Rosalind Threader hauled her workbench outside the Princess Dress Boutique because the light was better on the grass, and because yesterday she had seen the woodland spirit again. Three times now the shy sprite had drifted between the trees at the forest's edge, watching her stitch. Three times she had bolted the moment Rosalind lifted her head. Rosalind had decided to stop chasing. Today she would sit in the open and spin something so lovely the spirit might come closer on her own. A gown for a spirit who had never worn one. That was the plan. She set six spools of silver thread along the bench's edge, each wrapped in shimmering strands she had spun that morning from moss blossoms picked before dawn. Her tailor's tape hung around her neck. Her apron pockets held needles and chalk. She threaded the little loom built into the bench and began the first row of the silver dress. The thread caught the sun and threw white sparks across her hands. A sharp caw came from the pine above her. Rosalind knew that crow. Motley's bird. The one with the four-belled hat and the bell collar that jingled when he tilted his head. He was already tilting it now, staring straight down at her spools. "Don't," she said. "CAW." A bell rang. He dropped. Before she could clap a hand over the bench, Sir Cackles snatched a spool in his beak and shot back into the branches. Silver thread unspooled behind him like a comet tail. "Give that back!" Rosalind stood. He answered with a click of his beak and a small, pleased cackle. He dove again. She grabbed for the remaining spools. He got one anyway. Then a third on his next pass. Three spools gone in under a minute. She had four left. Not enough for a full gown. Rosalind sat down hard on the grass and thought. Chasing a crow through the pines was a fool's errand. Sir Cackles judged treasures by shine. That was his whole trade. So she would offer him a better one. She dug through her apron pocket and found the mirrored button she used for fittings. She set it on the bench in a patch of full sun. It burned white. Sir Cackles cocked his head. The bells rang softly. "Trade," Rosalind said. "Button for spools." He hopped down the branch. He hopped again. He landed on the bench, eyed the button, eyed her, and dropped one silver spool by her hand. Then another. The third he kept. He seized the button and lifted off with a triumphant caw. Rosalind exhaled. Two spools recovered. One lost for good. She turned back to the loom and froze. At the edge of the trees, half hidden behind a trunk, the woodland spirit stood watching. She had crept closer during the fight. Close enough, this time, that when Rosalind met her eyes, she did not run.