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Summons
     
    Sometimes the green-eyed man found it difficult to slip away from his regular duties and climb the tower stairs for an opportunity to peer into the crystal ball. And every time he did, he felt as though Queen Titania watched him, a certain expression in her gaze that he did not altogether like. Would she tell King Oberon of his captain’s interest in a random mortal maiden? If she did, how would the king react?
    Nevertheless, whenever he saw an opportunity, the green-eyed man would make his way back to the lonely tower chamber and breathe upon the smooth surface of the crystal ball. He did not have to speak a word; the magic of the crystal reached to his heart and knew upon whom he wished to look.
    On this particular day he raced up the tower steps two at a time, driven by an urgency he could not quite name. It wasn’t the same as the premonition he had felt just before the death of the miller, but it was similar. The sensation of impending doom had swept over him just as he finished running a patrol about the outer walls of King Oberon’s palace, and he had hastily cast aside his helmet and armor, desperate to gaze into the mortal world and learn what had transpired.
    He raced to the pedestal and hastily breathed upon the crystal ball. Its clear surface clouded then cleared, and with its clearing the green-eyed man beheld the familiar landscape of the miller’s cottage, the mill, the stream, the forest road.
    He gasped in surprise.
    Men-at-arms, armored and glittering, marched down that humble road, their impressiveness too big for that small space. He saw swords. He saw lances. He saw a noble messenger with a severe face and a plumed hat. All marched directly for Eliana’s home.
    “What, by all the Merry Dancers, is the meaning of this?” he whispered.

    Mistress Carlyn sat at her window, working a bit of elegant stitching on the edge of a sleeve. She disliked such dainty work but felt it a better use of her time than any other task to which she might turn her hand in the miller’s house. After all, the end result would be a fine garment she could wear and pass off as custom-made by a seamstress from town.
    Her daughters sat nearby, also working at embroidery, though with less success than their mother. Innis could hardly sit still on a pretty spring morning, constantly looking out the window for a glimpse of milk-boy Grahame in the yard; and Bridin found needlework dull, to say the least. Sometimes Mistress Carlyn suspected they would be happier if she allowed them to pursue the drudgery of cooking, cleaning, and animal tending that was their lowly stepsister’s lot! But they knew better than to cross their mother. So they sat hour by hour, working away and never breathing a word.
    A strange sound caught Mistress Carlyn’s ear. She frowned and looked out the window, laying her work down in her lap. Were those hoofbeats she heard? No, the sound was not quite right, the steady tramp-tramp-tramp not in keeping with a horse’s uneven gait. What then could it possibly . . .
    The messenger appeared through the trees, stepping into the mill yard. Behind him followed a whole troop of ten men-at-arms, glorious in their palace regalia.
    Numb confusion struck Mistress Carlyn like a physical blow. Then realization came over her in a rush. Her boast! The thoughtless boast she had made without once considering how far it might spread.
    “No,” she whispered. “No, it can’t be!”
    “What is it, Mother?” asked Bridin as both sisters looked up from their work, startled to see the deathly pallor of their mother’s face.
    Mistress Carlyn did not answer. She sprang to her feet, leaving her fine gown and stitching in a pile on the floor. She was down the stairs within three seconds, then paused at the door to pat her hair into place—one must maintain some sense of dignity, after all—before stepping out into the yard.
    She stood face-to-face with the impressive messenger in his crimson-plumed