The girl stands at the edge of the old mill yard, the leather-bound book pressed to her chest. She has read the word only once, in the cramped ink of the book's final page, and never dared speak it — until now. In the grey before dawn, she shapes the syllables with her tongue and lets them fall into the air. They taste of copper and old smoke. For a moment, nothing. Then the shadows beneath the millstone shift. A pair of amber eyes blink open — not a trick of light but something warm and deliberate. The ember fox steps out from nowhere, fur the colour of autumn burning, and sits. It looks at her as though it has been waiting a very long time. Somewhere above, a single crow calls once and falls silent. The word has found its intended ear. What comes next is hers alone to decide.