“It should. But you—you don’t seem very much like the seeress in the stories. You—you’re young. Alive.”
And the stories were old and dead. “I’m not the Dreamer, when I’m not wearing the skin. I’m just a girl. A librarian’s daughter.”
“I
saw the book.”
“It was my father’s.”
They sat together quietly, Elsa thinking all the while that he’d leave her at any moment.
Instead, he asked, “How did this happen? That isn’t part of the stories, how you came to wear the horse’s skin. How did a girl like you become the Dreamer?”
If she told him the story, he would only become more horrified. It wasn’t a story for telling, without the filter of decades of legend. She wanted to talk to him, though, and wanted him to talk to her. She wanted to tell him something that would keep him here, talking to her. She did not know when she would have a chance to touch another living being again.
“The horse was magic, and when she died she called to me. It’s hard to explain.” She wasn’t used to talking; her words faltered. She shook her head, swallowed, and spoke again. “How does a man become a famous thief?”
“I tell you once and for all, I am common. Nameless.”
If she wouldn’t tell her story, she couldn’t expect him to tell his. After this, they had sat so long in an uncomfortable silence, she thought he’d surely leave her now. But he didn’t. He stayed. He was even watching her.
“Elsa the Prophet. Can you tell me my future?”
“You probably wouldn’t like it. People usually don’t, especially when they ask for it.”
“What do you do, to learn someone’s future?”
“I sleep a night wearing the skin. I dream the answer, and the next morning tell the person.”
“Spend a night with me, Elsa. Tell me my future in the morning.”
Falla wouldn’t like it. Elsa could almost hear the mare chiding. This was selfish, the dreaming turned into a parlor trick. If the dream were terrible, none of them would be happy. But to spend a night with Conrad—she would dream what she had to.
She knelt beside him. He touched her cheek, then kissed her, slowly and gently. It was lovely.
They found a hidden place in the woods outside the town. They stripped each other, quickly and desperately, as though afraid of interruption or afraid this wasn’t real. Cool air chilled their skin, making every touch that much warmer. Elsa didn’t think to open her eyes to look. They made love on her wool blanket, spread on the ground under a thicket. When Conrad lay back, spent, she crawled on top of him, bit his ear and whispered, “Again.” He said, “Yes,” and they did.
When they finished, Elsa move a little way away, leaving him to the wool blanket. She took the spotted horse skin from her pack and wrapped it tight around her. Silent, Conrad watched as she curled up to fall asleep and dream.
She never dreamed for herself. Others asked her to wear the skin, and she did so because the skin demanded it. Tonight, the skin was reluctant.
Tell me about Conrad.
I cannot tell you, Falla said, her voice like the rustle of hay.
Even dead, she smelled of horse: warm hair, hay, and dust. In memory, Elsa felt her breath and heard her nostrils snorting.
Why not? Is he wicked? Is there a mystery surrounding him? If he is common as he says, then so is his future. Why not tell me?
Do not ask me this.
I have served you for ten years, why can’t you answer me now? Is it because I like him?
It will hurt you to hear this. I do not wish to hurt you.
Falla was her friend, despite all that had happened, despite the fact her devotion to Falla made Elsa something other than human. Elsa used to hang on Falla’s stall door and wonder what the mare would say if she could talk. If she had known then, what the mare would say—I do not wish to hurt you—Elsa would have cried with happiness, because this meant that Falla loved her as much as she loved Falla. But love caused pain as well as joy.
Tell me his fate, Falla. I must know.