked up.
    Her mouth opened . . .
    The laughter sounded in her mind