Night had deeply set in when she returned, crossing wide to avoid the village and from the other side of the stream running up in the muddy fields.
Her silver fur veiled by the obscurity. Hair still wet, exciting an absent moon.
The only lights under the stars were a couple torches on the Pivert castle from guards doing their rounds. And then, lost in the fields, yet another confused torch erring blind.
She could see it was a priest in black robe stumbling his way along the deserted fields, straying further from the castle at what pace cautious steps allowed. The flame lighting his path struggled to pierce the darkness beyond just a couple steps.
And that torched had burned for a while now, the tar so thin that the wood threatened to catch fire next. Yet that human kept walking into the night.
Joan recognized that priest, brother Aymon.
He was mumbling to himself while searching the black depths around him in vain.
"To be ruthless... No, it won't... Maybe, she is lesser? Ah, no, it's worse..."
With one hand he held his light and with the other his robe as best he could if only to see his feet. But at that hand the fingers kept counting the rhythm, dancing up and down for the two that were free.
His attention kept going back to the fuming torch and to the castle afar.
Not an hour and he would be truly lost in the dark.
"Anything more... it has to be less..." He pushed himself with unusual resolve.
A cold voice made him shudder, so close to him it could have touched his back.
"Aymon."
The moment the human recognized that voice his face brightened up, full of hope, then melted back into dread. He froze there and for seconds Joan waited for him to turn but he would not.
She had paced silently around him to face him full.
Yet her eyes were too weak to pierce the darkness and so, just a meter from him he could not see her.
"Go back to the castle."
"Y... yes..." And then, with more assurance: "Watch out, mi... milady, the castle has been blessed, it's... dangerous..."
"You think it can stop me." She mocked.
It could, but true or not those words made the priest step back. So even the saintess' blessed did not know the extent of their artifices.
But he was standing there absolutely defenseless and was truly trembling in fear. Any rumor around him had him taking glances, as if monsters already caressed his bones.
"Your hand."
He didn't get it at first, but understood at the tone it was an order. And then a flurry of emotions wrestled, but he slowly rose a hand in the darkness.
She had turned back into a werewolf, spit the gemstones into her palms and brought them above that of the man.
"Palm up."
The gems fell in his open hand. They caught the torch's light and brimmed, just three shards tiny and raw, with remnants of rock tainting their sides.
"When sir Corentin wakes up, give him those."
"Ye... yes..."
"There are flowers at the keep's base. At the first hints of grey, go pick them up, all of them, and bring them here. Bring a bowl and pestle as well."
"Where would I... I... I will, milady..."
He wasn't moving, too terrorized still no matter how much the man tried.
The clutches of night were that oppressive.
"Go. Now." She groaned.
It got him moving, turning away and pushing as fast through the darkness as his vision would allow. She watched him stumble his way back toward the drawbridge and the gate, knock at the postern and be let in.
How he had been let out in the first place was a wonder.
She thought of leaving for now, return to that cache and wait there. But be it humans or beasts all preferred fresh air; she expected for no one to be there when she returned anyway.
So the werewolf walked to a few bushes against the low stone wall at a path and lay down there.
Come dawn the whole realm would spot her if she stayed.
But the hours passed under the skylights undisturbed. Soon enough the mantle of darkness weakened, pierced by the first hints of grey.
There would be mist in the morning.
Dew was weighing on the grass, on the bushes, on her fur pearling heavy but thin. She got up, shook herself dry, that touch of nature cast off as easy as that.
Mist would not hide her well, so she turned back into her human form fully.
The dress she wore was a dull blue skirtle with white sleeves and wine red interlacing patterns, wool on wool that broke her ghostly figure.
Fairies certainly didn't look much different in human tales.
She wasn't made to wait for long. Soon the brother came out of the gate holding a basket with both hands. While the grey of morning still made it tricky for him he was now hurrying down the path.
With him the farms were waking up around. Soon the village would as well.
He rushed on the path, along the sheaves and saw her standing in front of the stone wall. It made him pause, stunned by a vision only the blessed could witness in full.
Still he approached her and offered the basket full of flowers.
Her eyes ran through that mass. Those flowers had not received much attention and for one day had gone neglected. Still, Joan thought, she could work with that.
There too among them were a mortar and pestle. Truly the priest had gone above and beyond to find it for her.
She took the basket for him and did not realize that, by doing so, her hands had skimmed his.
He held them as if burned.
But she sat on the wall and started to pick what petals had the best quality. It would be a slow work, a few minutes of turning them to dust and then to paste purely by strength.
Brother Aymon had not moved from his spot. He stood there, watching her work, his eyes on her hands and then back to her cold yellow eyes.
She hated having a weakling nearby, making her look weak just by his presence.
But, she sneered, weak was what she was.
"Tell me of love." She ordered.
Her gaze had not turned away from the petals. Still the priest almost stepped forth, hopeful, then was stunned by the demand.
"Of... of lo..."
He hesitated, then inhaled and, eyes closed, started to declaim:
"Kind lady, any other thought but of you has my courage gone..."
"What does that mean." She groaned.
The brother shrank at her words, shriveled almost to nothing and whimpered:
"It's... a poem about... love..."
"And what does any of it mean."
"What it... means..." The brother was truly lost. "It's about a man who, well, who promises to only and always look at the woman he loves."
She was about to ask why but held back. It was futile. Her questions sounded too misplaced and ignorant to get the answers she sought.
And he, when he dared raise his eyes on her again, maybe realized if for a brief instant how shallow those words could sound.