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whispered.
    “So do I.”
    She kissed him, and he went out into the night.
    ***
    He checked the following day. There was no basket by the Leather-woman's door, and so he assumed that she had taken it in. But as the days passed, and as a sense of oppression grew about him, he thought of the smith and prayed that his family would be spared.
    Then Varden came one evening, cloaked in blue and white, his eyes flashing as brilliantly as the moon and star at his throat. Elizabeth was just sending the children to bed, but when the Elf stepped into the firelit room, the youngsters stopped at the foot of the stairs to look. Varden met Andrew's eyes, then bowed to Elizabeth and the children. “Blessings upon you this day.”
    James, twelve years old and fearless, strode directly up to him. “Are you an Elf?”
    “James!” Andrew was aghast.
    “Peace, friend.” Varden smiled and turned to the boy. “And what do you think, young one?”
    James looked him up and down, scrutinizing carefully. “You don't look like what they say in the tales.”
    “And what do they say in the tales?”
    “That Elves are tall and strong, and have cows' feet, and breathe fire if they want.”
    “I have never breathed fire in my life,” said Varden, still smiling. “Although I confess there have been times that I wished that I could. So, what say you?”
    “I think you are.”
    “In spite of the tales?”
    “I don't care about the tales,” said James stoutly. “You . . . just feel like an Elf. I don't think the Elves in the tales would feel that way at all.”
    “Well said,” replied Varden. “And quite correct.”
    Regardless of James' stated conviction, Varden's confirmation made the boy's eyes open wide. Elizabeth came and took him by the shoulders. “To bed with you,” she said, and marched him up the stairs. The other children followed, whispering and looking back until they disappeared into the loft.
    “And may the Lady send you sweet dreams,” the Elf called softly after them.
    Andrew was standing to one side, his arms folded.
    “And how are your dreams, Andrew?”
    “Troubled. Last night I saw my family slaughtered before my eyes. Elizabeth woke me. She said I was crying out. My children were frightened.”
    The Elf sighed. “So perhaps it is too late for love.” He spoke softly, almost to himself.
    “She's bitter. Very bitter. And now I fear all her hate is directed at me.”
    Varden moved to the hearth and sat down cross-legged, his back to the flames. Elizabeth came down the stairs. “If I would not be intruding,” she said, “I would like to hear what passes.”
    “It is well,” said Varden. “Please join us, my lady.” He spoke to her as though she were nobility, and she blushed; but she sat by the fire with her needlework, her hands moving of their own as she listened.
    Too agitated to sit, Andrew paced. “It's not working, Varden. It's just not working. If anything, she's worse. She hadn't done anything against anyone in the village for months, and now . . .”
    Varden's voice was soft, grieving. “I had hoped that this would turn out otherwise. Though a tree in the forest may be struck by lightning, or broken by the wind, it can be propped up and tended to, and can grow straight again. But sometimes . . .”
    Elizabeth spoke. “She was broken many years ago, and her wounds were never tended.”
    “I'm afraid she can't be mended,” said Andrew. “She's like . . . like a starving dog.”
    Varden nodded. “I believe I described her as such, when we spoke of the danger involved in this task.”
    Andrew was not sure if he was being reprimanded, and the Elf's face gave no clue. “At that time,” he said, “we both thought that there was some hope.”
    “You do not believe so now?”
    “I'm not sure.” Andrew stopped pacing, rubbed at his cheek. “It seemed like a good thing to do. To help her, I mean. But at that time, she hadn't tried to kill Francis, and she hadn't threatened me. And now, more than