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Okay. So maybe a part of me hadn’t converted.

The fox maven chuckled. I reached into the wagon, withdrew a set of arrows, and handed them to her. “Spiraled arrowheads of sharp Mista wood, as ordered. Plus, your name inscribed in the stem—in cursive. That last touch was mine.”

She frowned. “Why?”

“Because it’s pretty.”

She wielded the arrows, examining my handiwork. “Not bad.”

“Exactly,” I raved.

“What’s your price?”

I shrugged. “Pass my name around to your clan. If you want more of my pretty, we’ll talk coin then.”

A smirk. “Deal.”

I snapped the reigns and kept going. After solitary days and nights, I rolled into the lower town. Timber and plaster buildings, pumpkins propped on the window sills, and the bustle of commerce. Home.

I’d pay a visit to my former minions soon, hopefully to make amends. I’d try actual friendship for a change, if they were okay with that. If they forgave me.

For now, I trundled toward the house and parked the wagon in the shed. Punk fluttered off, ready for a birdie nap.

Drifting inside, I unpacked, started a fire, and hustled upstairs to the workshop. It needed dusting and sweeping. I got to work, losing myself in the task. This would be my space for three months until Mother returned. All mine until then, so there would be plenty of time to accomplish lots.

By late afternoon, I was splintery, grimy, and yay!

Me, grinning like a moron.

In the lower town, I rinsed the dirty cloths under a local pump, then hung them to dry across a line in the front yard. As the sun began to set, candles twinkled in storefronts and the neighbors’ windows. I grabbed the final peg, the grain along my nape tingling as I felt eyes on me from a distance.

Glancing over my shoulder, I saw only a woman waddling a cart of cabbages down the lane, the bookbinder closing his store, and others going about their business.

Probably just the wind.

A breeze stirred the stray hairs from my side ponytail, since I’d removed my hat a while ago. I stepped inside, leaving the front door open to let that fresh current inside, and unlaced my boots. Humming to myself, I brought a taper to the table and then collected flint and tinder. As the wick burst with yellow, I debated about supper.

Behind me, boots paused in the doorway. A knock tapped against the frame.

I called out, “The workshop’s closed until tomorrow.”

“Is there a chance you might make an exception?” a voice asked.

I froze. A male voice, ethereal and lilting, as though taking flight.

38

Fantasy

An acorn heart clattered in my chest. The candle quivered as his shadow stretched along the floor beside me. I clutched my stomach, the place where my breath held, where a million birds flapped and roots dug deep.

I couldn’t look. I had to look.

My bare heels skidded across the floor as I turned and met the sky. A golden knight filled my doorway, armorless and cloakless, like the last time I’d seen him. Only now, the haggard lines of his face had vanished, replaced by color in those avian cheekbones.

If the return of my woodskin surprised him, he didn’t show it.

Instead, he watched me with a smoldering sort of affection.