When they return, it seems a deal has been struck. Her father is smiling, and this stranger, who she has decided is not as clever as Jacques d’Arc (who is?) but probably kinder, seems to be working out the sums; from her father’s fine mood, it seems likely his guest has agreed to pay the cost of a few acres for two sickly runts or a pair of watery-eyed sows. She watches them shake hands. As he waves goodbye, Jacques appears on the verge of skipping. He repeats his offer of a cup of ale, but the man shakes his head, says he should be getting back before he is missed.

It is then that the last bit of cake slips from her fingers and lands, a soft, misshapen clump, at her father’s feet. For a moment, she thinks he won’t notice. But he is a wolf, with a lupine awareness of his surroundings. He looks up. She looks down, remains perfectly still. She doesn’t know whether Jacques, at his age, can still climb trees. Or if he’ll simply pick up the tree by its roots and shake her down like a leaf.

For a long moment, they gaze at each other. If this is a staring contest, he loses by blinking. She hears him groan, as if to say, You again! So that is where you were! But today she will be spared. His friends are calling him back, and he returns to them in a fine mood.

Later, when she is sitting in the sun outside her home, a shadow covers her. She glances up: A thundercloud? No, it is only her father.

“How much did you hear?” he asks. She listens closely, weighing each word as if they were coins falling into her hand. Is that uncertainty in his voice? She thinks so.

She meets his eye and dares herself to smile, though she is pretty sure it comes out a sneer. Well, didn’t Durand call her a gargoyle? “Nothing,” she says. “I heard nothing.”

Her father grunts. He tosses something at her, making her flinch. But she hears Salaud sniffing, and when the pain doesn’t come, she dares to open her eyes. Jacques is gone, but at her feet is a cake, whole and new. She checks, double-checks, smells the cake to make sure it hasn’t been smeared with dung or spat on. Her fingers break off a fragment; she casts it up, and Salaud snatches the piece in midair.