They leapt at her, strove to take her prisoner to their realms of stark fantasy and unrelieved realities but Rose fended bravely, desperately, without grace but she did stand and she did free the sorrel's weary hooves from green tendrils lacing inexorably to servitude and to cold, cold Earth.
        Rose was never the same after that.
        I knew it, I could see it, though I was no help to her I knew it seeing her where she sat upon the cream and crimson horse blanket left of the meadow with her legs curled under her and her dark hair streaming free down her slender back. Rose did not shake it back with proud and graceful equine toss as did Elaine. Absently Rose traced it away from an eye, the corner of her mouth, full, dark lips, frowning slightly, her thoughts upon other.
        She was never the same, Rose of night, Rose of shade. Rose of a pulse of light like an unexpected beacon.
        She surprised herself most of all.