She would never get to sleep at this rate.

And Stray frowned, huffing out an annoyed breath and glaring down at the shirt in her hands. The frayed, once-was-white fabric seeming to mock her where it lay. She had been trying to fix the damn thing ever since she snuck back into the medical wagon, the thought of being able to prove Logan wrong about her skills strangely attractive- But so far she could do nothing for it. Every stitch she pulled seemed to come loose the next moment, every seam she tried to trace disappeared into the fabric before she could find its source. It was damn annoying: Stray was a silk merchant’s daughter, for heaven’s sake. She had learned needlecraft almost before she learned speech. There was little she did not know about fabric, little she did not know about how to drape and cut and stitch.

This seemingly innocent shirt was getting the better of her. Its whiteness still marred with those tell-tale drops of blood, (Whose blood? she couldn’t help but wonder), its softness siren-call-welcoming there against her skin. Stray had spent most of her life handling cloth, had learned at her father’s knee to evaluate texture, weight, value. Worth- Or was it worthiness? Were the two things the same when it came to cloth? And yet she had never handled any fabric the way she handled this simple garment. Never wanted to fix anything with such an eagerness. She held it close, she looked at it. She tried to imagine what had led to such fine fabric becoming so worn with time. She picked at the frayed, ruined cuff she had offered to fix, needle still in hand and as she did so she felt a sharp stab of pain, the needle breaking the skin of her finger. The whiteness of the cotton suddenly blotting with blood. The girl frowned- She was always so careful with pins and needles, it was rare she was pricked- and sucked on her injured digit. Muttering under her breath as another drop of her blood blotted onto the shirt’s collar, as a third bloomed on the panel at the front. Stray licked her other finger, trying to wipe away the stain away, worry at what Logan would say making her clumsy-

And as she moved it her hands brushed against something hidden beneath the collar.

She held her breath, frowning in the candle-light, and pulled out a single, rose-gold hair.

It was long, so long that it must belong to a woman. Its colour lustrous in the candlelight, its softness obvious to Stray’s hand. Despite the scent of medicine and herbs all around her it smelled lightly of shampoo, something expensive and flowery; Stray remembered the elegant mother of the boy she’d been betrothed to smelling very much like this. Did it belong to a sweetheart? she wondered. A conquest? Was the woman this hair belonged to why Logan seemed to reluctant to be near her? The girl stared at it, laying it gently across her lap upon the shirt fabric; Her skin hummed and growled as she looked at it, its delicate, golden surface gleaming in the light. Without really thinking why she reached out her injured finger, wanting to touch it: As soon as she did so it seemed to… curl itself upwards, slinking towards her hand. Swaying like a dancer, its colour gleaming. Something so seductive she didn’t have the words to tell it hissing through its length. Stray frowned, hand coming to a stop, eyeing the thing. Unable to work out how the hair could be moving of its own accord.

As she watched it curled upwards, snaking around her finger. Its brass-bright surface rubbing gently against her skin. Her blood sluicing thickly onto it as it moved against her hand, nuzzling into the wetness as a wolf would caress its cub. Stray knew that she should be frightened, but she somehow wasn’t. A heaviness was setting over her bones, a warm, murmuring glow that seemed to fill her from the inside out making everything seem… just… fine. As if from far away she felt her heart beating, her lungs expanding with deep breaths. Her skin tingling with sensation as the golden hair lengthened, its single thread multiplying until it looked like a golden rope against her wrist.

Shivering now, Stray pulled the bedcovers back and tried set her feet on the ground. Wanting to go she knew not where- Though a wagon with a hazel-eyed wolf sleeping in front of it blossomed behind her eyes. Coldness knifed through her, and she looked down to see snow between her toes, its whiteness blood-spattered. She was back in the wildwood again, she realised disjointedly, the trees spider-boned with winter, the snow falling over her hair like damp, wet kisses against her skin. From far away she heard a howling, lovely call and the golden thread tightened against her in sympathy. Her body reacting with arousal, honey-scent languid and delicious on the air. Stray tried to move, wanting to answer that wolf’s howl- what else was her throat for if not to howl to her own kind?- but she couldn’t. Her feet, though planted firmly in snow, felt rooted to the spot. She tried to stir but nothing happened; She tried to pull away but the thread seemed to bind her, to keep her fettered to the bed. The warm, golden glow in her chest began to dissipate, cold panic replacing it-

She suddenly remembered with mind-numbing clarity where she actually was.

