Mabel settled onto the bench beneath the shade tree and squinted down the road. Two days now, no sign of Lance. Her grandson checked in twice a week, faithful as sunrise, but the druid girl wouldn't wait forever. Mabel needed Lance here, on this path, with Genevieve Thorn inside her cottage. She smiled to herself. A goal was only a goal until you made it happen. The trouble was Lance had grown wary. Ever since the fletcher business, he watched her sideways. She couldn't simply ask him to come. He'd arrive with that calm voice of his, the one that wasn't calm at all, and lecture her about meddling. So she needed a reason. A real one. Something he couldn't argue with. Mabel pushed herself up and shuffled to the stepping stones that led to her door. She studied the third one, wobbly for years, and gave it a firm nudge with her cane until it tilted. Then she lay down on the grass beside it, arranged her pastel skirts, and waited until a neighbor passed. "Fetch my grandson," she called weakly. "I've had a fall." Word traveled fast. By dusk Lance stood over her, jaw tight, helping her inside. "That's the second stone this month," he said flatly. "I'll fix the path tomorrow. I'm staying the night." Mabel patted his hand. Tomorrow Genevieve was due for her follow-up. Tomorrow they would both be here. The trap was set, and now her grandson was inside it.

Dawn light crept through the shutters when the knock came. Mabel heard Lance's boots cross the floor, slow and steady. She had seconds. She reached for her carved cane, leaning by the bed, and arranged herself on the edge of the mattress with a soft, pitiful slump. The cane across her lap. One hand pressed to her lower back. A picture, ready to be seen. Lance opened the door. Mabel couldn't see the yard, but she heard the heavy shift of hooves on packed earth, and a quiet snort. The elk. Of course Genevieve had ridden in on that great antlered creature, her satchel of poultices slung at the saddle. "You're not Mabel," Genevieve said. Plain. Unhurried. "No," Lance said. "I'm her grandson. She fell two nights ago. I stayed." A pause. Mabel held her breath and called out, weak and warbling, "Is that the healer? Lance, dear, don't keep her in the door." She gripped the cane tighter and let it tremble. Footsteps came. Genevieve stepped inside, jar of green poultice already in hand, and her eyes went straight to Mabel — then to Lance — then back. Something flickered there. Not warmth. Recognition. The elk outside huffed once, patient. Mabel smiled into her sleeve. The door was open. They were both inside. The trap had closed.