Yellow.

Do we use a changed child?  He would not like a child, I think.  He would not be ruled by the urge to mate, sensuously.  I like curls. Yellow. Here, this art will do to clothe it.  Her. A  woman.  Tall.  Tall means to take attention.  She should have a pretty voice.  Do not give her the voice of a siren as it distracts from the message.  I want green eyes.  Take them, then, but she will wear all of ours, depending on which of us holds her hand.  Skin of gold? Skin of fair, or Angharad will be jealous, but weave gold into her hair.  I like curls.  But does he?

Amber.  Saffron.  The shield of yew.

Are you sure he’s the one? The Shadow would fight a mage, and taste a mortal. This one walks between worlds. A man on the threshold, but not a trickster? He sees, but does not have to touch, he wants, but not too much.  A trickster thirsts for change.

Goldenrod.  The ochre pelt of lions.

I wonder if he likes the taste of daisies. Should she unfold, she can taste of cobwebs and the reddest stolen cherries.  I would have her spin the moon into quiet dreams.  She will smell of meadows and orchards, of wind, and rain, and coloured birds.  But our lord’s tastes are for brimstone and leather, my love.

Daffodil for the arts.

Draw salt into her bones, and silver into her blood, silk to the touch, and gold unto her hood.  Paint her pretty parts the pink of petals, and have her dance upon a pin, give her seldom laughter for it ill benefits a man.

Lemons and mustard, maize and cream.

Silly rhymer.  Would you name her?

No, to name her would be dolose.

A heart of ice, a tongue of dirt?  She is a force for this world, give her gifts in three times three.

She shall be Guide once, to a land unafraid of steel.

She will be Guardian twice, once to protect, once to guard the gate.

She will be able to learn fear, but not have it attract or repel her.

She will know the tongues of those she meets, and when told secrets, those she keeps.

Canary.

She should be able to dance and move like serpent and sparrow, ox and eagle, otter and silly-nilly porcupine.

She will draw a lake from a drop of rain, and with swift glamour, back again.

She should be able to ride the steeds of this world, though they be iron or black smoke, and swiftly, as if she had wings.

She should learn quickly that which is taught in good faith.

She should sit where and as a cat sits, and always spot our kind.

I want her to have curls.  Behave, fractious child!

We have our three times three, our nine to the world and so it be.

But in undoing her, how shall we weave?  Perilous fate and dungeons for the overbold?  Silence and the holly king’s yearly sacrifice, should she melt to flowers, or freeze to ice?  A maiden shall she fall?  Or to borrow our friend’s verses, not at all.  She can go in battle, or by neglect.  A breach in Hospitality?

Sunglow.

She’s a pretty poppet, and see her curls?  A bit fairer than asked for, but that’s true of all girls.

Speak for us, poppet, and give us your name.

“I do not know my name.”

Your troth in this?  For we did not give her the gift of true speech.  We could speak as her in need, but I fair like the idea of the challenge of her finding her own words.  Find the healer, pretty thing.  The one who sutures the worlds with silver string.

Straw.  Icterine.

The doctor.  They call him a doctor.

“And when I find this man?”

He is mortal, he will do.  We have a Shadow at our gate, and he seeks souls for battle.  I would tell you more but it is not mine to tattle.

“What is he like?”

What does it matter?  He is mortal and he fits our diviners survey.  He speaks no poetry, sings no songs, but has an edge of the light anyway.  No stolen child, he.   Our fair Thomas once spoke of him.  Do not get weepy over tragic Thomas. We remember one mortal’s name why not another?

Fulvous.

“Am I to be with him?”

Do not eat him.  But mortal flesh has its own rewards, however you try it.   Have you tried mince pies from youngling’s thighs?  Mad mad Thomas, he would only ally with our Shadow thing, our Shadow King.

Ecru.

“Why will the doctor do what we ask?”

Because we will kill him if he does not?  The idea of incentive has reached the wild lands, so why do you insist that it is only on point of the knife that one should choose?  Old pleasures die hard.  We will gift him.  No, we will give him a boon.

Beware Peredur.  The red of the gold goblet, the shadow at sun’s height.  He wakens.

“Is that my lord?”

Apricot.

His breath brought life to you, but it is made of thorn and ashes.  Do not ask to be pricked upon the blackthorn’s tip, or for you who reminds him of his fair, you may lose more than your maidenhead. [much shared laughter]

Shush.  Hush like the blanket of clover.  Our Realm here should be turned to the mortal’s world, tuned like an instrument to play its game like a tale.  Isabelline, draw the Court’s eyes and see as our poppet sees.  Gelsey, draw open the bridge.    Oren, music to soothe our lord so he does not see the beauty in what we have wrought and desire it before it comes into its own.

“But what is my name?”

Ill luck to name you.  You are no child born, no woman of real flesh.  You are our tool, magnificent in gift until we have need of our component pieces.

“Then ill luck I shall be named.  Doloise Mallory.”

Dandelion.