She wears no shoes, this raven-haired woman, spinning so quickly her features are hidden by her curls. Only her smile can be seen. Silks spin with her. Bells on her fingertips, bells on her ankles. You never meet her eyes. Her dancing is all the world. The spinning world, her spinning dance.

There is no music; the music is her own. She’ll never share it. She cannot share it. Dance with her if you can. If you dare. There is no rhythm to decipher, no beat to match. The music is hers and hers alone. She will cast away your hand if you try to take hers. It is her dance and hers alone.

Her crown is roses and thistles. One is never without the other. Her rose and thorn crown in the grass, half covered by the fallen Autumn leaves, cast away, perhaps without notice. The dance makes her careless… Under her bare feet are pages rumpled by her dance. Pencilled drawings ripped and torn by her movements. She doesn’t seem to notice. The dance makes her careless…

In her right hand is her cup: filled to the brim with blood and wine. It is made of bone. It spills as she spins, but never empties. When she sees us, she pauses for a moment, her hips and feet still moving, her hair fallen in front of her face, guarding her eyes. She puts her hands forward, clasping the cup… she urges us to drink… to join her mad dance… Those who do join her only for a while, driven mad by the drink she offers. When she’s done, the dance is over, and she leaves them wasted behind… dancing on… dancing on…

She is the Queen of the North Wind; the Autumn Queen. Youth is behind her and crows follow her. She dances through the fallen leaves, cup in her hands, her face masked by her hair. She is my Queen Maab. Queen of Dreams. Queen of Beauty and Terror. She danced for Orpheus before he was torn to peices and thrown into the river. She haunts my dreams still…

She is the Queen of the North. The Third Queen in my Tarot. The Queen of Dreams. Dreams show us everything we want and everything we fear… and everything we fear to want. She is the Queen of Autumn, the Queen of Regrets, and she reminds me that her rules are my rules. She is the Queen of Water, the deep dream, the unconcious. Blood and wine is in her cup, and I drink it with my eyes closed and my tongue awake, ready to sip the numbing bliss of dream.

Queen of Rose and Thorn, she is my Maab. She is the mistress of my dreams, and for that, I bow before her and beg her mercy that I might pay her proper tribute. She pauses her dance… and for a moment, I see her eyes under her raven curls. Then, her dance continues.

And I must be content to watch.