“He’s mine,” she whispered. “You can’t have him. You’re no good for him. You can’t frighten me; I will hold on with everything I have.” Fine words; fine and strong. But she was cold, all the same. She felt the shadow of approaching danger.

That night, Brión had supper alone in his bedchamber, and when Lily asked if she could go in and speak to him before she retired for the night, her mother said no, that would be entirely inappropriate. Besides, Brión had a severe headache and needed to rest.

Later, when the household was abed, a strange wind blew up. It whispered through the treetops and whined across the garden; it insinuated itself between the shutters, blowing out late candles; it whooshed down chimneys and stirred up the embers of fires. Lily stood by her window looking out over the forest, and the wind wrapped itself around her in an icy embrace, making her heart shrink. Were there words in that stirring of the air, harsh words meant only for her ears? She could not understand them, but she felt the hatred.

“You can’t frighten me,” she said again. But that was a lie. A terror gripped her beyond anything she had felt before. “I will hold on,” she said. “I will. I love him. You can’t have him.” And she thought she heard an answer in the wind: Oh, foolish human girl. If you want him, come and fetch him! He’s of no more use to me. The wind swirled around Lily, teasing at her hair, tugging at her shawl, dancing in and out the open window.

“What do you mean?” Lily fought for composure. Was the fey woman giving up just like that? Passing Brión back to her as if he were of no more consequence than a loaf of bread gone stale or an apple turned too soft for eating? “What do you mean, fetch him?”

From the tower. He’s in the tower. The wind rattled the shutters and was gone, leaving the chamber in stillness. Her heart cold, Lily gazed out toward the tower. The moon was dark; the forest lay hidden. But she could see a light. A faint, faltering light, as of a candle struggling to hold its flame against an eldritch draft. Now her heart was pounding. The fey woman was giving up. She was releasing Brión from the spell. But only if Lily was brave enough to go out in the night and bring him home. A quest. The old tales were full of quests. And she’d have to do it alone. If she woke her father and arranged an expedition with men-at-arms and horses and iron weapons, chances were they’d get to the tower to find it empty.

Lily flung on her warm cloak, searched for her outdoor shoes, tried to calm her racing thoughts. She was about to climb out the window into the dark embrace of the oak tree when common sense prevailed. This could be a trick. The fey loved tricks. What if Brión was tucked up asleep in his quarters, and what the fey woman really wanted was to lure Lily out into the forest so she could work some fell charm on her? It would be foolish indeed to rush out there without at least checking whether Brión was still safe in the house. But she mustn’t be seen by anyone. It wasn’t so much the impropriety of being spotted slipping into a young man’s bedchamber at dead of night; it was that once seen, she would likely be questioned. When folk discovered that Brión was gone, that mounted search party would go out whether she liked it or not.