Perhaps the gods had considered Marion’s deal quite tenderly. A week passed, turning into another. A second week passed, and it was the dawn of the final day that Jacket would emerge from the woods on the edge of the farm. She approached in the shape of a hound, a pouch held firmly in her mouth. The fey sat patiently at the door of the farmhouse, waiting for it to open that morning.

For the last two weeks, Arthur had always been the first one out, with Marion shortly behind, and ...