Hans stood away from the workshop window, watching Albrecht leave the castle. He’d been waiting so long for this reprieve that when it finally arrived, he felt briefly numb, like a limb pinned in an uncomfortable position.

The presence of the full moon, hidden by the brightness of the sky, wasn’t helping. It whispered to him all the time, but especially when it was full. Become the wolf, Hans. That is your nature, your freedom, your joy.

In truth, his happiest moments had been as a wolf. Those years he’d spent running through the woods with Cappella. Lying by her side as she played her pipe. Leaning into her as she stroked the fur on his head, his back, beneath his chin. She’d touched him with hands that loved him.

His worst moments had also been as a wolf. That day in the square when the man had stolen Greta’s coins, when Hans had shifted and ruined their lives. Since then, he’d shifted only when Albrecht forced him to.

At first, Hans had refused, even when the prince used devices that caused him pain and cost him blood. He resisted until Albrecht threatened to use his tools on Greta. After that, Hans submitted, again and again, as Albrecht watched. Took notes. Made cuts on his human skin and peeled back his fur to see how they’d shifted.

To keep Greta safe, Hans submitted, but only when he had to. Today he did not.

“I miss the days when you resisted,” the prince once told him. “The look you got in your eyes when you held on to your human form was so delicious, like goose liver. And do you know how they make that? The chef feeds the goose until it can’t eat anymore, and its liver gets so fat it’s liable to burst. I’ll feed it to you someday, so you know what I’m talking about. It’s fantastic. Pain is a marvel. It’s the secret to life. Nobody but me will be honest with you about that, but I don’t expect you to be grateful.”

As physically painful as Albrecht’s abuse was, seeing Greta in the kitchen was worse. The prince wouldn’t let Hans speak to her. Not a word, or she’d suffer. To survive, Hans turned inside himself. He feasted on memories and wasted no hope on the future. He felt no more alive than one of those things they’d made. He too was at the mercy of malevolent hands, winding, winding, winding.

Hans surveyed the devices he’d been tested on and even helped build … the chair, the thumbscrews, the masks of metal. These worked as designed. But the metal man and windup animals always wound down and stopped moving. He’d figured out how to fix this and then blurted it to Albrecht. It had been a stupid thing to say aloud. A stupid idea to give away.

Albrecht had, of course, embraced the idea of self-winding wings. He’d even tried to attach a set to the backs of living rats. It was so gruesome, Hans had to force himself to forget what he’d seen.

What he’d heard.

What he’d smelled.

You are clockwork. You feel nothing.

All he could do to slow Albrecht’s progress was to sabotage the gears when the prince wasn’t looking. Clot them with dust. Put them in upside down. Snap off their tiny teeth. Hans had known what would happen when he was inevitably caught. But he needed to hold Albrecht back. It was the one thing he could do to have any control at all.

Hans pulled on thick leather gloves and opened the metal door of the oven. It blasted heat: a plea for wood. It was always hungry and the wood sang when it burned, music that reminded him of Cappella’s pipe and his sister’s voice.

Behind him, rats chittered in their cages. Hans knew they wanted their freedom. But the prince would only have him capture more. Besides, some of them were badly scarred. They seemed unlikely to survive on their own. To keep them caged might be considered a mercy.

The moon tugged at him like a hook in his heart. He wanted to become the wolf. To howl. To run in the woods. To find Cappella and spend a quiet hour by her side. A single hour would be enough. His heart pounded a message. Become the wolf. Become the wolf.

He had one way of fighting this feeling, and with Albrecht gone, he could avail himself of it. He said goodbye to the rats. Closed the workshop door behind him. Walked partway down the flight of stairs and pulled back a tapestry covering a hidden room. This space was his. In it, his most precious thing. His only thing. He locked himself in his sleeping cage, lay down on his straw mattress, and slid his hand beneath it.

Out came the red cloak he’d bought for Cappella. It was no longer the beautiful thing it had been. Its edges were frayed, and it was a bit dingy. But it was soft, and it reminded him of who he’d been. Of what he’d once had. Of whom he’d loved.

He laid his head on part of it. The rest, he held in fisted hands, breathing it in, remembering.