"We chased her into the thicket and there she was—wrapped in fur and teeth marks." "You're making that worse than it was," Roman panted, dropping to one knee beside the bundle. "She smells like the fox den," I said. "And like river mud. And like old linen." Lord Alistair laughed, hoarse with cold and adrenaline. "She's a mess. A proper mess. Worth every lost hare." "Father," I said. "We can't bring a wild thing into the house without thinking." "Who said she was wild?" Roman asked, eyes bright. "She blinked at me. She didn't show teeth. She only watched." The child lifted her face. A slice of moonlight found a pale forehead and a single string of hair plastered down. Her blue stare was flat, steady. She wore a pendant on a thin cord: a tiny disc hammered rough, a notch carved inside that showed a sigil none of us knew. "That necklace," Lord Alistair said. "Not common. Find out where it came from." "Maybe from a beggar?" I offered. "Maybe not," Roman said. He reached out. The child flinched, then closed her eyes. "Well?" I asked the men. "She doesn't cry," Roman said. "She doesn't laugh." "That's not a sign of anything but hunger," Lord Alistair said. He stood and brushed his coat. "Bring her. We leave tracks, we make noise. Someone will see us taking back a foundling. A whole scandal." "Scandal?" The girl rolled her small shoulders when the