The girl spent the day in a state of terrified excitement. Her hands wouldn’t stop trembling. Her heart felt like it was going to scamper out of her chest. She dropped the water bucket on her way back from the creek and had to return for a refill. She nicked her forefinger slicing an apple. Their last apple, but Mula hoped that if she stewed it with some sugar and nutmeg, it would put the monster woman in a good mood and help her sleep.

Finally day became night, and the woman came trudging up to the door. She stopped before entering, just stood there quietly on the stoop.

Mula held her breath.

The door creaked open, and Mula knew right away that something was terribly, terribly wrong, because the monster woman’s bright blue eyes shimmered with fire, like sparkle stones about to destroy the winter stores.

The girl’s legs twitched to run, but the woman stood huge and menacing in the doorway. There was nowhere to go.

The girl squeaked out, “Would you like some apple stew, my lady?”

In response, the monster woman lifted something she was holding in her hand. It gleamed amber in the firelight.

Her glass vase, full of food scraps. Water slipped down the sides and dripped on the floor.

“I found this by the outhouse,” the woman said. “Half buried in melting snow.”

Mula said nothing. The fire crackled. Outside, a chunk of snow dislodged from the roof and plopped onto a drift.

“You were going to run away, weren’t you?”

“No,” the girl whispered.

“You were, you lying mule!” The woman was screaming now. “You were going to leave me! After everything I’ve done for you. How could you?”

“I’ll stay!” Mula said, and tears spilled down her cheeks. “I promise, I’ll stay, I’ll stay, I’ll st—”

The woman threw the vase at her head; Mula ducked. The vase exploded against the fireplace, a crystal sound that spiked deep into her soul. Bread crumbs and nuts and shimmery glass slivers rained down onto the hearth.

“Come with me.” The woman darted forward, grabbed her arm, and dragged her toward the door.

“I need my cloak,” Mula pleaded. Her arm hurt. The woman was squeezing way too tight.

“Shut up,” the woman snapped.

“You’re hurting my arm.”

The woman stopped so suddenly that Mula collided with her hip. The monster woman rounded on her and stared down at the girl, gripping so tightly that Mula feared her arm might fall off.

“Your arm?” the woman said. “Your arm?”

“Y . . . yes?”

The woman crouched before her and speared the girl with her sparkle-stone eyes. With her free hand, she softly caressed Mula’s smarting skin. “Sweet thing,” she said, “this is my arm.”

“I . . . no . . .”

The woman fingered the bit of black hair that had escaped the girl’s braid and hung down her forehead. “This is my soft hair,” she said, so quietly it was almost a whisper.