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  “We should bite her then, right?” the man asked.

  “No!” the woman reached out and tweaked his ear. “We should let ’em go.” She pulled her partner off the path. “Take the girl to the Lady,” she ordered Rook.

  “That’s what I’m doing,” Rook answered with a scowl. He grabbed Fer’s arm and shoved her past the wolf-guards, ahead of him down the path. “Stupid wolves,” he muttered.

  Fer stumbled away from the guards who were really wolves. It was a strange place, where people could be animals and animals could be people.

  She kept going on the path, Rook a silent shadow at her back. They walked for a little while, until Rook’s hand came down on her shoulder. “Wait,” he whispered. “The hunt is coming.” In the moonlight, his face was very pale. He stepped around her and led her down the path a little farther. They came out of the forest and into a wide clearing.

  The moon, huge and white, hung tangled in the highest branches of the trees on the other side of the clearing, spreading its dying light across the grass. The trees and bushes around the edge were dark shadows. All was quiet. Fer’s ears strained at the night.

  Then she heard a thrashing of bushes across from them, and an animal crashed into the clearing. A stag, huge, its antlers silvered with moonlight. It stumbled into the middle of the clearing, one heaving flank stained with black—blood. An arrow jutted from the wound. The stag raised its head, panting, listening.

  Fer caught her breath. It was so beautiful. . . .

  At the sound, the stag’s head turned and he stared straight at Fer, and seeing her, he didn’t shy away like a deer should have. His gaze was frightened. He wasn’t just an animal; he was something else, too. She felt a connection spin itself like a gleaming thread between herself and the stag. She stepped toward him and turned her head, trying to catch a glimpse of what he really was.

  She felt Rook’s hand on her arm, holding her back.

  “He’s hurt,” Fer whispered. The connection to the stag pulled at her. “We have to help.” Maybe she could get the arrow out and stop the bleeding.

  “It’s too late,” Rook said harshly. “The hunt is here.”

  As he spoke, the quiet night shattered like breaking glass—the sound of horns, trampling hoofbeats, a rushing wind—and a horse leaped into the clearing. Its rider, dressed all in black, jerked an arrow from the quiver on its back, fitted it to a bowstring, and smoothly released it. The arrow, trailing sparks, flashed across the clearing and buried itself in the stag’s throat. With a scream, the stag crashed to the ground.

  Fer tore her arm from Rook’s grasp and raced across the grass to the stag. He lay in a puddle of moonlight, black blood flowing from his mouth. “Oh, no,” Fer whispered. She knelt beside the stag. His eye fixed on her, deep as a forest pool.

  Before she took her next shaking breath, the stag’s eye turned glassy. The thread that connected them snapped, and Fer felt his death as a wrongness that rolled up from the bloodstained grass and into her, making her hands shake and her vision waver. She could feel the stag’s hot blood as it seeped into the dirt, deeper and deeper, a black stain that could never be washed away. But the stain had power, too, a kind of black, sparking power that spread outward from the clearing, passing like a shadow over the moon. Fer blinked, shaking her head. The night seemed dimmer, darker than it had before.

  Behind her, Fer heard hoofbeats muffled by dried grass, the jingling of harnesses, and soft whispers. Shaking off the wrongness, she got to her feet, feeling the same fierceness she’d felt when she’d saved Rook from the wolves—ready to find a big stick and bash whoever had killed the stag. A horse and rider loomed over her. The shadows shifted and the moonlight revealed a woman.

  Her face reminded Fer of a statue, pale and chiseled out of the finest translucent marble. Her short, black hair was held back with a silver cord. Her eyes shone like stars. She sat straight and slim on the back of a tall black horse that wore no saddle and had a bridle made from a silver chain.

  The Lady, Fer realized. The one Rook had brought her here to meet. It had to be. Fer stared up at the Lady and her fierceness melted away. Instead she felt like she’d been caught up in a net, captured by the Lady’s beauty and power.

  Behind the Lady was a shadowy group of other riders, mounted on tall horses, and on goats or on stags like the one that had been killed. They shifted, the mounts panting, tired from the chase. But they didn’t speak.

  Gracefully the Lady slipped down from the horse’s back, still holding the bow.

