It had seemed important, Geiléis remembered, to ask questions while she still could. How might the curse be broken? How long would it take? Why could she not do what was required herself? The fey woman set out the details, complete in every particular. It must be done on Midsummer Eve, soon after dawn. The chosen woman must act willingly. Lily could not come with her; if she attempted the task herself she would fail. One chance every fiftieth year; only then would the thorns permit a woman through. Yes, there would be thorns—a hedge impassable save by magic. One warning summer beforehand, giving Lily time to prepare—see how kind she was being?

“Once every fifty years?” Lily echoed, shocked, disbelieving. “But—that’s impossible! By the second time I would be old. By the third time I would be dead.” Ash’s eyes were agonized; through the gag he roared a protest.

“Oh, you will live to see him freed.” The fey woman was calm now, calm and cold. “In time. The tale must have its ending.”

“What about Ash’s family? They’ll be searching for him. What do I tell them? What about my family?” Suddenly there were more questions than she could imagine.

“You speak so readily of love, you human folk,” the fey woman said. “How long will your love endure when you must witness this man’s suffering day and night? How long will love last when your only companions are heartbreak and loneliness? You vowed to save your sweetheart. How long will that vow last, I wonder? A year? Fifty years? A hundred, two hundred? How well will you love your handsome young man when he becomes a monster?”

The air seemed to tremble; a shadow passed across the tower room. Ash’s stifled groans became something far more terrible, a primal howling that set an icy hand around Lily’s heart. The fey woman lifted her candle higher. “How do you like him now?” she asked in honeyed tones.

The fetters had fallen away, and Ash had collapsed to the floor. The candlelight threw his shadow onto the wall, an odd shape, curiously hunched, like that of a creature from an old tale, something that lurked in dark corners and came out at night to frighten passersby. The howling filled Lily’s ears; it made her head ring like a high bell; it brought tears to her eyes, whether of sorrow or pain, there was no telling.

“What have you done?” she breathed. “What have you done to him?”

“Make your farewells. Then leave the tower and take that little wretch with you.” A contemptuous glance at the ferryman, who was muttering something to himself, perhaps a prayer. “He’ll see you home. The curse binds his folk to help; they’ll see your precious Ash fed and watered when he’s awake. Fifty years is a long time. I’ll be kind; the boy did give me some satisfaction. He can sleep away the years between. He’ll bother you and your neighbors only for the fiftieth summer, and the one before, so you can make your preparations. A reminder, in case you ever think of forgetting the curse and moving on. There might be other young men, after all; other opportunities. Don’t think of marrying and going away. That will only lead to disaster.”