Rosemary Willowwhisk knelt in the wreck of her pantry and counted what the beast had left her. Nothing. The rune-carved chest lay open, its lid clawed and hanging. Only three days ago she had filled it with the ingredients meant to launch her floating restaurant, the one that would feed every creature in Auroura Summit, from the smallest pixie to the largest dragon. Now the shelves held broken jars and one bent silver spoon. This was the third night. The beast came while she slept, ate everything, and vanished before dawn. Rosemary sat in her mossy burrow and pressed her hands to her eyes. She could not cook. She could not plan a menu with no food. And the chest was supposed to be warded. Whatever ate her stash was stronger than the magic carved into the wood. She stopped crying and started thinking. A beast that broke old wards was not a mouse. It was hungry, and it kept coming back. So she would give it a reason to stay in the open. That afternoon she picked the last thing in her garden the beast had not found: a bright bouquet of roses, petals shifting through every color. She crushed the petals into a pot with honey, thyme, and the bent spoon's worth of salt. The smell filled the burrow. It was the finest bait she had ever made. She set the pot in the center of her kitchen. Then she waited by the door with a lantern and a net. Near midnight, the door shuddered. Rosemary held her breath. In squeezed the beast, and she nearly laughed. It was no monster. It was a small creature shaped like a horse, with a plump insect body and wide, glittering wings. It trotted straight to the pot and buried its muzzle in the rainbow paste. Rosemary crept forward and dropped the net. The little horse-fly froze, then looked up at her. Its wings drooped. It made a soft, hungry sound, and she saw its ribs beneath the fur. "You're starving," she said. Her anger drained away. "You weren't stealing. You were surviving." She lifted the net. The creature did not run. It nudged the empty pot toward her, asking for more. Rosemary knelt and scratched between its wings. "I can't feed a restaurant and you both," she said. "But I know good taste when I meet it." By morning the beast was gone from her list of problems and added to her home. It slept curled by the cold hearth, wings folded like glass. Her pantry was still empty. Her chest was still broken. But now Rosemary had a fast, flying companion who could carry her far past her garden. She looked at the ruined shelves and made a decision. If her rare ingredients would not stay safe here, she would fly out and gather more herself. She began packing a bag.