  Rook had ghosted up and stood just behind Fer. The Lady handed him the horse’s silver chain. Rook took it, his face blank. The horse snuffled a greeting into Rook’s neck, then rested its nose on his shoulder.

  The Lady stepped closer and embraced Fer, then leaned down to kiss her forehead. “Gwynnefar,” she said, her voice as silver and bright as the flowing moonlight. “Your mother was my closest ally, and it is right that you have come here. I am the Lady of this place, and I make you most welcome.” A single black feather appeared in her hand. “This is for you,” the Lady said. “It marks that you are mine.”

  Fer found herself holding out her hand, and the Lady laid the feather across it.

  The Lady smiled and turned Fer to face her retinue. The dead stag lay at their feet. Its blood had soaked into the ground. “This is Gwynnefar,” the Lady an-nounced. “Make her most welcome!”

  The shadows bowed from atop their mounts.

  The Lady grasped her horse’s mane and leaped gracefully onto its back. Rook released the bridle. “See that she is well settled,” the Lady ordered.

  Rook nodded.

  Fer stared up at the Lady, who glowed with beauty in the dying moonlight. Her mother had been this Lady’s ally. Maybe this was her place, and she would serve this beautiful silver-moonlight Lady too.

  Chapter Seven

  “She’s so beautiful,” Fer said to Rook.

  “Oh, she is that,” he answered, but Fer thought she heard a hint of scorn in his voice. He led her back to the path, moving awkwardly, as if his wolf bites were hurting. “Come on.”

  After a few minutes of walking, Fer paused and sniffed. The air didn’t smell like the cold nub end of winter. She sniffed again. It smelled of rich, damp dirt. A breeze blew through the tree branches and—did she hear leaves rustling? Alongside the narrow path, ferns crowded in. She crouched. In the moonlight, the ferns were graceful dark curls edged with silver, their smell sharp and green. She touched one and it unfurled under her fingers.

  “It’s spring,” she whispered. Along with the ferns, bloodroot poked from the dead leaves, its flowers closed up tight against the night. And toadshade, and tender wild geranium. Around a rotting tree stump on the other side of the path grew soft moss and tiny toadstools that glowed white under the moon, like buttons. Fer stroked the moss. It felt springy and prickly under her hand. Rook had turned on the path ahead, waiting. “It wasn’t spring before,” she said, “and now it is. It’s like magic.”

  “It is magic,” Rook answered, his voice rough against the soft night. “It comes from her. From the Lady.”

  The Lady had the power to make spring blossom out of winter? How had she done it?

  Rook walked away down the trail. As Fer got to her feet, ready to follow him, she heard a rustling behind her. She turned to look and caught a glimpse of a face fading back into the shadows. A broad, old face with a wide mouth and nose and what looked to Fer like leaves for hair, and—Fer stepped closer to see—was her skin green? It was hard to tell in the moonlight.

  “Hello?” Fer called softly. She blinked and saw more of the green woman, a short, stocky body that reminded her of a mossy stump sunk into the ground.

  The green woman bowed her head, a greeting. “So you are Gwynnefar, are you?” she asked. Her voice was deep, like the sound of a high waterfall crashing onto rocks. “Opened the Way and came through?”

  Fer nodded.

  “Has spring come to the land on the other side of t
he Way?” the green woman asked.

  That was a strange question. Fer thought of the oak leaves still in their buds and the bees asleep in their hives. And of the cold, dead feeling of the fields around Grand-Jane’s house. “No,” she answered. “Spring hasn’t come there yet.”

  “Hmph,” the green woman grunted. “Does this spring you see here feel right to you? Tell me, girl!”

  Startled, Fer closed her eyes to see if she could sense the land as she had before. Yes, she could feel the land easing away from winter, opening itself to warmth and life. But over it . . .

  She frowned. Over it she felt a taint. Like a shadow—one that left her skin prickling with goose bumps. “No. No, it doesn’t feel right,” Fer said with a shiver. She opened her eyes, but the green woman had disappeared.

  Fer heard footsteps on the path.

  “We need to go on,” Rook said sharply.

  “Okay,” Fer said. She checked the shadows, but the green woman was really gone. “Did you see her?”

