Breukelen's cheeks were glowing again, and the wolves were coming back. She crouched beside me at the edge of the pink-and-blue mansion's garden wall, one hand clamped over her face, trying to smother the light. It didn't help. The glitter she painted on every morning had been ordinary powder yesterday. Then a hedge-witch two villages back had told her to stop following me. Breukelen had laughed and skipped past her. Now the paint burned like lantern glass after sundown, and every hungry thing in the forest walked straight toward it. "I can scrub it," she whispered. "I tried. It's under the skin now." She had left her father's elven house without a word, chosen me on a road three weeks ago, and sworn she'd earn her place at my side. I hadn't agreed yet. I hadn't said no either. Tonight the cost of keeping her was measured in teeth. Something crashed in the hedges below the grand staircase. A white fox trotted out of the dark, fur bright with real fire, small flames curling off its shoulders. It stopped at the bottom step and stared up at Breukelen's face like it had found a second sun. "Don't move," I said. Breukelen moved. She stood up slowly, hands open, and walked down three steps toward the burning fox. "You're beautiful," she told it, honest as a child. "I need the curse off. Please." The fox tilted its head. Then a second creature slid out of the flowers beside it, foxlike, its body wrapped in purple bell-shaped blossoms that swayed as it walked. The two animals circled each other, then circled her. The flower-fox rose on its hind legs and pressed its blooming muzzle against Breukelen's cheek. The fire-fox breathed a thin line of flame across the other side. Breukelen flinched but held still. The glitter hissed. The light on her skin dimmed, dimmed, went out. Her cheeks were bare. Pink, ordinary, human. She laughed once, shaky. "Oh. Oh, that's better." Both foxes sat down at her feet and did not leave. A horn sounded from inside the mansion behind us. Then another, closer. Not wolves. Riders. I turned and saw torches climbing the drive, gold thread catching the light on the lead rider's coat, and a young man at the front I recognized from the coin side of every notice board between here and the coast. Oryn Pale. Engaged heir. He was looking straight at Breukelen, and at the two impossible animals sitting guard at her ankles. "You," he called down, reining in. "The half-elf girl. Who owns those creatures?" Breukelen glanced at me, bright-eyed, already grinning. "We do," she said. I hadn't said yes to that either. It was too late now. The curse was lifted. The forest was quiet. And a man with a country's politics stitched into his coat had just decided we were worth stopping for.

Oryn Pale did not leave. He followed us up the grand staircase and into the pink-and-blue mansion like he owned the deed, one gloved hand resting near the hilt at his belt. His riders waited on the drive. He came inside alone. Breukelen kept glancing at me, mouth open with things she wanted to say, and every time she drew breath he turned his head to listen. The foxes trailed at her heels. She could not tell me anything with him three steps behind. The housekeeper showed us to a sitting room off the main hall. Green couch. Glittering green table. A tall window looked into the garden. Oryn took the couch as if invited. Breukelen sat on the window bench beside me, close enough that her knee pressed mine. She smelled like scorched sugar from the fire-fox. "Speak plainly," Oryn said. "Those animals are worth a province. I need to know whose side they answer to before morning." Breukelen opened her mouth. I touched her wrist. She closed it. Something tapped the window glass. Once, twice, hard. A fairy hung in the air outside, no taller than my hand, pink dress, purple hair, wings beating fast. She pointed at the latch and waited. Breukelen slid the window open. The fairy flew in and landed on the glittering table between us and Oryn. She looked at him first, then at the foxes, then at Breukelen's bare cheeks. "You wear my glitter," she said. "The paint from the market stall. That was mine." "I liked it," Breukelen said. "It nearly killed you. I came to say sorry." The fairy turned her small face to Oryn. "You. Out. This is fairy business and half-elf business. Not yours." Oryn laughed once. "I don't take orders from insects." The fairy lifted one hand. The climbing vines carved along the table legs uncurled, real now, green and wet, and wrapped Oryn's wrists to the couch arms. He jerked. They held. "Ten minutes," the fairy said. "Then I let go. Talk." Breukelen turned to me fast, both hands on my sleeve. "I said we own the foxes. I know I did. I know I didn't ask. But I meant it. I want to stay. Say I can stay. Say it out loud so he hears it too." Her eyes were wet. Not performing. Just waiting. "You can stay," I said. "You're with me." She made a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob and pressed her forehead to my shoulder. The flower-fox climbed into her lap. The fire-fox lay across my boots. Oryn watched from the couch, wrists still bound. He had heard every word. Whatever he wanted from us now, he would have to bargain with a pair, not a girl alone. The fairy folded her arms and waited out the last of her ten minutes.