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But it hadn’t been a lie. Yes, I’d wanted a spare. But not for myself.

Drat. If I made him leave, he’d rat me out. For someone this sweet, he knew how to play his cards.

“You’re made from the Autumn fairytale,” he guessed.

I forced a neutral tone. “I’m impressed.”

Meeting a girl with an acorn heart, a heart that gave her life, this conclusion wasn’t a stretch.

Outside, the weather vane on our roof screeched, indicating the wind had blown it into a new, dizzying direction. Straw poked my shirt, the material streaked with dirt from last night. And I noticed the waistband of my skirt cinched my stomach, forcing the woodskin to yield.

With many things, it took extra effort for sensations to affect my woodskin. With certain or unexpected things, it didn’t.

I had to think. I had to get back to Mother and my own tasks.

Rising, I flicked the hay from my skirt. “We’ll finish negotiating this blackmail later. Do me a favor and stay out of sight.”

I spent the rest of the day working on the third acorn. Or rather, working to find a solution to it. I tried chopping, slicing, and mincing the thing, hoping to garnish Mother’s plate with it, or steep the bits into her afternoon tea, but the nut wouldn’t break apart. I snatched tools mounted on the workshop wall, trying a hammer, an awl, a chisel, and even a knife. Nothing worked.

By nightfall, I sat on the window sill of Mother’s workshop, holding the orb in a stream of starlight. She’d gone to bed without incident, none of her projects subjected to a pounding.

In my head, I recalled every nook and cranny of the fairytale.

The first original acorn, given to that lumberjack, offered a happy life.

The second, a new life. My life.

The third, a restored life. But how?

I peered beyond the sashes to the grid of streets, anticipating pandemonium. Armor and steel. Stomping hooves. Soldiers clipping orders to my neighbors.

Pumpkins glinted from sills, twitching and restless, staining the cobblestones orange. The search party still hadn’t reached this quarter, which meant they’d been doing a thorough check of everyone’s home. I had a few places in mind to stash Nicu if he insisted on being stubborn.

Certain that Mother slept soundly, I wrapped myself in a shawl, lit a taper holder, and returned to the shed. I paused on the threshold, shaking my head. Nicu had made another friend.

Punk perched on his shoulder, tweeting a melody while Nicu hummed along. They kept the music quiet, the mule snoozing against Nicu’s hip.

My new dilemma beamed at me, such a gooey and genuine smile. A bubble surrounded him, drawing me into its sphere. Settling across from him, the air felt balmy in spite of the Autumn chill.

“It figures,” I commented, observing my stowaway and sidekick.

Punk chirped, wanting a formal introduction, so I obliged. Somehow, we ended up beneath a tented blanket, the candleholder on the ground between us.

“Your finger got lost,” Nicu said, noticing my stub.

“Forget that,” I said. “I’ve got nine more, and they work fine. See?”

I shaped my digits into a sparrow, the figure soaring across the blanket’s surface. Nicu’s own fingers shaped a twin for my bird. Delighted, Punk fluttered inside the tent, playing with the shadow puppets.

We chuckled. The boy’s quiet laughter tinkled through the shed, skipping everywhere like the notes of a flute.

When was the last time I’d played like this? Aside from my woodpecker friend, when was the last time companionable fun had been this pure, not laced with manipulations or attached to an agenda of mine?

Nicu grinned at me. “I’m friends with a fairytale.”

My fingers fell to my lap. “Will you really tell them what I did? If I don’t let you stay?”

Those luminous eyes dulled as he turned away, giving me a view of the braid threaded behind his ear. If direction was really a problem for him, I wondered if the plait had been done by someone else. Someone who doted on him.