Perry held out an arm, signaling Eva to stop. The path ahead narrowed, tapering deceptively into a bog. In the shifting light, firm ground and false footing looked nearly the same—only the morning sun revealed the truth.
The ground quivered. In the deeper hollows, black pools waited in silence—disturbed only by unseen things stirring below.
Low mists clung to the reeds and curled over the land, veiling the twisted shapes of half-drowned trees. Their skeletal branches reached skyward like grasping fingers.
The air was thick with decay—the scent of damp earth and rotting vegetation pressed close, as if the land itself resented their intrusion.
Perry scanned the mire ahead but found no clear path. Through the rising mist, he glimpsed a line of flat stepping-stones stretching through the muck—but the Slough had churned and frothed, spewing filth across them, leaving them half-buried, slick, and treacherous.
“My dear, if we try to cross, we’re sure to fall in,” Perry said. “But at least we’ll fall in together.” He paused. “Do you know the bridge in Carnal Policy? We could take it—but I’m not sure that way’s any less treacherous.”
***
Eva stood at the edge of the Slough, watching the mire seethe with despair. It sounded like it was breathing—slow and steady, as if exhausted from endless toil. As if it knew her. Remembered her. Something deep inside her recoiled.
She remembered the bridge—the graceful arch from Carnal Policy that spanned the Slough. Broad. Elegant. But false.
Her lips parted slightly.
She had stood on that bridge once—well-dressed, poised, adored by men who measured her worth by logic, position, and desire. It had felt solid beneath her heels. But it had never carried her forward.
She turned to Perry, the choice already made. “Let’s fall in, then,” she said. “But let’s fall forward.”
She took off her shoes, tied them to her belt, and reached for his hand. “We’ll find the stones with our feet.” And so, they stepped into the Slough together.
The mud swallowed them past their ankles. The current tugged sideways—insidious, constant, as if forgetting were easier than crossing.
Perry’s staff vanished beneath the surface. Eva slipped—almost—but caught herself as a stone shifted beneath her foot. Still, neither let go.
Perry stepped—and his foot found nothing. He gripped her hand in sudden desperation, struggling to stay upright. She pulled him close.
“My dearest,” she muttered, breath ragged, “the furniture dances better than you.”
Perry let out a ragged breath—and a half-drowned laugh. “Yes, but she had your lovely tartlets for breakfast.”
“She wouldn’t have known what to do with them.” No smile. No laughter. “And you wouldn’t have tasted them.”
She stumbled. He caught her. “You dance well, my Lady. But I will teach you to laugh, Evadne.”
“Say it again.” She didn’t smile. Not yet.
“Evadne,” he said—neither softly nor loudly. Just… as it was.
And when they reached the far side—breathless, filthy, trembling—Eva turned and looked back at the Slough. “Well,” she exhaled slowly. “Now I know what it feels like to sink in truth.” She squeezed his hand once. “Let’s never take the bridge.”
“Never,” Perry said, dropping onto the grass with a groan of relief.
