At a quiet word from Caspar the others withdrew with the dogs. He was about to speak a word to Anest but changed his mind. As he left, he muttered to himself, "Ah, master Belloc, you're going to have a pretty mess to sort out when you return."
Forcing himself into the moment with a conscious effort, Anest shook off his confusion to look squarely into the face of what he'd done. The sylph remained where she was, huddled in the mud, her features febrile as she stared at him, as though wishing to flee, but goaded against her nature to remain where she was.
And then it dawned on him.
"What am I saying? Of course you can't return to the Marsh. Your spring-" He couldn't utter the words, afraid, perhaps, that they would damn him further if spoken aloud. Feeling sick inside, he extended his hand to her. She recoiled as though he meant to strike her. With a moan of anguish, he said, "What have I done? What have I done? Forgive me . . . I didn't mean for this to happen. I didn't."
He may as well have tried asking the wind to forgive him. They were worlds apart, and no understanding lay between them. All she knew was that her life had been torn apart by forces beyond her ken, and all she could do in response was stare aghast at what could never be set right again.