The woman wrapped a firm arm around my waist to keep me upright, bringing the heavy pelt of her cloak with her. The weight of it blocked the wind, and behind me her body was warm. I took comfort in that, because there was no other comfort to be had as the bear lumbered out of the yard I had once hated for its strangeness, and now had never loved more.

The girl slumped against her, and unbidden she remembered the boy.

A man, he had called himself, striding into her hall with his father’s colors gleaming on his chest, but a boy for all his brave words, and as green as summer. Three times, Locke had pressed his suit, his eyes barely able to meet hers, and three times she had refused him, laughing with her Hounds as he backed out of her presence.

“I love you,” he told her the last time. “Let me prove it to you.”

She had turned away, bored by the game, but her Hounds had stopped her.

“Let him,” Brendan had said, his big hands resting on the long muzzle of his wolfhound. “Let us see what he is made of.”

“Go,” she’d told Locke, ignoring Brendan. “Go, run home to your lord father and tell him I will have you when this mountain turns to ash and the lakes boil. Or, perhaps, I will have your sister. Is she as pretty as you?”

Locke had stammered out something incoherent, and Quince moved restlessly, hair like blown leaves shadowing her narrow face. “It is past time we had a decent hunt. I’m bored with winter. Let him hunt with us.”

She had paused then, surprised by Quince’s words.

She fell into the memory, the smell of spring as sharp as glass, as warm and clean as the soft smell of the girl’s hair.

“Please. Let me prove myself worthy,” Locke had said, ever eager.

“There is nothing to hunt,” she said, turning, once again, to leave the boy behind.

“There is always bear.” Quince tossed the words, light as air, but brittle. She looked at Quince then, and saw something far more interesting than the lordling’s pleas.

“Even a lean bear would feed his father’s entourage,” said Brendan, his deep voice rumbling through the hall. “Let him hunt with us and earn his place here, instead of feasting on better hunters’ kills.”

“Spring bear is dangerous,” she told Locke. “They wake up angry. Miss a throw, and you’re dead.”

“I would do anything for you.”

It was his earnestness that repelled her. It was too much, coming from his handsome face— like a picture, or a poem. Still, she could tell something about him had gotten under Quince’s skin. She touched her Hound’s shoulder, and Quince dropped those quick, dark eyes.

Her blood stirred. There was game to be had, here, somewhere.

“Then let us ride.”