"Do I smell to you?" I ask, holding my hands out to our travelling companions.
"Is this normal behaviour, where you come from?" Mulan asks Snow.
My mother shakes her head, and then sends me her most reproving look. It's one she's had plenty of chances to perfect over the years, and I know exactly what it means. It means that I need to remember my lessons, need not to be me. I'd be happy if I never saw a dress again - but the accident of my birth means that court etiquette, and ballroom dancing, and politics is an everyday part of my life.
I used to think, when I was younger, that I'd prefer a life out on the road. A bounty hunter, perhaps. The idea of being on my own, of never stopping in one place for long, of bouncing from place to place, carried on the back of the winds, had always appealed. No parents, no responsibilities, no politics. I'd even got as far as packing several times, and once had saddled the horse, but then it was dinner time, or my mother found me, or a pretty chamber maid winked in my direction. But that kind of life requires a lot of travelling, and my feet right now are telling me that's a definite no-go.
So I roll my eyes in acceptance, and shift closer to the campfire. The heels of my boots are propped on a stone, as close to the flames as I dare. My companions are sat either side of me, and Aurora, rolled already into blankets, lays within a hands' span of the warrior woman. Earlier, although I tried to ignore it, her breaths came in whimpers, her sobs barely restrained.
"Is he really gone?" Mulan keeps her voice low, but we need no further words to know who she means. My mother nods, and pokes despondently at the fire.
"Yes. Imagine that," she says, "for Phillip to search all those years for her, only then to die." Her poking sends sparks and ashes floating into the night sky, and I watch, unconcerned, as they settle harmlessly on my toes. "Phillip's been a friend for years, and he never gave up on her. I never thought..." She trails off. She's grieving, I know, for her friend. But also for Aurora, for true love denied, and for how easily that could have been her own fate.
"I thought there were no more wraiths," I say. "I thought the last disappeared with Rumplestiltskin."
"We all thought so." My mother looks fiercer than I ever remember, her forehead wrinkled in thought. "And then there's the wolf. It's all connected somehow, I'm sure of it. It must be the Queen."
"Your majesty, if she was your step-mother," Mulan says, "isn"t she an old woman by now? Surely her hate and power has burnt out." My mother and I turn to her together.
"Never underestimate a witch," we say. It's a phrase that's been drilled into me since birth. There's other dire warnings too - about hate that never burns out, about seduction and deception.
"Regina would have to be at least sixty. She was eight or so years older than me." I can almost see the sums in Snow's head, watch as she assesses the threat. "But magic isn't like strength or speed, it doesn't fade with age. If she really is on the move again, we need to be very careful."
My mother looks at me, and I know that she's remembering how close she was to losing me. Her hand comes across, and rests warmly on my knee. I shift awkwardly under the weight of her love, under the weight of that destiny never fulfilled.
"Tomorrow we'll reach the town. From there, we'll be back in no time. We tell your father and the others about the wraith, and the wolf."
The campfire dies slowly, and finally Mulan stands.
"I'd get up if I were you, Princess," she says. "The soles of your boots are melting."
In the morning, I wake stiff and uncomfortable. As the camp stirs we waste no time, the determination to share our information shining in my mother's eyes. To be honest, I'm equally keen to get out of the forest, but I'm not sure my motivations are so pure. The crick at the bottom of my neck won't shift, no matter how many times I roll my shoulders or twist my head.
The crack in my sole only widens as we walk, and my steps are uneven and unsteady on my half-melted heels. By mid-morning we reach the old high road, and at least the cobbled stones are dry. Slowly the stream of traffic picks up, and soon we're part of the crowd that's heading for the town. It seems we've made it on market day, and while my mother waits for the horses at the guard station, I take myself off to look for a new pair of boots.
It doesn't take long before I've found a pair that fit. The leather is soft and well coloured, and the soles seem sturdy enough.
"And you're sure they won't crack in a week?"
"Of course not, your highness. These are elven made." I press the coin into his hand, and push my old boots from my feet. Leaning against the stall for balance, I turn back towards the crowd and catch a glimpse of a retreating head of brown hair and twiggy limbs.
It's the boy, the wolf's translator. I know it. Without evidence or reason, I know it.
I'm off, running across the market place, my new boots still in my hand. Both my socks are wet and cold, and the cobbles are hard and painful under my feet.
"Boy! Wait!" He doesn't turn or stop, and I race after him. I dart between stalls, drawing incredulous looks from the shoppers all around me. The way their mouths hang open, you'd think they'd never seen a barefoot princess before.
He turns a corner, and the line of sight is broken. Only a few seconds go by before I'm there myself, leaning on the corner of the building and panting, but he's gone. The only doorway seems to lead into some kind of inn. There's a weathered and peeling sign hung above the door, but it's so faded as to be illegible.
The decor inside is hardly better. The floor is covered in sawdust, wet patches clumping together where patrons have spilled their drinks, or their bladders, or worse. I wrinkle my nose in disgust, and hastily pull on the new boots.
The bar's customers stare at me as I walk in, and my hand clutches around my purse reflexively. I scan their faces, looking for the boy.
He's in the corner, sat at a table, a mug of drink in front of him. I move around the corner of the room, trying not to draw any more attention than my clothes and hair will draw any way. I can't chance him running. He looks up as I slide into the chair opposite, face blank. For a moment I think he doesn't recognise me, and I worry I've got the wrong boy.
The he speaks, and I know I haven't.
"How did you find me?" he asks, and I shrug.
"I'm good at finding people, I guess." I wave to the bartender, and order two meals. We sit in silence till they come, but he makes no move to leave.
The food is placed in front of us. His eyes are comically wide as he falls on the food, ripping chunks from the bread and cheese. I watch, my own plate untouched, until he's almost done.
"You gonna tell me, then," I say, "who sent you to me in the woods?" He eyes my plate hungrily, and I push it towards him, encouraging.
He's about to speak, I can tell, mouth opening around his food. He's stopped by a hand, long nailed and clean, falling on his shoulder.
"I think the one to be speaking to," says a voice, "is me."
