Reviving from frosty dormancy, my eyes flutter back to life, and my heart-pump mechanism churns at a faster rate. "No!" I cry, at hearing my fate. "Do not return me to Lord Drakesheath!" I struggle to get free of the young man who holds me in his arms. In spite of the young magician's thawing spell, the water freezes into crytalline beads all over me, and my hair becomes brittle with the sparkle of thousands of bright, pale, icy stars.

"I cannot be brought before him until I have won the head of John the Baptist," I explain to the young man and the patched fool nearby.

"Lovely!" cries the latter. "She's alive! And mad as a mooncalf, too! You shall fit in beautifully with us, love." There is nothing kindly about this quirky fellow, but I do not feel frightened of him. If I wished, I could tear his arms from his body as easily as I could tear paper. My Mother-Desmond built me to be stronger than the other maids in the house.

I look back and forth, from the magician to the fool. I may be safer among the wizard's friends, from the way he talks, but I know that my destiny is my own if I follow the clown. My decision is made.

Taking the harlequin's gloved hand, I follow him to his rickety, ornately painted wagon, looking back over my shoulder at the magician the whole time.