The lithe, limber femme absorbed the cold air and almost felt fey again, lost and twisted into the undulations of cool, inspiring drafts, the keen, elegant gales, the whispering decibels of sights unseen, of worlds unexplored, of time stretched, molded and sculpted into dulcet caresses, without the shifts, without the turns, without the distortions of the forlorn, the despondent, the villainous. She yearned to dance, to stretch, to bend and sway with the sun’s rays, to twirl in the vivid, pressing shadows, to revolve, swivel, pivot into the heady, ethereal minarets, in the tempestuous boleros, in the feverish, sinking pirouettes, until there was naught left of her forsaken frame. She could slide amongst the stars, slink into the heavens, crumble and croon into the petals, blossom again, whole, fresh, anew, reborn from the innards and entrails of a broken, malicious world; cherished moralities. Taffeta wings and lavished, affable grandeur, lacquered in the boughs of the beatific, harmonious, mellifluous, songbirds whistling beguiling melodies, archaic potions of whimsical fairy dust, honeyed, candied fields, delusions of persimmons and aspirations. Her eyes stole to the web of finery, the delightful rapture, the divine enamel of the painted mare, with her angelic creations, her sylph movements, her jovial, jubilant pursuits, and wondered where she’d scattered her own – across mountainsides, along peaks, pinnacles and summits? In the sinful scorches of mist and fog, in the chilling bravado of darkened chambers, in the brine of gloom or the alluring, enticing pull of iniquity, rippling, cascading, over the taut bows of each rosy sacrifice? Was this youth, floret in the ice, another depiction of what could have been, had Lena not seen, not heard, not touched, not faltered or stumbled within the swift, maneuvering labyrinth? Did this femme forgo the touches, the nuances, the haunting, poignant cries of unholy turbulence, of festering animosity, of falling to pestilence amidst all of her pixie convictions? And where was Lena to find more, to weave, to chain, to lace, to enamel and lacquer the art of perseverance, persistence, and endurance, the fortitude to withstand – to trill in the heat of treachery, to croon in the vile, fiendish woods, to remember rapture, ardor, opulence, magnificence, when savage, unyielding, cruelty made every innocent act, every Elysium thread, a wicked, damning consignment.

The Nurse found her old smile through the patchwork condemnations, floating and flooding over the reverie of her lips, flourished, exotic, sprite and imp, because despite all of her present agonies, she failed to be a stony ogre, waiting for the waves to crash and reshape her figure. Her expectations for the meeting were all but torn and shambled. Where another beast would have driven her away for the mere scent collected upon her hide: icy crests and crowns, valleys covered in rime and frost, this one ventured closer, extended compliments and intrigues, caused curiosity to tumble over the dark, clouded sentiments of the songbird. Hello, friend!, flooded into the boundaries of glaciers, melted the hardened, aloof conjectures of wintry, arctic prowess, reminding Lena over and over again how easily she’d conveyed the warmth, the tenderness, the amiability within her home, and lately, feeling the endless loss of the enthusiasm, fervor. The sylph sought to funnel, channel, her worn cordiality, her sunken spirit, diving into the fray of jumbled herds and warring cadres without malice, without menace, without blades and daggers pointed at bared throats. A sonnet, a stanza, a lyric, a tune burst from her throat, assembled in the sanctions and sections of repose, rapport, before delivering a short bow, a bob, of respect. “I’m Lena.” Even Imogen received accolades and praise, at which the ivory fox preened, chirped, warbled her approval, sniffing at the painted femme’s hooves, charmed and delighted her beauty and wonder were recognized. Likable!, the beast conjured in silent conversation, and the healer covered her soft giggle with the rhapsody of her voice again. “Imogen says thank you.”

Before Lena had the opportunity to embark upon other subjects, suddenly inspired to dabble into the sculptures of summer or the vestige of upcoming autumn, a scent drifted upon the wind – familiar, striking, an absent presence felt within the ripples of the Basin’s never-ending lake, through the twists and turns of the silent copses and glades. Instead of questioning, querying, alarming Kahlua, as the other was heralded, she remained composed, unruffled, while her mind spun rapid commands towards the kitsune, find her?, and the vixen quickly gave chase into the anarchy of wind and snow. Without lingering on the possibilities, the reasoning, behind Imogen’s sudden disappearance, she instantly waxed poetical upon the chimes, the bells, the carols of their circumstances, grinning, smiling, a welcome display of elegance, grace and refinement. “What brings you to the Steppe, Kahlua?”

Meanwhile, the blue-tipped companion sauntered, traversed, over rock and crag, blending into present snow, yearning, desiring, the appearance of another – there, down the length of an unbidden trail, and chirped wildly towards the red-maned, tails brushing against the eaves, rupturing the hushed void with a bellow, a dance, a spark of hope along the dispirited.