“Help…” she whispered then, “Please, help me…” Snow knotted against her fists, the tree branches seemed to lengthen like black, grasping threads. “I don’t want to die in the wildwood…” she murmured, “Please, have pity, please…”

And she looked around, wanting to see someone. Something. Wishing that the wolf who had called to her were here, that she could find another of her kind to help keep her safe. The golden thread was tightening painfully against her skin now, slipping and sliding seductively over her face, her entire body. Its touch disturbing, the feel of it like hands and yet not like them. The sensation it brought bringing back memories Stray had long tried to banish from her mind. She felt its touch against her throat and a tiny gasp escaped her. She felt it slide beneath her nightdress to caress her belly and her entire body erupted in protest, in angry, drowning-in-memory wrath. The thread solidified its grip, depriving her of air as she struggled against it. Its weight pulling her onto her back on the bed now, the press of it against her no longer pleasant or safe. Stray began to fight in earnest, thrashing and shaking. She snarled and managed to get one hand loose: The thread retaliated by looping itself over her eyes, blacking out her vision. Making her panic rise another notch. She dragged herself off the bed, knees smacking painfully into the snow; The wolf howled again and without thinking she took off towards it, her feet cutting painfully from their contact with the stony ground. Her breath coming in gasps as she fought her inhuman opponent with everything she had. Something exploded into her from her right, knocking her sideways: She hit the snowy ground with a painful thump, the feel of something heavy rolling her onto her back making her scream long and loud. A hand clamped over her mouth and she bit at what felt like fingers; A taste of tobacco flared in the air. Suddenly the golden thread was torn from her eyes and throat, and she could breath- move- see again. The only thing she could register was the way her heart was pounding, the only thing she could let herself recognise was the great swell of relief in her chest. Stray crawled onto her knees, her chest heaving; it took her a moment to realise that there was no snow beneath her now. She forced herself onto her back, her breath coming in great gasps; the wagon seemed larger and dingier for some reason, its window blacked out and dark. For a second all she could do was try to catch her breath, tears running down her cheeks, her body in overload-

And then, very softly, she heard a strangled, muffled gasp.

It was at this moment that Stray realised she was no longer in the medical wagon.

Slowly, with a dawning sense of dread, the girl forced herself to her feet. Her body trembling and sweat-soaked, her hands wringing against each other like they were never going to stop. The shadows thrown by the candle to her right made the room seem to dance and sway, and she only had time to wonder whether she was still dreaming- Surely she had been dreaming? Surely that could only have been a dream?- When she saw Logan on his back, his face a mask of agony. The tell-tale spidering purple that signified her Curse inching across his skin. He was completely naked, curling in on himself; For a second Stray thought she saw fur beneath his skin, the hair erupting, but when she looked closer all she saw was damaged, sick flesh. Flesh that she had marred. She went to touch him but he pushed himself away from her. She tried again, covering her lethal hands with a nearby pair of gloves but still he forced himself back. She supposed he couldn’t bear to have her touch him now. Stray wasn’t sure when she started screaming for help but within seconds Ororo was in Logan’s wagon. Mistress Red and her husband Master Summerisle both at her heels. “What happened?” Red barked. “What did you do to him?”

She was staring at Stray like she might stare at a snake.

The girl opened her mouth to answer but nothing happened. She stared helplessly at the apothecary, at Ororo, but nothing would come out. She looked down at her hands and belatedly realised she still held the shirt the wolf had given her: That single golden thread was still visible against the fabric, its length slicked crimson with her blood. For a beat that seemed to stretch an eon Stray stood there staring, not knowing what to say to them-

While, to her right and completely unnoticed, Mistress Gold raked a hand through her beautiful, long, noticeably rose-gold hair.