Röselin Roth had hunted witches for three years, and she still did not know the face of the one she hunted. She sat in a stone room high in the castle of the Order, a hearth cold at her back. On the table she had laid out everything she remembered of the night the wolf came. It was not much. A child's scraps. She was eighteen now, an apprentice to the Huntsman, and she was about to ride out and accuse someone. She feared it was the wrong someone. She closed her eyes and made herself go back to her grandmother's house in the countryside. The crooked roof. The green shutters. She remembered a voice behind the quilt, calling her close. She remembered answering a voice that was not her grandmother's. The wolf had worn her grandmother's shape. It had spoken. It had swallowed her grandmother whole, and then it had swallowed her too. She remembered the dark inside it, and the dead-meat smell, and the red eyes before the dark took her. She remembered Kwame cutting her free. She remembered hot coals in a sack. But between the voice and the coals, her memory broke into pieces. Somewhere in that night was the witch. She could not find her. The door opened without a knock. Kwame came in and set a cup of water beside her hand. He did not ask what she was doing. He looked at the scraps on the table and understood. "You are trying to see the witch," he said. "You will not. She was never there." Röselin opened her eyes. "She had to be. A demon wolf does not make itself." "No." Kwame pulled out the other chair and sat. "But the witch does not stand in the room. She sends the wolf and waits far away. You keep looking for a face in your grandmother's house. There is no face to find. You are chasing a shadow that was never cast there." Röselin's hands went still on the table. For three years she had searched her memory for a woman. She had planned to ride to a village tomorrow and name an old herb-seller there. The woman had green shutters like her grandmother's. That was her only proof. "I nearly named an innocent woman," she said. "You nearly did." Kwame's voice did not soften. "Remember the wolf itself. Not the house. The wolf is the mark. Find who made that wolf, and you find her." Röselin looked at the black fur and red eyes in her mind. The breath like something dead. She had always run from that memory. Now she held it still and studied it. There was a mark on the beast. Three thorns, crossed in a ring, burned into the black fur above its shoulder. She had seen it. She had never once remembered it until now. "The wolf carried a mark," she said. "I can draw it." Kwame leaned forward. "Then draw it. That is where the hunt begins."