  “Who?” Rook said over his shoulder, leading her away.

  “That woman,” Fer said. “Her hair was made out of leaves.”

  Rook stopped suddenly and faced her. “Leaf Woman? You saw her?”

  “She didn’t tell me her name, Rook. She was green, I think,” Fer said.

  He frowned. “You must be mistaken. Leaf Woman has gone . . .” He shook his head. “. . . away. And she doesn’t show herself to strangers.” He turned back to the path. “Come on.”

  Fer followed. “Maybe I’m not a stranger, Rook,” she whispered. But he didn’t hear her.

  As the night lifted and pink dawn crept in, Rook led the girl along the trampled path left by the hunt, back toward the wide meadow where the Lady’s retinue was encamped. The girl stumbled with weariness, yet looked around with wide, curious eyes.

  She had been glad to see him when they’d met at the Way. Why? She must want something from him, Rook figured. At some awkward moment she’d remind him that she’d saved his life, and then there would be trouble. For her, he hoped, and not for himself.

  She stepped up beside him. “The Lady called me Gwynnefar. Is that my name in this place?”

  “It is,” Rook answered.

  “She’s so beautiful,” she said musingly. She rubbed at the spot on her forehead where the Lady had kissed her.

  He didn’t answer. He could see she was still affected by the Mór’s glamorie, the magic the Mór had stolen from the true Lady of the land; the magic she surrounded herself with to hide what she truly was.

  They stepped out of the forest. Under their feet, the grass was wet with dew. Across the wide meadow, tents were arrayed, billowing silk tinged pink by the dawn light. Rook stopped and pointed. “That tent in the middle, the big white one, is for the Lady.” The other, smaller tents were sky blue and the darker blue-green of the sky just after sunset, and grass-green, and fern-green, and the purple of the violets that grew on the forest floor. “The blue tent at the edge there—” He pointed. “That’ll be for you.”

  “It looks fine,” she said. “Rook, my father’s name was Owen and he came here a long time ago to be with my mother, whose name was Laurelin. Grand-Jane thinks they’re both dead. Did you know them?”

  Rook was silent. It hadn’t been that long ago. It had all happened just before he’d joined the Mór’s retinue, when he’d bound himself to her to redeem his puck-brother’s oath. A few turnings of the seasons here, that was all. Longer in the girl’s world. Owen, her father, was dead; he knew that much, and Laurelin with him. But he wasn’t going to get mixed up in that story. He had enough to worry about, bound to the Mór against his will as he was.

  He led the girl to the tent, lifting the flap to show her the inside.

  Before going in, she turned to face him. To Rook she looked more intent, as if she’d finally shaken off the glamorie. “Did you know them? And what kind of hunt was that?” she demanded. “Why did the Lady kill the deer?”

  Three questions in a row, from a girl just come through the Way, from this girl. The rule said he had to answer one of them. But they weren’t well asked, so he could evade a true answer. “I do know something about your father, yes,” he said, answering the first of her questions. Quickly, before she could demand more, he dropped the tent flap and stepped away. “Somebody will bring you something to eat later,” he said over his shoulder. “You’d better sleep now.”

  There. He’d done as he’d been ordered, and good-bye to the girl Gwynnefar. Trouble, that’s what she was, her and her spell-laden patched jacket and her dangerous questions. He’d stay out of the girl’s way, as much as he possibly could. And avoid the Mór, too, before she gave him more impossible orders.

  Maybe the girl really had seen Leaf Woman. He could find Leaf Woman’s place of exile and hide there in his dog form, at least for a little while, until this dangerous girl had gone. The Mór hadn’t given him any specific orders, now that he’d delivered the girl to her tent. He could push the boundaries of his oath that far, since she’d been careless.

  Rook slipped around the corner of the girl’s tent, heading for the edge of the forest not ten steps away. As he went he eyed the black crow, one of the Mór’s spies, that perched atop a tent pole, watching him. Then a heavy hand came down on his shoulder. Without looking to see who it was, Rook jerked away, but two hands gripped him and spun him around.

  The wolf-guards.

  “Where are you going, little Pucky?” the she-wolf asked. She squeezed his arm, right where she’d bitten him before.

