Cappella felt a thrill, part terror and part hope, when Ursula approached. She didn’t know whether she feared her more for being a princess, a werebear, or her cousin. What’s more, she’d gone her whole life without talking with others, and here she was, among so many. Everyone looked exhausted. Some wore dirty bandages. Others held raccoons and other small animals in their laps. Werechildren. She had to force herself not to stare. The prospect of being among them, being surrounded, made her tongue feel as dry as bark.

“Mother,” she whispered, “do we kneel?”

Her mother shook her head.

Cappella wanted to, though. She dropped to her knees and tried to bring her mother with her, but only succeeded in pulling Esme off balance. Ursula stopped a few feet away.

“You have your mother’s mouth,” Esme said.

Ursula’s expression went blank. “Who are you to speak of my mother, to speak to me without being addressed?” She produced a knife.

Cappella’s eyes widened.

Esme didn’t flinch. “I am one who changed your cloths when you were small. I watched the first time you became a bear. I’ve known you since before you knew yourself.”

“So you were a nursemaid?”

Esme shook her head. She looked defiant, proud. Cappella regretted kneeling. She’d never seen anyone interact with her mother. Never seen any conversation up close, really. But she didn’t like the look on Ursula’s face. Didn’t like anyone to challenge her mother. And she really didn’t like the knife. She stood.

Esme took a half step closer. “I’m your aunt,” Esme said. “Your mother’s sister.”

“My mother never had a sister.”

“Untrue. She does.”

“My mother is dead,” the princess said. “Any real sister would know that.”

Esme closed her eyes. She said nothing. Seeing her mother in a moment of grief, Cappella took her hand. If Esme had not even known of the death of her sister, then perhaps she’d held less back from Cappella than she’d thought. Either way, she didn’t trust Ursula.

Esme opened her eyes at last. “I am sad to hear this news.”

“She never spoke of you,” Ursula said.

Cappella felt a flash of anger at her cousin. How dare she? Then she remembered that Esme had never spoken of her sister either. Two sisters, silent about each other. Cappella had lifted rocks before and seen tiny bugs writhing in the muck. This felt like that, ugly things, too long hidden.

Her mother spoke. “I suppose that’s because she believed me dead.”

“Why would she believe that?”

It took a while for Esme to reply, and Cappella felt each moment crawl past. She hated not knowing what her mother was going to say. Being here, with all these people, was overwhelming. To discover things her mother had long concealed this way was humiliating. Enraging.

“Your parents and I had a falling-out,” Esme said. “They said I wished for things that were not my own. They sent me to the dungeon to die. I escaped and have lived here since. I am Esme. This is Cappella. Your cousin.”

Ursula’s eyes traveled up and down Cappella. Her gaze rested a moment on the pipe. “That is no small quantity of gold. Tell me, what happens to the gold when blood touches it?”

Cappella brought her pipe to her chest. Did her cousin mean to wound her?

Her mother spoke. “It’s never seen blood. But, to answer your question, blood would undo it.”

“Is that why you were banished? Because you stole the gold my mother made?”

“No,” Esme said. “That is not what happened.”

She said nothing else. Even the forest held its song. Cappella wondered whether her mother would fill the void with an explanation, a story, a justification. But she didn’t. People stared. The silence felt like forever.

Ursula broke it.

“Why are you here? These woods are mine, and if you mean any harm—”

Esme interrupted. “The woods are our home. We came to offer our help. It looked as though you might need it.”

Cappella stole another glance at the people. They all looked so tired, so hungry.

“We need nothing from you,” Ursula said.

“Ursula!” A tall, thin girl with dark brown skin looked at her with astonishment.

Ursula shot a look at the girl and then uncrossed her arms.

She turned again to Esme. “What skills do you have?”

“I know the forest and its food sources,” Esme said. “I also have healing skills.”

Ursula’s expression changed. She looked relieved, although she didn’t say as much. She turned to Cappella. “And you?”

Cappella struggled to work her mouth. She lifted the pipe. “I play music.”

“Any useful skills?” Ursula asked.

The girl who’d chastised Esme spoke up again, clearly trying to smooth things over. “I love music,” she said. “I’d love to hear you play.”

A look of shame crossed Ursula’s face.

“I’m Sabine,” the girl said. “You’re the piper in the woods, no? I’ve heard you play.”

Cappella nodded. And then she realized something. This was the black werebear. And Ursula was the brown one.

“In truth, we could use your skills,” Ursula said to Esme. “Will you lend them to us?”

Esme nodded. “For the time being.”

“And I suppose music wouldn’t hurt,” Ursula said. “As long as you know when to be silent.”

Cappella’s face burned. She wasn’t a child. And her cousin wasn’t that much older than she was. If this was how queens made people feel, Cappella understood more and more why her mother had stayed in the woods.

“Perhaps she could play a tune now,” Sabine said. “She could lift our spirits.”

Ursula shrugged. “Fine.”

Cappella had never played for anyone besides her mother and her wolf. She didn’t much feel like playing, not after Ursula made clear what she really thought of musicians. But Sabine had asked. Cappella liked Sabine, she decided. She wanted Sabine to like her. And maybe Sabine and Hans knew each other.

She took herself to a flat, moss-covered rock away from the fire, away from the smoke and the people. It felt strange, to play her pipe for people knowing they expected to be entertained. She’d never thought of music as that before. It was what she did to say what was on her mind when she didn’t have the words for it or another person’s ears to hear her. She sat, put her pipe to her lips, and found an opening that she could make work. A short song. That’s what she’d play. One Hans liked.

She played a few lines, but then something took hold of her, and she shifted into a song that expressed how she really felt: like telling Ursula where she could shove her crown.

It felt good to get it out. Probably the way Ursula and Sabine felt when they were running through the forest roaring at each other, being their wildest selves.

When Cappella finished, she looked up. The flames of the campfire flickered, but that was the only motion. Her mother was still. Her cousin, still. All the people from the kingdom, still. Behind them, looking at her with his wide gray eyes, was Hans, along with his sister. All those eyes on her, especially his, felt like too much.

She couldn’t be here. Not another second. She excused herself and headed home. First slowly, quietly. And then as fast as her feet would take her. Not too far behind her, making enough noise that she could hear him, Hans followed.