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petals or preserved whole for
sweet-scented sachets and potpourris or to be candied, and all
of this needed people's hands, Ariella's among them. She worked from the
first light of false dawn to the last hint of twilight, fell into her bed exhausted,
and woke to do it all over again. Every bucket of grain, every round, white
turnip, every apple and honeycomb meant a pleasant and comfortable winter for
the people of Swan Manor. No one would go hungry, and there would be extra to
sell for things the Manor didn't produce for itself, and still more to sell for
luxuries— spices and cakes of white sugar for cooking, oranges to stick full of
cloves and hang to scent the air, silks for gowns, dye-stuff—Twelfth-Night
gifts. . . .
    Ariella
indulged herself with imagining what she might buy from peddlers at the Harvest
Fair as she worked, sweat dripping down her neck and
even off the tip of her nose. And all the while, in the last field of barley to
be mowed, a single uncut sheaf stood in the very middle, a sheaf that would be
left untouched until the very last apple and nut of the harvest was gathered
in.
    Finally,
at long last, in the final honey-gold moments of an autumn afternoon, the
entire population of the Manor gathered behind Lord Kaelin and the chief
reaper, each of whom had tiny silver sickles in their hands. Everyone was
dressed in his or her best, and even the poorest wore a bright ribbon or two
and a wreath of flowers in their hair. Ariella, like the other unmarried
maidens, wore her hair unbound and streaming down her back, with a wreath of
flowers, wheat, and ribbons crowning her head.
    In
a body, they all paraded into the fields, singing to the Corn Maiden, for they
had come to bring her in.
    With
great ceremony, Lord Kaelin and Toby, the chief reaper, took careful hold of
the last sheaf and bent to cut the stalks off as near to the ground as they
could. When the sheaf was cut, they handed it to Toby's wife and Ariella, who
swiftly bound it up and made it into a humanlike shape. With bits of outworn
clothing they gowned the Corn Maiden, and Ariella crowned the doll with her own
wreath.
    Then
they passed the Corn Maiden to the rest, who bore her in triumph to the
groaning trestle-tables arranged in front of the Manor, as the last rays of the
sun gilded the tops of the trees.
    They
set the Corn Maiden in the place of honor above the feast as men lit the great
torches of pitch and straw that had been set about the tables, and the folk of the Manor took places on the seats of log that had been set
around the makeshift tables.
    An
ox had been roasted whole for this feast, nor was that
all; the kitchen staff had outdone themselves, with every other tasty dish that
could be imagined. There was enough to stuff everyone to capacity and still
have leftovers to share out.
    Ariella's
only regret was that Merod could not be here; she imagined how his eyes would
sparkle at the fun and how he would toss his head and perhaps even join in the
dancing.
    The
air hummed with laughter and talk, the torchlight shone on happy faces, and
once the edge was off her hunger, Ariella nibbled and watched, taking it all
in.
    She
glanced to the side to see how Lady Magda fared. Even that Lady had lost some
of her haughty reserve, unbending enough to smile and joke with the Abbot at
her other side.
    The
small army of Manor-folk decimated the piles of food. As the stars came out and
circled overhead, the ox was reduced to a skeleton, the mounds of vegetables
melted away like snow in the spring, the bread developed gaping holes and the
pies and cakes eroded to pitiful remnants of their former glorious selves. Now
it was time for the traditional toasts, and Lord Kaelin stood up, tankard in
hand, to begin them.
    Something
icy, foreboding and grim seized Ariella's heart, and she swiftly turned her
gaze from the expectant faces below her to her father's countenance.
    As
that cold hand gripped her soul and froze her where she sat, she saw, as if in
a