Elowen knelt by the back wall of the low cottage and pried up a loose floor plank. She wanted one quiet hour to plan her next walk to the bog. She wanted the fae lord to look at her again, and she wanted to be ready when he did. She lifted out a carved wooden box. Its lid was worn smooth from her fingers. Inside the false bottom she kept a folded handkerchief, dried bog myrtle, and a small comb. Her sister's footsteps crossed the room above. Elowen froze. The peat roof muffled the sound, but not enough. Her sister called her name, then asked why the kitchen door stood open. Elowen slid the box under her shawl and slipped outside. She crossed the damp yard to the bench beneath the twisted cypress trees. Cattails hid her from the cottage windows. Here, she could lay out her things on the cracked stone and breathe. A broad-shelled mud turtle watched her from the reeds. Elowen opened the box. She lifted the dried sprig and pressed it to her wrist. She practiced the words she would say if he spoke first. Then a shutter creaked. Elowen looked up. The neighbor's tall wooden tower rose above the hedge, and a pale face watched her from its high window. The neighbor had seen the box. Elowen closed the lid slowly. Her hidden place was hidden no more.