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“You asked Mother Wren for somebody who’d be good to you,” he says. “So get used to it.”

I bury my face in his chest so he can’t see me cry. But he knows anyway. He just holds me tighter and doesn’t say anything else, and that’s somehow the nicest thing he’s done all week.

* * *

On the eighth day, I go to see Mother Wren.

I tell myself it’s because I owe her a jar of honey for being so good to me. Which is true. But mostly, I have questions. Mostly, I’m still waiting for something to go wrong, and if anybody knows what it’ll be, it’s her.

There’s a line outside the toy shop.

An actual line. Six women, standing in a row on the lane, pretending they’re not standing in a line. I know every last one of them, too. The baker’s wife is there. The woman in the yellow bonnet from market day is there. Even the mayor’s wife is there, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief.

They all see me at the same time, and every single one of them suddenly gets very interested in the sky.

“Morning, ladies,” I say sweetly.

“Morning, Hattie,” they mumble.

I walk past all of them and go straight in. Nobody stops me.

Mother Wren is on her stool, carving like always. There’s a little pile of coins on her counter, and a list next to it, written in her tiny handwriting. I spot the words tall and quiet and good with goats before she flips it over.

“Business is good,” I say.

“Business is very good.” She doesn’t look up. “Your man broke the Tolley boy’s spirit in the middle of the market square. Every wife in this village wants one now.”

“Are you going to make them one?”

“I’m thinking about it.” Now she looks up, and her black eyes are twinkling. “Depends on the wood. I don’t get storms like that every year.”

I set the honey on the counter. Then I just stand there, twisting my hands in my skirt.

“Go on and ask, baby,” Mother Wren says.

“Is he going to stay?” It comes out in a rush. “Like, is there a… a time limit or something? Does the magic wear off? Is he going to turn back into a tree at midnight? Because if there’s a catch, I want to know now, before I get…”

I stop. Before I get used to it. Before I fall all the way in love with him. Before it really hurts.

Mother Wren puts down her chisel.

“Hattie,” she says. “That’s a living man you’ve got up there. I carved him, but I didn’t make him. The forest did that. He’s not going anywhere unless you send him away.”

“I’m not going to send him away.”

“Then there’s no catch.” She picks her chisel back up. “Stop looking for one. You’ll give yourself wrinkles.”

I let out a long, shaky breath. Then I laugh, a little teary. “Okay.”

“One more thing.”

I freeze. “What?”

She tilts her head and looks at me over her glasses, and then she sniffs the air. Once. Delicately.

“How long since your last heat?”

I blink. “Six weeks? Maybe seven? I’m not due for another month.”