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The moss maidens were the first to heed the summons.

Clouds scudded across the sun, throwing the copse into prickling shade. For a moment, Clara wished that Pim was beside her

so that she could curl her fingers into his fur, feel his warm body. Instead, she found herself reaching for Helma as she

had so many times as a young girl, and her old nursemaid gave her a comforting pat on her arm. “There now, sparrow,” Helma

said, her gaze fixed on something that was yet to appear. “There’s no harm that will come to you here.” Clara wanted to ask

how Helma was so certain, but there was no time.

As the dwindling light shifted, mottled forms began to take shape, women with lichen skin and mossy hair. Clara could hardly

tell if she was looking at a creature or simply a collection of shadows, and it was only when they stood before her and Helma

as fully formed beings that she recognized them as moss maidens. If the horribly beautiful women took any notice of Clara,

they did not show it; they simply stood in the dappled evening light, both unmovable as mountains and delicate as a spider’s

web.

Next came the widde juvven, their eldritch wails heralding their arrival.

Three columns of mist appeared, with only the faintest outlines of a slender arm or a tendril of hair to suggest that they were women.

Clara tightened her grip on Helma’s arm.

Like the moss maidens, they took their position within the crescent that was forming about the clearing, hovering above the rocks.

Clara did not even see the elves until Helma pointed into the trees, drawing her attention to the golden orbs that sparkled

in the leaves. Gauzy little creatures with wings, they flitted about so quickly that, at first, Clara thought them moths or

simply tricks of the light.

Last to arrive were the kabouters, a people so small that they had to scramble up on the stones to take their place in the

circle that was forming. Jan and Tryn had claimed to be kabouters, but her old friends bore little resemblance to the tiny

creatures who stood before her now. Some were pale-skinned like her, and others had skin brown and warm as acorns. They wore

floppy boots and funny little hats, but carried themselves like diminutive kings and queens, each holding a knobby wooden

staff.

The stone ring now filled with magic folk, Helma cleared her throat and began to step forward. Here were all the creatures

from her childhood stories, come to life. The only one missing from the assemblage was an emissary from the water. Clara waited

with her breath held, unable to even begin to imagine what Helma might have to say to these creatures. But no sooner had Helma

taken her place in the center of the ring than the creatures all went still, their gazes lifting in unison to something behind

Clara. The already preternaturally still air fizzed with expectation.

Helma heard it first, the telltale drip drip drip , and gently took Clara’s hand in her own, squeezing. “You are safe here,” she reminded Clara. “I will not let him harm you.”

Clara might have been safe, but her heart was racing, her palms suddenly clammy. She turned and her entire world shifted on

its axis.

This was not Thade—thank God—but nor was it the Maurits she remembered. The creature before was as radiant as the full moon, had a vital look about him, as if he was for the first time a complete being. He was all shimmering scales, taut muscles, and the sunlit eyes she had been dreaming about.

Just as the veil had fallen away in the Water Kingdom and she’d seen her world for the cruel subjugator it was, now with Maurits

in front of her, the last vestige of her aversion likewise fell away; she saw every part of him, from the cocky young prince,

to the loyal dog, to the enchanted lover. She saw the vulnerabilities and hurt that had shaped him as a child. She saw the

love in his eyes, and felt her own heart leap in response.

Though she longed to throw her arms around his neck, nuzzle into him, and inhale his scent of salt and sunshine on lily pads,

she stood her ground, tilted her chin up as if she were still the young lady of good breeding that she’d been when she met

him, not the ragged woman who stood before him with nothing to lose.

“How good of you to join us, Prince,” said one of the elves in a ringing voice as thin and tremulous as her gauzy wings.

Maurits gave the barest nod. As easily as if he were passing a knife through butter, Maurits rose from the canal, his tail

vanishing as he did so, and then he was walking toward the remaining stone and taking a seat in the circle. Clara stared.

She had been under the impression that his legs had been a gift from his mother, or rather, his lack of legs a punishment

from her. Had he been able to shift his form at his leisure this entire time? When he had been a dog, could he have simply

changed back into a man? The thought left a hard pit in her stomach, souring the joy she had just felt.

Beside Maurits, the Old Ones looked fragile and ethereal. There was a hardness about his eyes that had not been there before,

a general air not of cockiness, but confidence. The moss maidens gave the barest inclinations of their heads, and held their

ground. A few of the kabouters shifted about nervously at Maurits’s arrival, but most simply waited for him to say something.

He opened his mouth as if he might speak, and then seemed to remember that he was still not in possession of his voice.

“No tongue to speak with, eh? Good,” Helma said with a scowl. “He can’t tell any lies.”

Clara placed a placating hand on Helma’s arm. “Hush. He is probably here at great risk to himself,” she said, burning with

curiosity.

Helma scowled, but did not say anything else on the matter. There did not seem to be one figure that commanded more authority

than another, and the circle in which they stood was a testament to their equal footing. So, to her surprise, it was Helma

who spoke first. “I come on behalf of the Queen of the Trees. She has granted me leave to represent.”

Clara felt her legs go weak, and she dropped to the ground, her fingers curling into the cool earth to steady herself. Helma

did not just know of the Old Ones, she was here on behalf of them. “None of that now,” Helma said briskly, helping Clara back up to her feet before Maurits could try to rush to her.

“There will be time for wonder later, but there is important business at hand and not a moment to waste.”

Too dumbstruck to do anything other than obey, Clara just stood there. One of the widde juvven hissed, “Why does she not come

herself?”

“There is nothing that says she cannot send someone on her behalf,” Helma said with a sniff of indignation. “Much like Queen

Maren has sent this boy on her behalf.”

Helma knew who Maurits was. How long had she known? Since Clara’s return? Since the night by the canal? Or—and Clara felt

her stomach go watery at thought—the very first moment Helma had seen him? “How did you know—”

Helma paid no attention to Clara. Hands on her hips, she looked like the stern nursemaid Clara had crossed one too many times of a morning in her childhood.

“You, young man,” Helma said, addressing Maurits.

“You will relay your thoughts to the moss maidens, who will translate them into speech for us. If you are found to be in earnest and not up to some form of trickery, then we will consider if you can be trusted.”

If Maurits was insulted by Helma’s demands, he did not show it. He simply gave a solemn nod.

Clara watched as one of the moss maidens closed her icy eyes. She could still feel Maurits looking at her, a hungriness in

his gaze that made her shift a little despite herself.

Helma cleared her throat. “If you please. We have little enough time as it is without all the lovesick gawping and pining.”

Maurits went very still, and the moss maiden began to speak, her voice halting and pitching strangely, as if unused to speaking

in such a tongue. It was the sound of branches scraping against a window, the harsh rustle of leaves scattering across cobbles.

“The prince comes from the Water King-kingdom... where King Thade has ousted his m-mother and taken the throne. The prince...

brings a warning and an offer.”

“Yes, the flood,” Helma said. “We know.”

“It is worse than you know,” the moss maiden corrected her. “Much worse. All of the... all of the land folk are in danger.

Thade does not intend to stop with the humans.”

The elves flew right out of their seats. “But surely not the air? Surely not the space between the land and the clouds?”

The widde juvven, though silent, grew agitated, their misty outlines blurring further.

Beside her, Helma touched the amulet at her neck, then crossed herself for good measure. A shadow passed over the already

darkening assemblage of magical folk.

“But why?” Clara forced herself to ask the moss maiden.

The forest creature and Maurits shared a long, inscrutable look. Clara’s palms grew damp as she waited.

“Because... it is not just revenge that he wants, but power.” The maiden gave a raspy cry that belied even her own words.

“Dominance.”