The swamp roses, Gillie. It was the mare found them. She—if she hadn't run off—it was almost as if she meant me to see them.Are you saying? . . .I don't know what I’m saying. Yes, she cried, a gay silliness taking her. Drunk with the music and the dancing, drunk with his closeness, she laughed up at him. It was just as in the stories, a kind of magic just like . . . and then she stared at him, confounded. Just like what? But in the stories . . . In the stories . . . what? In the stories . . . In the stories there’s a prince, Gillie answered quietly. He held her away then. So the story has come true.