Nothing in Ursula’s studies had prepared her for this. Her instruction in diplomacy and the art of war had always assumed that she’d be in her castle. That she’d have soldiers. That even in a time of siege there would be a certain amount of supplies laid in. Most of all, that her brother would be an ally.

She could scarcely think of him now without succumbing to a rage that only her bear form could accommodate. Albrecht had done this to her. There could be no more profound betrayal. She could scarcely believe this was her life now … campfires and desperation. Not quite three dozen people, many weres, many of them children, dependent on her for protection and survival. She was doing her best for them, but it wasn’t enough.

And now he’d taken one of her people to be his wife. To produce an heir. To use as a human shield. Worse, Sabine and Hans were standing before Ursula telling her they intended to rescue Greta together—and that there was nothing she could do to stop them. She knew they were really challenging her to join them. Commanding their own queen. It was an impossible choice for so many reasons, not the least of which: If she went, she’d have to leave everyone else behind, and there was no guarantee that she’d return. She’d leave her people without their leader, which was like leaving a body without a head.

One of the weregoats balanced on a branch and spat pebbles on the heads of the fox brothers. Ursula ached. These were children. That Albrecht could have left them so vulnerable burned her veins. She wanted to wallow in rage, to bound through the forest until she was too exhausted to think. But she couldn’t.

“I can’t permit it,” she said. “It’s too dangerous. And you’re wounded. Sabine has a broken arm.”

“I’m healed enough,” Hans insisted.

“As I am. Hans and I can do this,” Sabine said. “Greta is counting on us.”

“Greta told him not to come!”

Sabine curled her hands into fists. “She’s Hans’s sister. She’s one of us. She should not have to sacrifice herself this way.” Then she removed the boots that Ursula had given her and set them on the ground. “You always think you know better than anyone what we need. You don’t. You never even ask.”

“No, stop. Please.” Ursula handed the boots back to Sabine. “They’re yours. And you’re right. But we should plan. There’s a right way—”

“You always have a right way to do things,” Sabine said. “The way your instructors taught you. According to the traditions of the kingdom. The way your father would have wanted.”

“That isn’t fair,” Ursula said. “You don’t understand.”

“I know what’s right and I know what isn’t. I know who I am and what I can accomplish. There’s nothing else I need to understand. I’m going to do what’s right. I’m going to do what I can.” She put the boots back on, and Ursula felt a sliver better. Sabine wouldn’t have done that had she truly given up on Ursula. And she had been right. Sabine did need the boots.

Cappella started a new song. The werechildren stopped scampering and listened intently, as if she’d bewitched them. That pipe. That golden pipe. Where had her aunt gotten the gold to make it?

Ursula remembered a story told during her childhood, one told so often everybody knew. Her mother had spun grass into gold, and a terrible person who was jealous had once tried to steal the twins, upsetting her mother so much she’d lost her ability to spin. Ursula’s hackles rose. Something about the reality before her didn’t square with the story she’d been told.

Esme had said that the king and queen believed she wished for something that was not hers. Ursula had thought it was gold. But what if that had been a lie? What if her mother had never been the one to spin the gold? What if it had been Esme all along? The whole story of the kingdom would unravel like so much rotting cloth.

Ursula had believed this story so deeply it felt like a memory of something she’d seen. But if it wasn’t true, who could she trust if she couldn’t even trust her own memories? She pressed her palms against her eyelids.

“Come, Ursula, let’s go together,” Sabine said.

She opened her eyes. Sabine. She could trust Sabine. “Who do I put in charge of the camp?”

“No one,” she said. “People can look after one another. If there’s to be a wedding, then the whole kingdom will be invited. There’s no better time for us to slip in.”

“What about Esme?” Ursula said. “She’s a relation. She would have claim to power. She could watch over the camp, and she’s a capable fighter.”

Sabine looked pained. “If you think it necessary.”

“I do. But another thing: People will notice me in the kingdom,” Ursula said. “Everyone knows who I am. There will be no surprising Albrecht.”

“Surely you know other ways into that castle,” Sabine said. “Ways we won’t be seen.”

She did. Even so, Ursula hated the idea. She would have rather rushed in there as a bear by herself and taken her chances with the guards.

“My brother has no doubt laid traps.”

“I have faith in us,” Sabine said. “You should too.”

Then, with her good arm, Sabine took Ursula’s hand. There were no interlaced fingers. There was no softness to the touch. It felt like a bargain struck, an agreement between equals. And it was right, this bargain. But it hurt like fire.