Murphy’s Law: the day had turned stinking hot and muggy. My One True Love’s scent disguise kept sliding off him. Trowbridge took a step off the bank into the lower edge of the stream where the ground was covered with a layer of last year’s leaves. He kicked aside a heavy mat of rotting mulch, then sank to one knee to dig into the foul-smelling mud. With an expression of acute distaste, he slapped a handful of goo on his chest. I grimaced in sympathy. Then, biting down on a wince, I cupped my hands and leaned forward to slurp up a mouthful of creek water. It was sweet and cold and left an aftertaste of freshness. I splashed some on my face, then tipped my head back, letting the icy water sheet down my throat and cheeks. “So. Much. Better,” I informed Merry. My amulet-friend, intent on feeding on tender shoots of elder, commented with a tiny blip of primrose light. Merenwyn’s sun was still strong and its powerful rays shone right through the heart of her, turning an amber belly into a gleaming golden one.
