Empty Bed

My daughter, my precious daughter Kathrijn is gone. Her bed was not slept in, and on the sill, one of those horrid-smelling flowers, wilted and dead. They seem to infest the fields now like a blight, a vile weed that jests at our labors. The men gathered together in search of her, and rode out in the early morning. It was nearly night before they returned, and they were half their number, their faces white. They would not answer our questions until they were inside, the door and shudders bolted. When I pressed for details, had they found her, they said nothing except that I must put her out of my mind. The other men said nothing, merely clutched their weapons to them. Marisse