Temur Ahmed Rurik, Chancellor of Rosenwald, pressed his thumb against the green patch on his jaw and waited for it to fade. It never did. The witch's curse had turned him into a frog years ago. A princess broke the spell by hurling him into a wall, and the wounds left these marks behind. They stopped spreading three years ago. They never left. He checked them every morning, and every morning he hated witches a little more. He wanted them gone. All of them. He wanted to stand before the court beside his brother Jani and Queen Snow White with clean skin, and stop feeling the eyes on his throat. So he rode out with his guards to the castle of the witch hunters. If anyone knew of a cure that did not involve a witch, it was the man who hunted them. Kwame Mensah Jäger met him in a cold stone hall. The Grand Commander of the Order did not bow low. He looked at the patches on Temur's jaw the way a hunter reads a track, plainly, without disgust. "You want them off," Kwame said. Not a question. "I want to know who can take them off," Temur said. "A healer. A physician. Anyone who is not a witch." Kwame was quiet. His apprentice stood near the wall, a young woman in a bright red cloak. She leaned forward, unable to keep still. "A curse like that only comes off with magic," she said. "Everybody knows that. Grandmother always said—" She stopped when Kwame raised one hand. "She is right," Kwame said. "No knife or herb will touch it. It is witch's work. Only witch's work undoes it." Temur's jaw tightened. "Then I will live with it." "There is one other way." Kwame chose each word like a man setting weight on a scale. "A dealer trades in magic without being born to it. He sells cures. He lives a few miles before the border of Dark Forest. His name is Rumpelstiltskin." The red-cloaked girl shivered at the name. Temur noticed. "A dealer," Temur repeated. "Not a witch." "Not a witch," Kwame said. "But hear me. He never asks for coin. He asks for what you love most, and he always collects. He was exiled from Rosenwald a hundred years ago for one bad bargain. Go to him desperate, and you go to him beaten." Temur touched his jaw again. He thought of the court, the whispers, the clean skin he had wanted for years. A man who was not a witch. A price not yet named. "Where is his cottage?" Temur asked. Kwame held his eyes a long moment. "You already decided before you asked." "I did," Temur said. He turned for the door. "Give me the road toward the Dark Forest."

The guards in rose-crested armor would not stop warning him. On the steps of the witch hunters' castle, one knight gripped Temur's reins. "The dealer breaks men, Chancellor. Even royal ones." Temur pulled free. He thought of the green patch on his jaw, of the court's eyes on his throat. "Return to Castle Rosenfeld," he said. "I go alone." He could not ride into a commoner's village wearing royal silk. In the first village near the Dark Forest, Temur traded gold for a farmer's horse and a rough wool cloak. The man stared at the coins, then at Temur's face, then took the deal and said nothing. Temur pulled the hood over his jaw. He mounted the tired horse and rode toward the tree line like any poor rider begging a cure. He passed a weathered sign swinging on rusted chains. Dark Forest ahead. The black trees rose behind the cottage a few miles on. Moss and vines choked its stone walls. He tied the horse and climbed the cracked steps. The door opened before he knocked. Rumpelstiltskin stood no higher than Temur's belt. His ears were sharp, his eyes pale, his small hands quick. He looked up at the hooded man and smiled without warmth. "A farmer's cloak," he said. "And a chancellor's chin under it." He tapped his own jaw. "The patches. I know who trades gold for rags." Temur's hand went to his hood. He did not deny it. "You sell cures." "I sell many things." Rumpelstiltskin stepped aside. The room behind him glittered with rings, jars, and locked boxes. "I take only one payment. The thing you love most. Not gold. Gold is what people spend when they still have hope." He held out an open palm. "Show me what you brought." Temur reached into the cloak. He had packed in haste, thinking any treasure would do. He drew out a heavy signet ring stamped with the rose of Rosenfeld. The dwarf did not even look at it. "That is what you own," Rumpelstiltskin said. "Not what you love. A ring you can replace tomorrow." He folded his small arms. "You came to buy your face back with a trinket. I turn away men who waste my door." Temur's jaw tightened. The patch burned under the hood. He had ridden for a day, shed his name, and come with nothing the dealer would weigh. "Then name it," he said. "Name what you want." Rumpelstiltskin studied him a long moment. "Go home, Chancellor. Learn what you love. When you know it, bring it. The door stays open only to the ready." He stepped back and shut it. Temur stood alone on the steps. The black trees watched him. He had failed to buy the cure, and worse, the dealer had named his true weakness. He did not know what he loved most. Now he could not get the cure until he did. He turned the signet ring in his hand and rode back toward the court that whispered.