The dryad doesn’t appear to mind Croi’s silence. She beams at her and walks around the tree, nearly skipping, infused with a glee Croi cannot understand. “You don’t have to answer. I will eventually find out.” She laughs out loud, her pleasure in being alive evident. “This is all very exciting. I haven’t been out of my tree in nearly a millennium. I have a lot to thank you for.”

“If you’re so thankful, will you satisfy a curiosity of mine?” This is really not the right time, but Croi will seize any opportunity she can.

“All right. Go ahead and ask.” The dryad inclines her head.

“If a flesh-and-blood kin was turned into stone, would you be able to break the spell and return her to her original form?” Croi asks.

“Who is the kin trapped in the stone body?” The dryad comes to a stop in front of Croi, and the full force of her power hits Croi in her empty stomach. The dryad is old, far older than the Hag; her accumulated years are an uncomfortable weight on Croi’s shoulders. The flippancy drains away from her eyes, and she looks at Croi seriously for the very first time. “How long has the kin been stone?” the dryad asks. A cricket chirps to punctuate the question.

“I don’t know,” Croi replies. “She has been stone in all the time I’ve known her. About eleven years.”

“How do you know she’s kin?” the dryad asks next.

“She’s alive underneath the stone.” Croi looks at the dryad with bright eyes. “Can you break the spell on her?”

The dryad frowns. Croi waits, her fingers curled into fists. After a while, the dryad clicks her tongue and shakes her head.

“You can’t?” Croi asks. She shouldn’t have gotten her hopes up.

However, contrary to her expectations, the dryad says, “I can. I just don’t have a reason to.”

“You need to have a reason to help someone?” Croi growls. “Do you, like the Hag, not have a heart either?”

The dryad swoops in, invading her space once more; Croi moves back, only to press against the tree trunk. Her heart is running amok in her chest, but she refuses to show her fear. The dryad raises a finger and presses it to Croi’s cheek. Immediately, there’s a crackling sound, and the smell of burnt wood infuses the air. The dryad springs back, holding her finger to her chest in a gesture of protection.

“A shield.” She narrows her eyes. “Who are you?”

At Croi’s silence, she asks again, “What is your name, little maybe?”

Croi doesn’t speak. Names have power, and she has too little of it to start giving it away.

“If you don’t tell me, I will leave you in this clearing, trapped and vulnerable to whatever horrors the forest dreams up.” The dryad’s threat is accompanied by a sweet smile. Croi sucks in a breath. “Do you know what happens when you resist a summoning spell?”

“No. What happens?” Croi asks in a shaky whisper.