Scratch tightened her hold, pressing Brella close to her chest. “We won’t kill him,” she said gently, “but we need to do something. If we just leave him, he’ll die.”

Brella gripped Scratch’s arms with bruising force. “Scratch. You need to know. The fair follk. They don’t give anything out for free. She’ll take something; she always does.” She made a sound somewhere between gulping and choking. “Usually, it’s time.”

“Time?”

“She’ll help. But please, please, if she offers you anything, if she takes you aside and says she has something special for you, don’t take it.” Tears clung to her long eyelashes. Her hair was slipping from its moorings, little bits of bronze forming a frizzy halo around her head. “Tell me you won’t.”

“I won’t.” She felt dizzy. Nauseated. “Who is—”

“Nana!” Vel shouted into the trees. “Nana, we need you!”

Nothing happened for a few moments. With numb hands, Scratch stroked Brella’s hair. Over the top of Brella’s head, she watched Vel whisper gentle words of comfort to James, who panted and sweated on the ground before going limp. Vel gasped.

“James? James!”

“It’s good, Vel,” she told him, though her throat twisted and tears stung her eyes. “It’s good. He passed out. He’s not feeling the pain that way.”

He looked distraught, but he nodded, and it hit her afresh that the Shaes weren’t soldiers. They hadn’t seen violence like this before. Brella had never killed. Of course she was wrecked. After Scratch’s first kill, she had vomited against a tree.

The Shaes were liars, yes, but not about needing Scratch and James to fight for them. That had turned out to be horribly, sickeningly true.

“Oh, thank the gods.” Vel pointed into the woods. In the distance, a cottage came into view. As Scratch watched, it got both clearer and closer. The house didn’t move, but every time she blinked it was somehow nearer. It was a squat, sky-blue little thing, coated like confectionary in pale trim. A low white fence bordered flowerbeds teeming with bright, healthy, entirely unrecognizable blooms. A few stones formed a makeshift walkway up to the gleaming yellow door, on which a brass knocker bearing the face of a goat grinned at them.

“Well,” bleated the knocker, “this is rather unexpected.”