The girl wearing a red, fur-trimmed coat had turned away from the sunlit path, and the dark-coated wolf who waited for her could not fathom why; she was a bright little thing, meant for skipping in the dappled sunlight, and as a rule he disdained bright little things who knew nothing of the deep, dark wood.

But the girl was not skipping now — she slipped from tree to tree like a shadow, stroking bark and tracing the patterns of lichen and stooping to press her dainty pale hands into the damp springy moss — and the wolf followed.

“I know you’re there,” her soft voice was barely louder than the whispering leaves, and there was no scent of fear or threat or arrogance, no grandmother’s frailty or woodcutter’s steel in her voice, and the hood of her cloak was dark like dried blood in the shadows, and so the wolf stepped to her side and nudged her cool hand with his cold nose, and together they walked deeper into the wood, making their own trail through the silent watching pines.