Jenny: Sleep, Finally

"You're welcome," the Guttersnipe murmured, and she slipped out the door, catching the latch as she went. She wound her way through the dark to Gwenhywfar's wing. The door was ajar, and through the opening she could hear the woman softly singing and playing on her harp; idly, without any real purpose. The singing stopped before she entered, but Gwenhywfar continued to stroke the strings.

The Guttersnipe shut the door behind herself. "What are you making?" she asked, making for the water basin.

"A song," Gwenhywfar replied vaguely.

The Guttersnipe listened as she washed her arms. In the mirror she could see the young woman bending to the instrument, lashes brushing her cheeks, smile faintly playing at the corners of her mouth as her fine fingers pricked out the notes. Each note, it seemed to her, was perfect, singular, and beautiful: yet woven together by Gwenhywfar's mind the singular notes became a shining plurality, like stars cast up on a nighttime field.

There's a moral in that, she thought to herself. Then, aloud, "It seems a very lively tune. It makes me think of horses running."

"Everything makes you think of horses running," Gwenhywfar observed dryly. Her fingers jumped on the strings. "But perhaps you are not far wrong."

The Guttersnipe turned from the basin, drying her hands on a towel. For a moment she watched the fingers at work, then she ventured, "What are you making a song about? Are there running horses?"

She ended suddenly. Stilling the notes with the flats of her hands, Gwenhywfar swung the harp aside. "Perhaps," she said. "Blow out the lamp, Guttersnipe. It is late."