Rosalind counted seven suitors on the lawn before breakfast, and she could not tell which of them had a soul. That was the trouble with faerie season. The court sent charming men through the rose gate every spring, and one wrong yes at the altar would hand her spirit to the fae for keeps. Her mother had warned her before the snow came: choose the wrong mouth to kiss, and you belong to them forever. She wanted true love. She wanted it enough to keep testing for it, even now, with iron pins hidden in her sleeves and cold tea going colder on the garden table. The first suitor lifted her hand and smiled too evenly. She pressed an iron pin against his knuckle. His skin did not flinch, but his shadow did — it pulled back half a step from hers. Glamour. She sent him away with a curtsy and a lie about a headache. The sixth was worse. He spoke of her eyes in a voice like honey warming. When she offered him tea, he took the cup without touching the iron spoon. Rosalind smiled and marked him in her head as one more thing wearing a face. By the seventh, she was tired. He was plain. He stepped on the hem of his own coat. He drank the tea, spoon and all, and burned his tongue. He apologized twice. "Sit," Rosalind said. "Please." She was about to ask his name when the hedge shivered and a small blonde girl fell out of it onto the gravel. The girl stood, brushed her apron, and looked at Rosalind as if she had been expecting the lawn to be somewhere else. "This isn't the garden," Alice said. "I opened a door and it put me here. Your suitor is lying about his shoes." Rosalind blinked. "His shoes." "They don't touch the ground," Alice said. "Look." Rosalind looked. A finger's width of air sat between the suitor's polished boots and the grass. His plain face did not change, but the tea in his cup began to steam again on its own. Behind him, from the rose arch, a second girl stepped through — barefoot, pale hair full of small flowers, one hand pressed flat to her chest as if holding something in place. Rapunzel. Rosalind knew her only by rumor: the tower girl, born of light and singing flowers. "The flowers went quiet three days ago," Rapunzel said. "They are quiet around him too." Rosalind stood. She drew the longest iron pin from her sleeve and set it on the table between herself and the suitor. His smile stayed. His shadow did not. "Leave my garden," she said. He left without a sound. So did the other six, one by one, peeling off the lawn like paint. Rosalind sat down hard. Two strange girls stood in her roses, and every honest suitor she had ever tested was gone. She would have to look for love somewhere the fae could not follow her.

The suitors were gone. The garden was quiet. Rosalind stood among the roses with two strangers and no plan for what came next. She had spent her whole life inside these walls. She had never walked past the gate alone. Beyond it lay the wilds, and the fae hunted the wilds. She needed a road out, and she did not have one. She turned to the tower girl. "You came here. How?" Rapunzel touched a small braid at her wrist. "A door in a library. It only opened one way." Alice brushed gravel from her apron. "Mine put me in a hedge. I can't get back either." So neither girl could take her out. Rosalind sat on the garden bench and pressed her cold hands together. She thought of the frost past her door, the road she had never seen, the wolves the kitchen staff whispered about. She thought of her father waiting for her to break. A new voice cut across the roses. "You need a map, not a door." A girl stood in the arch where the fae suitor had left. Yellow dress. A crown of leaves in her red hair. She held a small branched candlestick like a lantern, though the sun was still up. Rosalind did not know her face. "Who let you in?" Rosalind said. "No one," the girl said. "I walked out of a book in a castle where I am kept. The book was open on a page about your gate. I am Belle. I have about six days before a curse where I live becomes permanent. I don't have time to be polite." Rosalind stared at her. "You crossed the wilds." "I crossed a page," Belle said. "That is different. But I know the wilds. I have read every map in the Beast's library. I can draw you a route." "Why would you?" "Because you are going to look for true love," Belle said. "So am I. I want to know if it works." Rosalind felt her chest tighten. She wanted to believe her. She could not afford not to. "Draw it." Belle knelt on the gravel. She pulled a folded paper from her sleeve and smoothed it flat. She drew fast, in short strokes: a river, a willow tree that leaned wrong, a clocktower that marked a safe crossing at moonrise, a fortress with towers where a princess in hiding could stay a night. She marked three places to avoid. She did not decorate anything. "Follow it in order," Belle said. "Do not sleep under the willow. It talks." She stood, took one step back toward the arch, and was gone. The candlestick was gone with her. Only the map was left, warm from her hand. Rosalind folded it and slid it into her sleeve beside the iron pins. She looked at the gate. For the first time, she saw a way through.

