Primrose knelt by the oldest wall of the garden, her fingers brushing the fresh boot print pressed into the moss. The crumbling stones had guarded this place for longer than memory, and now someone had stepped past them. She was the only one watching. She meant to keep it that way. She followed the tracks inward, moving faster than anything with eyes. Butterflies scattered from the hedges in bright streaks of color. A pale unicorn lifted its head from a patch of clover, ears twitching toward the same trail she chased. Primrose touched its flank in silent thanks and ran on. The tracks ended near a thorn bramble she knew by heart. There, half-buried in petals, sat a polished leather shoe. Stitched, expensive, city-made. Not a hunter's boot. Not a thief's, either. This belonged to someone who sold things for a living. She lifted it slowly. A folded paper slipped from inside — a list, written in neat ink. Names of flowers. Prices beside each one. Primrose's jaw tightened. The cataloguer had already been inside. He had measured her garden like a shopkeeper counts coins. From the trees at the garden's edge, a small figure stepped out. Willow, pale-haired and quiet, held up a second shoe. "He left in a hurry," she said. "And he wasn't alone." Primrose stood. The garden was no longer only hers to defend.