Greta woke up alone. Sabine had left the cottage not long after Ursula, with a promise to return. Greta recalled nodding and saying, “That would be welcome.”

But they’d just been words. Words spoken by the mouth of a girl gone numb. She imagined this was what stones in the river felt like in early spring, when the frozen runoff from the mountains rushed over them. Perhaps these stones had once been living things too, shocked into stillness by the rude assault of cold.

She stood on the bare wood floor. She’d forgotten how much she missed this soft warmth. She never wanted to feel anything else with her feet than wood beneath them. There was a smokiness to the air that worried her. She dressed and fixed her braid, wrapped a shawl around her shoulders, and stepped outside. Wind came from the kingdom—something there had to be burning. Something huge enough to bind the woods in a foul white gauze that tasted like ash.

She had no desire to leave her cottage. But she had to know what was on fire. Had to know if Hans was in danger. She felt sick, dizzy. The air, the worry. She slipped on her shoes and resolved to go to the edge of the woods, just to see. It wasn’t too far. She wouldn’t risk much.

The trees were quiet; she could hear every footstep, feel every thud of her heart. Even the birds held their songs in closed beaks. Now that she was jolted from numbness, every sensation felt sharpened, her sense of foreboding included.

The forest floor dipped into a tiny clearing thick with brush. Greta stepped into it and nearly tripped over the body of an enormous brown bear who’d sunk into a thick patch of ivy. The bear had been wounded; the broken shaft of an arrow emerged from her back, and the fur around it was matted with dried blood. There was another wound nearby. Greta knew very well who this was. She wished she could walk away from the princess. But she couldn’t.

She crouched by Ursula’s side, reluctant to touch her. Was she dead already? Then the princess moaned and opened her light brown eyes. She curled a lip and snarled. It was a plea. Help me.

Greta had never butchered a bear, but she knew enough about animals to understand how bodies came together. She knew how much pressure a muscle could take before it tore. She also knew that there was no need to be squeamish. Bodies were skin, they were meat, they were bone. She could get this arrow out. It might be safer to let her die. But then, that would make Greta cruel, and she was not that.

The bear’s back was a mess, the arrow a full finger’s length in. Greta winced as she pulled. When the arrow came free, the princess whimpered. Greta dropped it and gently pressed the opening. Beneath her, the princess slowly took her human form again.

“Pack … the wounds,” she said, her speech labored. “Moss … and … burdock if you can find it.”

Burdock had heart-shaped leaves. The moss was everywhere. Greta pulled some together. The princess shuddered as Greta pressed them into the wounds.

“I’m sorry,” Greta said. And she was, even as she had no love for her.

The princess grunted. “I’m lucky. Help me sit.”

Greta said nothing as the princess told her what had happened. The news was shocking. Unthinkable. That one half of the kingdom should be set against the other … It meant families had been divided. She was even more afraid for Hans. He was the right hand of Albrecht. Everyone knew that.

Greta stood. She’d made a decision. “Come to my home. Take what you need. Food, clothing. Even a knife.”

“Sabine,” the queen said. “Is she still there?”

Greta shook her head. “She left yesterday. Said she had to go home.”

“You haven’t seen her since?” The queen’s face was pale.

“I haven’t. Is it your wound? I can sew it up.”

“I’m fine. It’s fine. Weres heal quickly. But we must hurry. There are surely people who’ll need our care. Other survivors too.”

Let Hans be among them, Greta prayed. Let him come home.

They found them all over the woods—weres, farmers, the wounded, the dead. Smoke thickened the air still, stinging Greta’s eyes, souring her stomach, making her head throb. The search was miserable, and every time Greta saw a body, her heart seized. In all, they’d gathered three dozen corpses. Some had been burned. Some bled to death. Others looked as though they’d been trampled by horses. The bodies were all ages. All sizes. Many werefolk. Some single aspect. But each of them was someone’s loved one. A sibling, a parent, a child. Hans was not among them.

