She finds it in the muddy riverbank, where the reeds grow tall and strong: a pretty, glittering thing, but too heavy for its size. When she slips it onto her finger, the mist from the Withywindle seems a little colder as it drifts around her ankles, a little whiter and less like river mist at all; there are songs she recalls from the days when the trees were younger and the children of elves walked beneath them, and they were songs of warning.

She doesn’t want to leave her waters or her firelit home, but something will need to be done about this, and it will best be done in secret.