The Lady of Shadow Guard
by Lawrence Watt-Evans
The inn called the Sign of the Burning Pestle stood beside the coach road overlooking the ocean, as it had stood for more years than anyone bothered to count, forever in Twilight. Its nightwood beams were black with smoke and age, and Rosalie had once looked up at them with wonder, wonder that they had lain faithfully in their places for so very long.
Now she viewed them with sympathy, for surely they were, in their inanimate way, as weary of the place as she was herself. She had been weary of it for a very long time now.
Her Jack, tall and gray-clad, had promised to take her away from this place, to take her to his castle, Shadow Guard, that no man save himself had ever seen. Instead his words had kept her here, waiting for his return, and now that she had finally realized that all his words were lies, that he was never going to come back for her, she had nowhere else to go. She was no longer the young beauty who could ask whatever she wanted of the handsome men who came through the inn’s door, who could reasonably hope to make her way in the world with a smile and willingness to learn. She was just another tavern wench, fetching drinks for travelers.
. . .
