"Eyes, eyes! New eyes for old!" shouted a tiny woman in front of a table covered with bottles and jars filled with eyes of every kind and color.

"Instruments of music from a hundred lands!"

"Penny whistles! Tuppenny hums! Threepenny choral anthems!"

"Try your luck! Step right up! Answer a simple riddle and win a wind-flower!"

"Everlasting lavender! Bluebell cloth!"

"Bottled dreams, a shilling a bottle!"

"Coats of night! Coats of twilight! Coats of dusk!"

"Swords of fortune! Wands of power! Rings of eternity! Cards of grace! Roll-up, roll-up, step this way!"

"Salves and ointments, philtres and nostrums!"

Otherworldy golden incense, blooming wind-flowers, everlasting lavender, bluebell, a faint whiff of exotic sugared candies, and fae mist upon wet green grass.

Mr. Bromios had set up a wine-tent and was selling wines and pasties to the village folk, who were often tempted by the foods being sold by the folk from Beyond the Wall but had been told by their grandparents, who had got it from their grandparents, that it was deeply, utterly wrong to eat fairy food, to drink fairy water and sip fairy wine.

An ethereal vintage, steeped with dandelion, honey, and red currants.

"Why, you are crying."

She said nothing. Dunstan pulled her toward him, wiping ineffectually at her face with his big hand; and then he leaned into her sobbing face, and, tentatively, uncertain of whether or not he was doing the correct thing given the circumstances, he kissed her, full upon the burning lips.

There was a moment of hesitation, and then her mouth opened against his, and her tongue slid into his mouth, and he was, under the strange stars, utterly, irrevocably, lost.

Honey musk, green tea leaf, blackberry leaf, vanilla bean, and fae spices.

But there were times when the wind blew from beyond the wall, bringing with it the smell of mint and thyme and redcurrants, and at those times there were strange colors seen in the flames in the fireplaces in the village.

The scent of the winds beyond the wall: bluebonnet, passion flower, freesia, jasmine tea, mint, thyme, and redcurrant.

The Stormhold had been carved out of the peak of Mount Huon by the first lord of Stormhold, who reigned at the end of the First Age and into the beginning of the Second. It had been expanded, improved upon, excavated and tunneled into by successive Masters of Stormhold, until the original mountain peak now raked the sky like the ornately carved tusk of some great, grey, granite beast. The Stormhold itself was perched high in the sky, where the thunder clouds gathered before they went down to the lower air, spilling rain and lightning and devastation upon the place beneath.

Creeping moss, slick granite, murky vetiver, lightning-charged ozone, and icy rain.

On a rocky mountain pass, on the southernmost slopes of Mount Belly, the witch-queen reined in her goat-drawn chariot and stopped and sniffed the chilly air.

The myriad stars hung cold in the sky above her.

Her red, red lips curved up into a smile of such beauty, such brilliance, such pure and perfect happiness that it would have frozen your blood in your veins to have seen it. "There," she said. "She is coming to me."

And the wind of the mountain pass howled about her triumphantly, as if in answer.

Wild plum, red musk, tuberose, calla lily, heliotrope, pimento, ylang ylang and beeswax beneath a dark haze of sinister purple-hued incense smoke.

Tristran put down his wooden cup of tea, and stood up, offended.

"What," he asked, in what he was certain were lofty and scornful tones, "would possibly make you imagine that my lady-love would have sent me on some foolish errand?"

The little man stared up at him with eyes like beads of jet. "Because that's the only reason a lad like you would be stupid enough to cross the border into Faerie. The only ones who ever come here from your lands are the minstrels, and the lovers, and the mad. And you don't look like much of a minstrel, and you're - pardon me saying so, lad, but it's true - ordinary as cheese-crumbs. So it's love, if you ask me."

"Because," announces Tristran, "every lover is in his heart a madman, and in his head a minstrel."

Dust on your trousers, mud on your boots, and stars in your eyes: redwood, tonka bean, white sandalwood, lemon peel, patchouli, rosewood, coriander, and crushed mint.

Every boy in the village was in love with Victoria Forester. And many a sedate gentleman, quietly married with grey in his beard, would stare at her as she walked down the street, becoming, for a few moments, a boy once more, in the spring of his years with a spring in his step.

Graceful vanilla musk, tea rose, and stargazer lily.

She was sprawled, awkwardly, beneath the hazel tree, and she gazed up at Tristran with a scowl of complete unfriendliness.

She hefted another clod of mud at him, menacingly, but did not throw it.

Her eyes were red and raw. Her hair was so fair it was almost white, her dress was of blue silk which shimmered in the candlelight. She glittered as she sat there.

The high, crystalline scent of a star-filled night with blue lavender and lush magnolia.