“Lord Rameses of Egypt sighed / Because a summer evening passed, / And little Ariadne cried / That summer fancy fell—”

“Matthew, for the love of heaven!” said Celia, coming forward. “The unicorn hath bid us sing more merry.”

Matthew stood up to greet her. “If that’s the worst—no,” he said. “I see ’tis not.”

Celia smiled at him. “Let’s sing more merry, and then we’ll tell you,” she said.

“More merry?” said Fence, in tones of disgust. “We’ll give them more merry. An they’ll rant, we’ll mouthe as well as they.”

Celia sat down next to Laura, Fence on the other side of the fire.

“It isn’t funny,” said Ellen, in a stifled voice.

“I know,” said Fence. “Matthew, wilt thou sing Terence?”

Matthew sat down again, between Celia and Fence, and grinned. “Gladly,” he said. “Celia?”

“I trust you know what you’re about,” said Celia, very dryly. “Let’s sing and be done with it.”

Matthew said, not altogether seriously, “Spite the unicorn and drown thyself.”

“That saying,” said Fence, “was made by a unicorn for the jest of watching folk obey it. Sing.”

And all the grown-ups did.

“ ’Twill like the unicorns well,” said Fence.

Matthew said, “Now, Celia, thy tale?”

“Fence’s, I think,” said Celia.

“Nay, I did tell the last tale needed telling,” said Fence; “my purse is empty.”

“As empty as the ocean when three little boats have brought home a good catch,” said Celia, rather sharply, “but as you will.”

As Celia spoke, Laura watched Matthew’s face, with its sardonic bones and deep eyes. He was utterly impassive until Celia came to the part where the unicorn said that Randolph should have a care. Then he put a hand over his eyes.

“Shan’s mercy!” said Matthew. “What hath Randolph done?”

“He hath made an unwise bargain with the Judge of the Dead,” said Fence, with a perfect tranquility that made Laura’s eyes prick with tears. Celia looked up with a stricken face.

“The bargain for Edward’s life,” said Matthew, in a throttled voice. “No; for Ted’s?”

“’Twas for Edward’s life,” said Fence.

“And Randolph did agree?” said Matthew.

“Randolph,” said Fence, bitterly, “did suggest it.”

“And Edward did agree?”

“No,” said Fence. “Nor Ted neither.”

“How then call this a bargain?”

Patrick made a restless movement; Ellen thrust an elbow into his side; he turned his head and gave her a steady, opaque look. Underlit by the fire, his face was much older.

“Ted’s alive,” said Fence.

“But Randolph did promise for Edward’s life?”

“Now look,” said Ellen.

“Hush,” said Matthew. “They err but seldom. Cannot we turn this to some good account?”

“Randolph may do so, at the Gray Lake,” said Fence.

“But the unicorn saith, he must have a care?”

Somewhere nearby, muffled, two notes sounded, as if someone had begun to play a flute and given up. Celia jumped up and ran for the pile of baggage, from which she returned carrying the flute of Cedric and a large, flat leather pouch. The flute played two more notes as she sat down, and two more. Laura recognized, with resignation, that it was playing “The Minstrel Boy.” “The minstrel boy to the war” was as far as it had gotten.

Celia took a sheet of thick paper from the pouch and flattened it out on the rock she had been sitting on. Then she removed, to Laura’s astonishment, a little jar of ink and a pen. She filled the pen, held it ready over the paper, and with her other hand held out the flute. “Come, Laura,” she said.

Laura got up, walked slowly around the fire, and took the flute. It was as cold as if it had been carved out of ice. She said, “Do I play ‘The Minstrel Boy’?”

“Aye,” said Celia. “As many times over as thou art moved.”

This turned out to be six, by which time Laura’s fingers were numb and her lips burned.

“There!” said Celia, laying down the pen and shaking her hand.

Laura followed this example. There was a constriction in her chest like the feeling a bout of bronchitis had once given her. She wondered if they had antibiotics here.

Celia waved the paper in the air gently, and laid it down on the rock again. Fence and Patrick joined her. Matthew pressed gently on Laura’s shoulder until she sat down, and then handed her a tin cup of tea.

“Something’s amiss,” said Celia.

“Read it,” said Matthew; he was watching to see if Laura would drink the tea, so she drank some hastily.

Celia read it.

“Not well, no,” said Celia. “Sometimes that can’t be helped. But look you, all the message is but those verses, writ thrice o’er.”

“Belaparthalion,” said Matthew, thoughtfully. “Think you it likes him not that we flute his name hither and yon?”

“Why should they flute his name in the first place?” demanded Patrick. “I thought they were going to the Gray Lake and then to the Dragon King.”

“Griseous Lake!” said Ellen.

“Aye; ’tis the same,” said Celia. “They will not arrive there for some several days.”

“But Belaparthalion?” said Patrick.