Rosalind pushed the garden gate open at dawn. The hinges screamed. She stepped through with the map in one hand and the iron pins pinned inside her sleeve. The frost stopped at the threshold. Past it, the ground was black dirt and wet leaves. She did not look back at the castle. She walked. The path Belle had drawn began at a split birch. Rosalind found it. She turned east. The trees closed over her head. She had never walked this far in her life. Her shoes were thin. Her legs ached inside an hour. She kept the map folded small so her hand would not shake it. By midday she reached the river. The willow leaned wrong, exactly as Belle had drawn. Its branches trailed the water and did not move with the wind. Rosalind gave it a wide berth. She sat on a rock upstream and drank from her cupped hands. She counted what she had. A map. Seven iron pins. No food. No coat. No plan past the clocktower crossing. A branch cracked behind her. Rosalind turned with a pin already in her fist. A short girl stood between two trees. A red hood covered her hair. She carried a basket. The basket held bread, apples, and a wrapped cut of raw meat with the bone showing. The girl was not levitating. The flowers by her boots had not gone quiet. "Put the pin down," the girl said. "Iron doesn't work on me. I'm not fae." "Then what are you." "Huntress. My name is Red. I hunt in these woods. I know your face from a fairy print." Red tilted her head. Her teeth showed. They were silver. "You're the princess who wouldn't marry. You're a long way from your gate." Rosalind kept the pin up. "Are you going to rob me." "No. You have nothing." Red set the basket down. "I'll tell you what's on your road. A pack tracked you from the birch. Four wolves. They'll reach you before the clocktower. Your map doesn't mark them because your friend read old books." Rosalind's throat closed. "Why tell me." "Because I owe a debt to someone who might want you alive later. I'm paying it forward." Red pulled a strip of dried meat from the basket and held it out. "Eat. You'll faint before dusk otherwise." Rosalind took it. Her fingers were shaking. She had left the garden. She was outside the walls. She was not safe. She had never been less safe. And a stranger with silver teeth was feeding her. "The clocktower crossing is still good at moonrise," Red said. "Walk faster. Don't sing. Don't answer anything that calls your name." She picked up her basket and stepped back into the trees. Her shadow did not follow her. It stayed on the path a moment longer, watching Rosalind, then slid after its owner. Rosalind chewed the meat. She started walking. Wolves were coming.

Rosalind heard the wolves before she saw the tower. Paws in wet leaves. Breath behind her. She ran. The map shook in her fist. The trees thinned. A field opened. In the middle of the field stood the clocktower, pale stone wrapped in carved roses, its face lit by the rising moon. She sprinted for the door. A wolf clipped her heel. She kicked back and hit muzzle. She threw herself against the tower door. It opened. She fell inside and slammed it shut. Something heavy struck the wood. Then nothing. She sat on the stone floor with her back against the door and shook. Her feet were bleeding. Her lungs burned. The tower was quiet. Roses were carved into every beam. A staircase spiraled up into dark. She did not climb it. She stayed where she was and let her breathing slow. She had crossed. She was not dead. That was the whole of what she had. She crawled to the wall and pressed her cheek to the cold stone. She had not slept in a full day. She closed her eyes for one moment. She opened them and the room had changed. A small woman stood near the stairs. White hair to her waist. A crown of lilies. Wings that caught light that wasn't there. She held a wand and was inspecting the carved roses like a customer at a market. "You're not fae," Rosalind said. Her hand went to her sleeve. One pin left. "Not the kind that bothers you." The woman turned. Her eyes were gold. "I'm Meadow. I grant wishes. I heard yours from a long way off." "I didn't wish." "You did. You just didn't say it out loud." Meadow crouched in front of her. "You want true love. Honestly, that's a hard one. Most people wish for money." Rosalind's throat was raw. "Can you give it to me." "No. Nobody can hand you that. I can tell you where to look." Meadow tapped the wand against her palm. "There's a man in a castle north of here. Under a curse. A friend of mine has six days left with him and she's running out. She asked me to send someone kind. You'll do." "Belle," Rosalind said. "She drew you a map. She didn't draw you that road. I will." Meadow touched the wand to the floor. A line of light ran from Rosalind's feet toward the north wall and stopped at a small door Rosalind had not seen. "Rest first. The wolves won't come in. I've asked the tower nicely." Rosalind lay on the stone. Her eyes closed against her will. She had reached the clocktower. She had a new road. She had a name for where it led. The door in the north wall waited.