  “None of your business,” Rook said, twisting his shoulders to try and break their grip.

  “Quit your wiggling,” the he-wolf said. “Should we bite him?” he asked his partner.

  “Maybe later,” she answered, grinning down at Rook. “The Mór Lady wants to see you, Puck.”

  Gripping his arms, the wolf-guards brought Rook to the Mór’s tent. Another wolf-guard stood out in front of it. The she-wolf gave Rook a shove, right into the waiting guard’s arms. He caught Rook, spun him around, and shoved him back at the other guards. Stumbling, Rook tried to duck away, putting his hand into his pocket. His shifter-bone was there, and the tooth. If he could shift, he could get away from these idiot wolves.

  “The Lady wants him,” the she-wolf said. She took hold of Rook’s arm so he couldn’t get his hand out of his pocket.

  “Righty-o!” the other guard said. He grabbed Rook by the hair and dragged him into the tent. When he let go and gave him a push, Rook stumbled onto his knees.

  The Mór sat in the middle of the tent on a camp chair made of carved oak. A green carpet spangled with flowers lay on the floor; the silken walls of the tent gleamed pearly white with the morning light shining through them. On a wooden chest perched one of her watchers, a black crow running its beak through its feathers, preening. At the Mór’s feet, a trembling maid pulled off her deerskin boots. Another maid stood at her elbow, holding a tray with a steaming cup on it. The maids were twins, twig-thin girls with wide black eyes and a single crow feather entwined in their tangled reddish-brown hair.

  With a wave, the Mór dismissed the wolf-guards, who faded back to stand by the tent flap.

  Rook got stiffly to his feet.

  The Mór took the cup from the tray and the maid bowed her head and slipped away. As always, Rook, like all pucks, didn’t have any trouble quickly seeing through the Mór’s glamorie. To anyone else she looked noble and beautiful, brimming with power. A true Lady. To him, her skin looked pale and fragile, like old, crumpled paper. Her fingers were curled into claws around the teacup. The glamorie she’d stolen from the true Lady didn’t fit her very well; it couldn’t cover up what she truly was.

  She regarded Rook through the steam rising from her cup. “You’ve been in trouble lately, haven’t you? Pushing against the oaths that bind you?” As she held out the cup, the maid reappeared with the tray and took it. The other maid sat at the Mór’s feet, gazing up at her with wide eyes. She saw only t
he glamorie, Rook knew.

  The Mór leaned forward in her chair, her face suddenly icy cold. “You are valuable to me, Robin. Of all my people, you are the only one I trust to carry out my orders with intelligence, the only one who will not succumb to the wildling. Still, you will not argue with me again about the hunt. Understand?”

  Rook controlled a shiver. “I do,” he muttered. A direct order, so he had no choice but to obey. It bound him tighter than ropes. He shoved his hand into his pocket, felt the shifter-bone under his fingers.

  The Mór pushed herself to her feet. The ice in her voice had melted. “Oh, Robin. You’re not thinking of running away again, are you?”

  He was always thinking of running away. She knew that well enough.

  She nodded at the wolf-guards, who had been waiting by the tent flap.

  Rook’s fingers closed around the shifter-bone. As he pulled his hand out of his pocket, the three guards were on him. They grabbed him and flung him onto the ground. While he struggled, one held his arms, another his kicking legs, and the third dug into his pocket, pulling out the shifter-tooth.

  “You can’t take that,” Rook gasped.

  Without speaking, the wolf-guard grimly pried open Rook’s fingers and took the bit of bone from his hand. The other two guards kept hold of Rook’s arms and legs, while the third guard got to his feet and gave the shifter-bone and tooth to the Mór.

  She nodded, and the wolf-guards let Rook go and stepped back. He scrambled to his feet, wincing because in the struggle the bites on his arms and chest had torn open again.

  The Mór raised her eyebrows and lowered herself into her chair. “Well, Robin?”

  He clenched his fists. With the tooth under his tongue he shifted into a dog; with the bone he became a tall black horse with a tangled mane and tail and sharp hooves. The shiftings were who he was—a puck. Without them he was . . .

  He didn’t know what he was. It was against every rule of the land for her to take them from him.