“They are not dogs,” I said at last, repeating back to her something she had said to me about the pup.

“No.”

“How did they come to be yours?”

“They are not mine.” She uncorked a flask of water and took a long swig, then passed it to me.

“Then why do they follow you?”

“Why do ravens follow wolves?” she asked, pointing up at the clearing sky. The blizzard was fading, and in place of swirling flakes a flock of birds cawed overhead, circling impatiently. “Wolves provide meat. So do I. They follow me because we hunt better together, and because once, a long time ago . . .” she trailed off and I caught sight of the black wolf. He was watching us, head lowered over the carcass, his eyes a burning yellow that saw right through me. She didn’t finish her sentence, and I didn’t press her.

A drop of blood on her cheek caught my eye. I fought an overwhelming desire to wipe it away as I looked up into her face. The blizzard blew itself out in a last gust, and pale winter sunlight filtered through the pines, lighting up the flakes of snow in her hair. A savage longing cut through me, sharper than the touch of thorns, and I felt the last shreds of doubt vanish beneath the sound of the feeding wolves. I thought of the little cottage at the end of the lane where my father and sisters huddled against the cold, and of the city house, stripped of its furnishings by the banks. I thought, absurdly, of Henrik, rowing us out to my father’s ships to peer up at the decks, the surf breaking against the comforting bulk of their hulls.

All that was gone now. What was more, it had never been mine in the first place. Not the ship, not the town house, not even the cottage where my mother had been born. All that I had ever owned of value was my body, and even that had not been mine to give, so long as I remained in my father’s world.

I took a step toward the Huntress, touching the horn at her side with one mittened hand. If she refused me, I would wander off into the snow and lie down in the drifts, empty of purpose, full of broken promise, but free. I had nothing more to lose.

“Rowan,” she said, her breath frosting as it passed her lips.

I tugged the mitten off of my hand and raised it to her face, brushing back a lock of hair. It was cold and smooth as it fell against my wrist, and she held very still as my fingers brushed her cheek. A flake of snow melted on her lower lip.