Cat left the trail to go hunting small furry creatures in the understory while Marlowe carried on, his mind wrapped as ever in a cloak of his own thoughts.

Dear Drunais! How could a trochee with no particularly gracious rhymes be so beautiful? he wondered. It was one of life’s deep mysteries, not at all in keeping with sound poetic principles. He had found life rarely was, and it continued to perplex him.

A weasel shot across the path in front of him, a purple blur in close pursuit, but he barely noticed as he muttered fragments of poetry to himself. “Drunais… always? Trite. Drunais… through her hair the starlight strays? Perhaps. Drunais… mayonnaise?”

So many questions, so few answers. What strange power had brought him here in the service of his Queen? What purpose did it further to inspire poetry for an audience of one? What had that other poet seen? And why was his beloved aiming an arrow at his heart?

“Really, ‘mayonnaise’ was just a joke!” he cried before she could let fly.