Rosemary curled tight under her quilt, hoping tonight she could just sleep and be loved like any other seven-year-old girl. But the dark came anyway, and with it the tall, twisting shapes of her fay parents. They rose above her with cold blue eyes and clawed limbs like dead branches, their icy gowns trailing into nothing. Rosemary tried to stand brave, the way her brother always did. They showed her the family bakery floating in the dark, its windows warm and its sign swinging gently. Then her fay mother raked one claw across it. "Spoil the bread," she whispered. "Sour the milk. Crack the oven stone." Rosemary shook her head. "Please. They love me." Her fay father leaned closer, breath like winter. "Obey, or lose them." The bakery cracked and crumbled into a heap of small white bones, skulls grinning up at her from the dream floor. Rosemary saw her mother's apron among them. She screamed. The fay parents laughed, their claws stretching long toward her face, promising worse if she told, worse if she refused. Rosemary woke sobbing into her pillow, hands pressed over her mouth so no one would hear. She did not run to her mother. She did not tell. She only whispered into the dark that she would not hurt them, no matter what came next.

Rosemary clutched the little mouse doll to her chest, its cross-stitched eyes pressed against her wet cheek. The dream still hung in the room like cold smoke. She tried to be quiet, the way her brother would be, but the sobs kept slipping out around her fingers. A soft glow swept across her wall. Clove stood in the doorway, phone held up like a small bright moon. "Bad one?" he whispered. He didn't wait for an answer. He crossed the floor, set the phone face-down so the light shone up at the ceiling, and climbed onto her bed. "Scoot," he said. He pulled the purple throw from the foot of her bed up over both their shoulders, tassels swinging. Rosemary curled into his side, the mouse doll squashed between them. "They came again," she whispered. "They want me to do bad things." Clove was quiet for a long moment. No joke. No shrug. "Yeah," he said finally. "They do that to me too. I hate it." He tucked the blanket tighter around her shoulders. "Listen. I'm older. That means I go first. Whatever they ask you to do, you tell me. I'll figure it out. They don't get you. Not while I'm here." Rosemary nodded against his shoulder. She didn't feel brave yet. But for the first time since the bones in the dream, she didn't feel alone. She closed her eyes under the purple blanket, the small light glowing above them, and let herself believe one true thing: she had a brother, and he had promised.

Morning came soft and yellow through Rosemary's window. She reached under the purple blanket for the little grey mouse with the pink dress and cross-stitched eyes. Her hand found only sheet. She sat up fast. The blanket slid to the floor. She checked the empty blue-and-cream chair by her bed, where the mouse always sat at night when she wasn't holding it. The seat was bare. Just a small dent in the cushion, mouse-shaped and waiting. Rosemary's chest went tight. She looked under the pillow. Under the bed. Inside her boots. She shook out the blanket. She crawled along the rug, lifting every book and sock. The mouse was not anywhere a mouse should be. Rosemary padded down the stairs in her socks. Her father was packing trays for the bakery, sleeves rolled, apron already dusted with flour. "Papa, my mouse is gone." Anand stopped at once. He crouched down. "Okay. We'll look. When did you last have her?" "In bed. I had her in bed." He nodded like this was a real problem, the kind grown-ups took seriously, and went to check the couch cushions. Her mother came in from the hall, hair pinned back, car keys in one hand. "What's missing?" "The mouse," Anand said. Madhuri set the keys down. "Then we look properly. Rosemary, you take your room again. Slowly this time. I'll take the laundry basket and the kitchen." She didn't rush. She didn't sigh. She just started lifting things, one by one, the way she did everything. They searched for almost an hour. Behind the couch. Inside the dryer. Under the dining table. Clove even checked the recycling bin. The mouse was not in the house. Rosemary sat on the bottom stair and pressed her face into her knees. Her mother sat beside her and put a warm hand on her back. "We'll keep looking tonight," Madhuri said quietly. "Things turn up. But right now, we have to go." Rosemary nodded. She slid her feet into her shoes. The empty chair upstairs stayed empty, and something small and certain in her chest understood that the mouse had not simply wandered off.