“What makes you think the real message was about Belaparthalion?” said Ellen.

“The very alteration of such a message,” said Matthew, “doth feed on its original. None may alter it into utter falsehood.”

“Could we send them a message back asking what the hell they think they’re doing?” said Ellen.

Celia looked around and grinned at her. “Not this night,” she said. “Laura and I are weary. We must send the warning to Randolph, that’s more urgent. Laura, canst thou play ‘Heat o’ the Sun’? One verse only; that one begins, ‘No exorciser harm thee.’ Randolph will know what’s meant by’t.”

“I think so,” said Laura, reluctantly.

“No!” said Fence. “Not that. ’Twill be misconstrued.”

“What, then?” said Celia; she was clearly puzzled, but willing to let Fence have his way since he spoke so vehemently.

Fence pressed his fingers to his eyes, the way Laura’s mother would do when she had a headache. “Laura, canst thou play ‘What if a Day’?”

Laura thought about it, and the fingerings rose from the bottom of her mind like fish coming up in clear water when you drop the breadcrumbs in. “Yes,” she said. She was very tired.

“The second chorus,” said Fence. “As slowly as liketh thee.”

Laura picked up the flute and almost dropped it, it was so cold and her fingers so sore. But once she had gotten them placed for the first note, they played of themselves. The words ran along in her mind. All is hazard that we have, / There is nothing biding; / Days of pleasure are like streams / Through fair meadows gliding. / Weal and woe, time doth go, / Time is never turning; / Secret fates guide our states, / Both in mirth and mourning.

“Many thanks,” said Fence, and he picked up the hand from which the flute was drooping and kissed it, with a flourish. Laura would have enjoyed this more if he had not also deftly taken the flute from her and given it to Celia.

“Fence,” said Celia. “This bargain for Ted’s life.”

“It’s done,” said Fence.

Matthew looked at him. “Let’s consider this false message,” he said.

Patrick suggested that it was in fact the true beginning of the message Randolph had sent; Celia said Claudia was too canny for that. There was an argument concerning whether it was Claudia who had interfered. The only conclusion Matthew, Fence, and Celia could agree on was that Belaparthalion had had some jest with Randolph and that Belaparthalion had not been at his best when he had it. Their reasoning was obscure, and their attempts to explain it worse.

“Explain something else to me,” said Patrick, who had been pestering them the most, and who usually knew when it would be best to stop.

“Ask it,” said Fence.

“How could you forget the Judge of the Dead’s name?”

Fence’s face cleared; Laura wondered what he had thought Patrick would ask. “The Judge of the Dead hath a hundred names,” he said. “I learned them when I was ten years old, and have had little enough use for them since. Also, Apsinthion is a jesting name, by which you would not address or invoke that power; and so ’tis of little matter.”

“He would use it outside, to the children,” said Celia, in the tone Ruth would use to say, “That’s just like Patrick.”

“Is the Judge of the Dead a unicorn?” asked Ellen.

“Nay, naught so solid,” said Fence.

“He seems to have the same sort of sense of humor.”

“The unicorns did choose the name,” said Fence.

“Why’d he let them?” said Ellen.

“Ask him when thou meetest him,” said Fence. “I did undertake to answer one question, and that from thy brother.” He spoke lightly; but Laura shivered.

Ellen returned to the previous subject. “Can’t we just send a quick message asking what they meant to tell us?”

“You,” said Celia, rounding on her, “are in no case to ask for favors. Do you consider yourself under the same stricture as your brother touching experimentation.” She rolled the word around in her mouth as if it tasted sour.

That tone of voice and the use of the rebuking “you” would have shrivelled Laura up like a raisin. Ellen said, “But—”

“Do you so consider yourself.”

“Yes! I won’t meddle anymore. But can’t we just—”

“Tomorrow,” said Celia.

“Grown-ups everywhere,” said Ellen. “You’re all alike.”

“To bed,” said Celia, whereupon both Ellen and Laura burst out laughing.

“Aren’t we going to set a watch?” asked Patrick.

“Against what?” said Fence. “Canst thou prevent a pouring of poetry into the porches of our dreaming ears, by all means make thy dispositions.”

“I’ll think about it,” said Patrick.

Fence only chuckled. They all went to bed, the children in one tent and the grown-ups in the other; and if anybody poured poetry into Laura’s dreaming ears, she did not notice. She dreamt that she was back in school and had forgotten her homework. She woke up in a cold sweat to Ellen’s snoring, and Patrick’s light breathing, and a dapple of moonlight on the blackened remnants of the fire. The weather had cleared, and nobody cared that she had not looked up twenty-five botanical terms in the dictionary and copied down their major definitions in a clear hand with no mistakes in the spelling. Nobody was bothering her at all; but everybody else was bothered. Laura stared at the dark and tried to decide which was worse, and fell asleep again.