The day was dismal, cloudy and threatening rain, not the kind of day for any celebration much less a wedding. Yet Doyla thought it suitable, somehow, for this particular wedding.

She toiled through the morning, sweating over the fire to ensure enough food would be prepared for all the guests. Many times she flicked a lock of grey hair from her eyes, straightened out and stretched her aching back.

At last the food was ready. A huge cauldron of stew and tasty little meat pies with fresh brown bread and fruit buns in sufficient quantity to feed fifty people. She hadn't realised her daughter had so many friends, or maybe most of the guests were from the groom's side.

Doyla checked the sun. There was little time left for her to change. She sighed. Many times she had wished for Palan's help; had even gone to the door to call a child to act as messenger for requesting her daughter's presence. But this was Palan's big day. The bride would want to be with her friends, would want to enjoy this one day when she was centre of attention and no one overshadowed her. She wouldn't want to be helping her old mother with the preparations. Soon Palan would be filling the woman's role in her new home, serving her husband as Doyla had served Palan's father. She wondered how the girl would feel in the morning when she discovered just what her new life contained.

With another sigh, Doyla tied her bodice. The wedding had depleted her resources, left nothing with which to purchase a new gown. She made do with new ribbons and a new sash. The warm cerise looked well against the dark blue velvet. No one would notice the stain hidden beneath the sash, and Doyla could still see well enough that the torn hem was neatly repaired.

She combed her hair, seeing in the mirror how much more grey there was than bronze. Wrinkles aged her face by ten years, so it was just as well that all eyes would be on the daughter and not the mother. Doyla sat in the customary place reserved for the bride's mother, with an empty chair beside her for the bride's father who had been dead 15 years. She watched the ceremony through misted eyes, wishing that Palan had turned out the daughter she had wanted and then none of this would have been necessary. She heard murmurs of wonder at Palan's beautiful gown, how the cream satin contrasted so beautifully with the sun-bronzed skin and highlighted those lovely blonde curls. Doyla may have been a lowly tavern wench all these years, but her daughter wore the prettiest gown of this season's brides.

The guests quickly demolished the food and moved on to drinking and dancing. The tavern supplied ale in recognition of Doyla's long years of service, but if guests wanted cider or wine they had to dig into their pockets. Doyla cleared the tables, washed dishes borrowed from the tavern and finished in time to be present when Palan climbed aboard the decorated cart to accompany her new husband into the life that lay ahead. No fond farewell was taken between mother and daughter. Yet Palan's ideas of her new life were perhaps a little different from the reality and the 'escape' she thought she was executing would have results she did not expect.

The cottage felt peaceful, quieter than Doyla had ever known it. Gone was the fear of her daughter's violent temper, the tantrums that the babe, child and young woman had used to get her own way. So many times Doyla had given in to avoid the pain that Palan, even as a toddler could inflict. She wondered, fleetingly, if marriage would improve the temper, particularly with what Palan would discover in the morning.

Doyla dropped wearily onto her bed, pulled the threadbare blanket over her limbs and slept. Morning brought silence. No wheedling demands, no spiteful words spoiled her breakfast. She might finally get that kitten she had wanted but never dared to consider because of what Palan might do to it. Now, with only herself to consider, she might even leave the tavern and follow again the basket weaver's craft as she had done before her marriage.

Was it worth looking in the mirror this morning, or was it too soon for the spell to have taken effect? She peeped quickly into the cracked glass, then returned to stare.

If this result had come so quickly, what state was Palan in this morning? Her imagination was not so good that she could conjure up so much less grey hair, so much more glowing bronze. Nor would it allow her to see skin more smooth than it had been for five years.

Palan's husband had wanted a wife less caustic than Palan but he had no marriage price for the prettier more placid girls. In the end it was his suggestion that they visit the old wise woman in the forest to arrange a trade that would suit both. He was not prepared to suffer as Doyla had suffered. He believed that man was master of his own home, and would not consider a wife who behaved otherwise. And so the trade was made.

Even with her temper left intact, if Palan could not voice her anger, could not scream and threaten and wheedle, life would be much more pleasant. In return, Doyla would lose the appearance of those extra years, giving her a chance at a better life. Palan had made it clear that she would never visit her mother, so there was no risk of the girl discovering how her voice was lost. Two out of three would benefit from the trade. The third would have to live with it. But, perhaps one day, if the loss softened her temperament, Palan might even get her voice back.

A voiceless spouse--the dream of every macho jerk. In this poor guy's case, maybe we can be less critical. Something tells me, though, that the honeymoon will end quickly for him--Palan voice or no Palan voice. What do you think?--gm