By the time Ursula had gathered the survivors in a clearing not terribly far from the cottage—a place Greta’s family used to picnic on long summer nights—she felt fouled in a way she never had when she was butchering meat. That was orderly. Methodical. Nearly bloodless. War was anything but. She wished she could be one of the trees rising up around her. Tall, strong, made of stuff that could not be brought down so easily by men.

Even among the survivors, she didn’t find Hans. She chose to take relief in that. Perhaps he was neither dead nor wounded. Perhaps he was perfectly safe. Greta fed the fire twigs and dry leaves. Little children had gathered around her. A pair of redheaded brothers. Three weregoat sisters with jet-black hair. Two tiny girls who kept shifting into their raccoon forms. None had parents anymore. Werechildren never did.

“Careful, children,” she said. “Fire bites.”

Counting the seven children, there were not quite three dozen refugees in all. Mostly women. Some rather on the elderly side. If they were supposed to wage any sort of war against the kingdom with this lot, it would be short and sad.

As Greta built up the fire, the queen and some of the other adults tended the wounded and cleaned the bodies of the dead. These they lined up so that grievers could make their farewells.

If Greta hadn’t known who Queen Ursula was, she might have liked her. Despite her injury, she had easily taken command and was arranging bodies with respect as well as making sure the wounded were triaged and tended. She wasn’t lazy or weak-willed, that was certain.

Relieved to have something to do, Greta fetched the food she’d pilfered from the castle, along with water and some things she’d foraged, and she set about preparing porridge. The task helped keep her mind off Hans.

When the food was ready, Ursula beat a wooden spoon against the pot. People looked up.

“I am sorry for all of your losses. For what has become of my queendom. This is what we know.”

The queen paced as she walked, her shoulder seeping blood. “My brother has stolen our land. Burned much of it and many of the homes. He has taken many lives in the process. But we will fight back. We will restore justice.”

It was meant to be a stirring speech; Greta could tell. But none of the adults cheered in response. The red-haired brothers, in their werefox forms, were nipping each other in the face. The other children were sleeping in a heap. Only a fool would think a few dozen survivors, especially ones like these, could take on the king and all the soldiers he commanded.

“With respect,” said one man, who had the rough hands of a farmer, “we’re sunk. We’ll be lucky to make it through the winter.”

The queen’s expression tightened. She looked the man up and down. Then she looked away, as if dismissing him. “I am your queen. I will see to it that justice is done. We will make it through winter. That is a promise.”

It was a tense moment, and everyone watched closely, taking note of what happened to people who challenged the queen.

Greta broke the silence. “Who’s hungry?”

People lined up, children first, and Greta filled cups and bowls, and people ate. There were sounds of slurping and hushed voices, and over that, the music of the woods, and something she hadn’t heard so close in ages—the pipe. The one that Hans’s friend played.

It pierced her like a knife. It took her apart. She had no defense against it. She bowed her head and wept. She would have to find that girl someday, just so she could talk with someone who had known and loved her brother. It was the closest she could come to acknowledging she might never see him again.

She felt a presence next to her. The queen. Greta wiped her eyes and nose.

“Thank you,” Queen Ursula said. “The porridge is just right.”

Greta knew she had to acknowledge the praise. All she could do, though, was nod and offer more. Ursula waved her off. Then she cocked her head. Greta could hear nothing, but she knew the ears of werefolk were sharper than human ones. Ursula stood, her body angled toward something Greta could not see. Through the waning smoke, a figure approached. For a fraction of a moment, Greta thought it was her brother.

But it wasn’t. She knew who it was as soon as Ursula took off running: Sabine, returned, and in her human form. The queen embraced her, and Greta felt the sting of envy. She wished Hans had been the one who’d returned. She would have given anything for that; she would even have continued to serve Ursula and tend these refugees. Heart aching, she stood, brushed debris from her apron, and turned toward home.