At the place where the trail forks, I don't even hesitate before turning uphill. I shouldn't stomp so hard; this path grows clearer every day, and I don't want anyone else to see it.

   The late-morning heat is working on my anger like fire under a pot.

   A quiet, ladylike daughter, that's what she wants. A calm, obedient girl who's happy to stay in one place and out of her way. Well, that's Ianthe, the contented little meadow violet. Not me.

   I see the look in my mother's eyes again; I hear her sigh. If I'm such a disappointment, why does she want to keep me here forever? Me, the daughter who can't do anything right.

I hate eternity.

   A fat, white cloud hovers above my head, too far from the sun to make any shade. I wish a wind would flare up and grab that cloud's edges, teasing out some wings so it could turn into a griffin and fly away.

   I'll lie on my back in the high meadow, that's what I'll do. I'll drown myself in the perfume of that white flower so I don't have to hear her voice anymore.

   Better you not know about certain things.

   Quiet? Ladylike? Look at these blossoms crowding the path! Roses tumbling all over each other, billowing clumps of irises, daisies and rosemary cramming every spare spot— my mother makes them fling open their petals for every passing bee. There's nothing shy about them.

   I keep walking and the flowers give way to a dense thicket of plum trees. I'm almost there; I can smell the white flower even here among all this ripening fruit. I reach up to pluck a plum. It's firm and warm from the sun. As the stem snaps, the branch bounces back, and I hear something.

   A horse, snorting.

   My head jerks up. I take a few steps out from under the leaves.

   He's here again. The golden chariot rests in the middle of the field. The four winged horses are nibbling long strands of grass. And he's just standing there, that man, leaning against the chariot. One of his elbows rests on an emblem

embossed in gold, a snarling dog with three heads.

Don't run! I will my feet to stay put.

   Sun shines full on his face, blazing on the gold behind his night-black hair, making a halo. He's looking right at me.

   I've got a second chance and I'm going to use it.

   But use it how? What do I do?

   My senses are wide open and everything is flooding in: heat, soaking into me so I can feel every single pore opening . . . the sun, burning up the chariot so it looks ready to explode . . . birdsong and the sound of hooves shuffling in the grass. . . .

   He smiles. "Hello."

   It's a deep voice. I can feel it reverberate in my chest and echo all the way down to my toes.

   I know I should leave, but I don't want to. I want to keep my senses like this forever. I'm all eye, all ear, all skin.

   His pose may be relaxed, leaning there against the chariot, but I can feel energy radiating from him. And his fingers keep opening and closing again in a wave, as if they're pulling something in.

   I try to talk, but no words come out. What am I going to do?

   I glance down at the plum in my hand—ripe, purple, and taut with juice—then up at the horses grazing in front of the chariot.

   The man must be able to read my mind, because he nods at me.

   So very slowly, very quietly, I walk up to one of the horses, the one with a cowlick in his mane. He looks at me with gigantic, black, gleaming eyes. How can such a gentle look come from so much power? His haunches ripple with muscle.

   I go slowly, but I don't hesitate.

   The horse lifts his shining head halfway and nickers. I come close enough now to touch his neck, but I don't. I hold my hand out, open, the plum resting there. It seems riper than when I plucked it, its darkness reflecting light like the horse's burnished coat. I hold still, waiting.

   The horse lowers his neck and takes the plum gently, barely brushing the skin of my palm with his mouth. His breath is warm and damp. It smells like grass and the soil beneath the grass and the rich warmth of his flesh.

   Now, while he's chewing, I lift my hand and stroke his neck. It's like the sun is inside that soft black skin.

   "His name is Abastor," says the man, and I pull my hand back because for a second I feel like I'm touching him, not the horse.

   The man sits down on the edge of the chariot and leans forward, his elbows on his knees, as if to show me I don't have to worry about him coming closer.

   "He was the hardest of the four to tame. He has the most spirit, the most independence. He had to choose to be mine."

   "Abastor," I whisper, seeing if my voice will work.

   He nods. "That's right. The others aren't that particular, or that observant. Wherever we go, whatever we do, is all right by them. But with Abastor, I always watch his ears. I trust what he thinks."

   "What is he thinking now?"

   "See how relaxed he is, even with you standing close? He's glad we came back."

   His calm voice makes me feel braver, so I ask, "Why did you come back?"

   "I saw you."

   The three words fill every atom of my body so there isn't room for anything else. He's here because of me.

   Should I be scared? Because I'm not, with Abastor next to me, and that deep voice rumbling through me with such certainty, and the air thick with perfume, and the sun soaking into my skin, and my mother gone—

   "That's why I came," he says, as if it were perfectly normal to cross the cliffs and enter the vale. "This time I was hoping to meet you." He smiles. "Is that all right?"

   "Yes." My voice is back to a whisper. "I wanted you to."

   He stands and I tense, thinking he's going to walk toward me, but no; he climbs back into the chariot and picks up the reins.

   "I have to go," he says. "But I'll come back tomorrow, when the sun is high. Will I see you then?" His words are as thick and rich as honey.

The horses start to unfold their wings. I step back.

"I'll be here," I say.

   Above our heads, clouds are starting to move, pulled by some invisible wind.