“What happens if I lose the SoulSeed or some misfortune befalls it?” Croi knows herself well enough to want to be prepared for such eventualities.

“I die,” Uaine replies simply. “You will not lose it.”

There is no mirth on her face, no teasing look in her eyes, just a cold command that reminds Croi, once again, of the Hag.

“What if the circumstances are beyond my control? Will I still be breaking my word?”

“Yes.”

Croi is not surprised by the dryad’s answer. She shouldn’t have expected anything else. This world is never fair to her. She sighs and looks around.

The hours have been passing, and the waning afternoon is stealing whatever daylight remains in the Wilde Forest. Shadows stick to the dryad, cleaving to her curves and shading her with their darkness. Croi shivers. Though the days are still warm in the grasp of summer, autumn sends her greetings on the tails of sudden breezes.

“There is one more thing you need to know,” Uaine says. “When I remove the summoning spell, the protective shield around you will also be removed.”

Croi smirks. “A protective shield? To stop others from causing me pain so she, whoever she is, can be the only one to hurt me? I don’t care. Break it.”

“You are decided,” Uaine confirms, the comment more question than statement. Croi nods. “You give your word that you will take my SoulSeed to my sister who lives in Talamh Caisleán?”

“Where in Talamh Caisleán?” It is better to have her location clear before she gives her word.

“In the central hall of the Caisleán,” Uaine replies.

“How much time do I have to get your SoulSeed there?”

“Before the Saol ceremony, so”—the dryad pauses, thinking—“nine days. Any more questions?” Croi shakes her head. “So? Do you give your word?”

“Yes,” Croi replies. “I give my word that in exchange for breaking the summoning spell, I, Croi, will take your SoulSeed to your sister who lives in the central hall of Talamh Caisleán.”

“Good. I will break the spell now,” Uaine says, more warmly, now that Croi has decided to dance to her tune.

“Will it hurt?” Croi asks belatedly.

“Does not everything?” the dryad replies.

She stands in front of Croi, looking down at the damaged green-brown strands wrapped around Croi’s torso and leading off into the distance. The dryad brings up her right hand, palm facing Croi. Her golden-green light, her magick, for what else can it be, brightens and surges when she spits out words in a language Croi remembers speaking but doesn’t yet comprehend.

These words are all sharp angles and polished edges. For a long moment, nothing happens. Then, the green-brown threads wrapped around Croi twitch and grow unbearably taut. She is yanked forward violently, but Uaine’s tree holds her firmly.

There’s no give, and the spell is pulled tight between Croi and whoever is calling her—so tight that the distance melts away and for a second, just a blink, Croi can see the being who cast this spell, the one whom the Hag called the princess. It is a fleeting look, and all Croi is able to keep from this glimpse is the memory of the fae woman’s eyes: a light brown, flecked with black and red, and ringed by forest green, and her damaged magick, green-brown strands with holes in them.