The figure froze. ‘How do you know my name?’
‘It’s me. Malina.’
The figure hissed in anger or fear. ‘Do not toy with me! Malina has been dead a year or more.’
‘Imalwain, look at me. Hear me. You know me well.’
The figure moved nearer. Its features were still in shadow, indistinct. But about the voice Malina could not be mistaken.
‘You do not resemble the Malina I knew. Nor would the Malina I once knew endure the company of such as those, yonder.’
‘My Power is gone,’ Malina said in a quiet voice. ‘I need warm clothing and hot food to last in this weather. But I am still Malina.’
The figure hesitated. ‘Are you a prisoner? Do you require our help against those-!’ the figure made a spitting sound.
Our help? What could a few Pixies do to defend themselves against Elves?
‘Imalwain, what has happened to you? You shared my home by the stream often. Is it that I’ve changed so much?’
‘How did you come to lose your power?’
Malina decided to risk the truth. ‘Prince Cir had me sent into exile, to a strange world, very different from our own. I had no power there, and I could not have survived without help. I was injured and hungry . . . without shelter. It was cold, there. I was rescued by a Man from that world who took me in. He cared for me. In time . . . in time I came to love him. When my time of exile was over, I decided to leave behind my Pixie dress, so that I could be with him-’