Cappella ducked into her tree. Hans hesitated a few yards away, something he never would have done as a wolf. Had this been years ago, before all this, and had she been upset by something, he would have lain next to her, his head in her lap, until he felt her sadness lift. Back then, he’d always known how she was feeling. It was partly his wolf nature and partly a result of how much time they’d spent together. He was fluent in the language her body spoke. Every gesture, every nuance, he knew.

It was different now. Time had made that so. He’d been in the cottage with Greta when he heard her play. The song at first was one he knew. He wanted to bring Greta to her, to introduce them. But as they approached the camp, Cappella’s music turned angry. Livid. It was at him. It had to be. She’d saved his life and then he’d left her—he had a good reason, of course. But why hadn’t he brought Cappella with him?

He had to make things right. He didn’t know if it was possible. She wasn’t the same girl he’d once known. Her music told him so. She’d always been very good. Now she was transcendent. The anger she played burrowed inside his heart. He’d do anything not to have to feel it.

“Cappella!” he called.

He approached her tree but could not bring himself to enter without knocking. After three light taps, he stuck his face inside.

The heart of the tree glowed gold, sketching beautiful shapes on the charcoaled walls. He said her name softly, as a question. She looked at him and then into her lap at the pipe that lay across it. When she looked at him again, he knew it was all right for him to enter.

They faced each other across a lantern with their knees close enough to touch.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“You didn’t do anything.”

He knew that was untrue. “Why did you leave when you saw me?”

“I didn’t want to be there anymore,” she said. “Why’d you follow me?”

He tried to choose words as carefully as she’d chosen notes for her song. “I followed you because I had to.”

Cappella’s eyes narrowed. “Who made you? Did my mother?”

“It wasn’t like that. No one made me, no one but myself.”

She pulled her cloak around her shoulders. “We don’t know each other anymore, Hans. And you’ve been gone for so long. I got used to it. I had to. And it turns out, I didn’t know you the way I thought I did.”

“Cappella.” He didn’t want to cry, but he couldn’t help it. Albrecht had mocked him every time he cried, which hadn’t been often. But still. He let the tears flow. “Forgive me. Please forgive me.”

“I’m not angry with you,” she said.

“But the music.”

“That was for Ursula. I want her to eat bees.”

He snorted at the image of that. Her face had softened, and he knew she wasn’t mad at him, but he couldn’t stop crying.

“When I was in the castle, I had only one thing of my own. I’d bought the cloak for you the day we were taken. I held on to it. Every night, I slept with it.”

She started to cry too. And then she laughed. “That would explain the smell.”

He laughed with her, and it felt so good.

“Look at us,” she said. “We’re ridiculous. I haven’t cried like this since I was little. Not since you left.”

“You grew up,” he said. “If not for your pipe and your hair, I might not have recognized you.”

“I think if we are talking about who has changed the most, we’d be talking about you. And I don’t just mean that you’ve become a far bigger wolf.”

“What do you mean, then?” He was still careful, but it felt as though words between them were coming more easily.

“I mean that you revealed yourself to be a complete scoundrel.”

He blanched.

“All that time we were children,” she said, “you could have carried our food and water and you made me do it.”

They laughed again, even as he was still sobbing. She put her hand on his knee and they were silent awhile.

Then he said, “I never meant to fool you. It wasn’t like that.”

“I know why you hid your human aspect. I am angry that you were taken away, that you were kept from me. This was because of the king, was it not?”

It was. The king and the queen. Albrecht too. And, he supposed, Ursula.

“I’m also angry that my mother knew who you were and didn’t tell me. I thought you’d died, Hans.”

He’d sometimes wished he had, though he didn’t feel right saying it out loud.

“And I’m angry that my cousin isn’t more like you. She’s awful.” Then her expression turned avid. “Was she like that in the castle? Or was she saving that for me because I’m a lowly musician? And was the castle extraordinary?”

Hans shrugged. He knew a lot more about Albrecht than Ursula. And Cappella was no doubt wondering about a different sort of castle life than the one he’d had. He didn’t want to talk about what his time there had been like. Not at length. To talk about all that Albrecht had done to him, all that Albrecht had made him do … that would make it all real again. Telling the story made it harder to forget.

She reached for his hands. His breath caught. It felt so intimate, so tender. More than he could bear. She turned his palms up and looked at his fingertips and his torn nails.

“Does it hurt terribly?”

He swallowed and shook his head. Other things hurt worse.

“Your fingers are warm,” she said.

“Yours aren’t.” Hers were like ice. His, in contrast, were sweating. He hoped it didn’t bother her. He didn’t want her to let go. Her fingers touching his felt like he’d swallowed the night sky and was holding starlight in his chest. He wanted to burst.

When he dared, he stole glances, memorizing the way the light of the lamp found the edges of her, bathing them in gold. He’d never looked at her face like this. He knew her features, of course. She had black hair with a white streak on the side. Brown-black eyes. Skin the color of raw wood. But he’d never seen the beauty in her. Not like this.

“Thank you for following me,” she said.

“It was because I had to,” he said again, trusting that this time, she’d understand.

“What now?” she asked.

He knew what he wanted to do: pull the cloak with Cappella in it toward him. He wanted to kiss her. There was the matter of the lamp between them, which would probably set them both on fire, but he felt that way already. Even the tips of his ears burned. But did she want him?

Their physical relationship had been so much easier when they were little. Then, every touch did not have so much weight, so much tension. He wouldn’t trade those days for this one. He hated feeling like this, and he loved it too. He had never felt more alive than in this moment.

He also knew, all the way in his marrow, that he wouldn’t kiss her until he was sure that she wanted that too. And he couldn’t know unless he asked. And there was simply no way he would. He didn’t have the nerve.

He set her hands in her lap, wiped the sweat from his own, and stood. “We should go back, I think. People will want more music.”