After school, Rosemary went outside to play in the yard. The grass was cool. She was pulling up clover when a flash of pink caught her eye at the edge of the woods. Her mouse. Her mouse was lying under a tall pine, pink dress bright against the dark needles. Rosemary ran. She stopped a few feet away, breathing hard. The mouse lay on its side by the trunk of the big dark pine. Rosemary reached out. Before her fingers touched it, the mouse sat up. It stood on its small grey feet. It turned, and it walked into the trees. "Wait," Rosemary whispered. She stepped past the pine. The yard was behind her now. She knew she should turn back. But the mouse with the cross-stitched eyes was walking away, its little pink dress swaying, and it was hers. She followed. The woods grew darker. The trees grew closer. A blue flame floated up between the trunks, soft and cold, lighting the path the mouse was taking. Dark coils of fog twisted low along the ground, curling around her shoes. Rosemary's chest went tight. She thought of Clove. Clove would not stop. Clove would be brave. She kept walking. The mouse stopped in a small clearing and sat down. Rosemary knelt and picked it up. It was cold. It did not move again. But when she looked up, the blue flame was gone, the fog had closed behind her, and she could not see the way home.

Rosemary held the cold mouse to her chest. The clearing was quiet. Then thorny branches burst up from the dirt behind her, weaving fast, sprouting dusky purple blooms. The way back was gone. A wall of thorns sealed the path she had come down. Two tall shapes stepped out from between the trees. Their eyes were pale and cold. Their long claws reached for the air around her. Rosemary knew them. She had seen those faces in every nightmare. Her fay mother smiled. Her fay father tilted his head. "Little one," her fay mother said. "You came so far for a toy." More thorns shot up around Rosemary in a tight circle. They braided themselves into a cage, blossoms opening as the branches locked. Rosemary opened her mouth to scream for Clove, for her mother, for anyone. No sound came out. Her hands shook against the mouse. She tried to push at the branches. A thorn bit her thumb. "You are ours now," her fay father said. Rosemary sank down inside the cage. She pressed the mouse to her cheek and made herself small. She did not cry. She listened. She would learn the shape of this trap, the way Clove would. That was all the bravery she had left tonight.

Inside the cage, Rosemary held very still. Her fay mother knelt outside the thorns and waved one long claw at the ground. The dirt split open. A pond welled up where there had been none, blue water swirling with pink petals. Her fay father smiled down at her. "Come see, little one. Come see what your brother is doing for you." Rosemary leaned closer to the thorns. In the water, she saw Clove. He was pushing through dark pine branches, calling her name, his shoes muddy and his face scratched. He looked so tired. The water rippled and showed him again, deeper in the forest, turning in circles, lost. "He searches and searches," her fay mother said. Her voice was soft as silk. "And he will keep searching. Unless you help us." She tapped the pond. The image changed. Now Clove stood at the bakery counter at night. His hands were on the proofing box. "He only has to do one small thing. Spoil what their mother bakes. Then we let you both go. Then you can be together." Rosemary understood then. The cage was not just for her. She was the bait. They had her so Clove would finally do what he had refused to do before. Her chest went tight and hot. They had taken her to break him. "No," Rosemary whispered. It was the smallest word, but it was hers. "He won't. And I won't ask him to." Her fay father's smile cooled. The pond went still. The thorns around her drew tighter, and a new bloom opened beside her cheek. She had answered them. Now she would have to live inside that answer.

After her refusal, the fay went quiet. Her mother turned away to whisper at the pond. Her father paced into the dark pines, claws flicking. For one breath, neither of them watched the cage. Rosemary saw it then — a gap between two thorny branches, low to the ground, just wide enough for a small girl. Her hands shook so hard she had to press them flat to the dirt. The thorns near the gap were long and dark, and the dusky purple blooms trembled when she breathed. She thought of Clove, lost in the woods, still calling her name. She thought of her mother's kitchen counter. She pushed her shoulder through. A thorn dragged across her arm and tore the skin. She did not cry out. She pulled her legs through after her. Behind her, the tall blue shape of her fay mother turned. A sharp cry cut the clearing. Rosemary ran. She ran into the pines without looking back, blood on her sleeve, breath burning, feet light on the moss. The cage was behind her now. She was loose in the woods, and she was the one who had chosen it.