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and my skin. The kiss of the cold metal makes me shudder, which I try fiercely to still. Iā€™d really rather the Squire didnā€™t open my wrists by accident. He slides his glove under my wrist to steady me and holds me still while he makes the first cut.

I expect a flash of light, an inner-quake, something to mark the breaking of the binding. But thereā€™s nothing, and as the Squire works, I realize heā€™s not breaking the binding. Heā€™s loosening it. By cutting each knot, heā€™s slowly undoing what the demonā€™s done. If heā€™d slashed open the knotwork in one stroke, he might have broken the binding. But by cutting each knot, heā€™s not pitting his power directly against Jouā€™s. Heā€™s working around it.

He reaches the last knot and withdraws the knife. The bindingā€™s still there. The knotwork remains coiled around my wrist. The severed threads donā€™t fray or fall away. But their hold on me has lessened. The binding is held only by one knot, which the Squireā€™s carefully left, sitting right on top of the big blue vein of my wrist. He taps the knot with a gloved finger and then touches his finger to my mouth.

Charades again. ā€œSorry, I donā€™t get it.ā€

He pushes the tip of his finger between my lips and taps my teeth. The metal of his gauntlet jars against the enamel. A bright shock up into my skull. ā€œOw. What, I bite it off?ā€

The Squire nods and gestures for my other wrist.

When heā€™s cut all but the last knot on the other binding, he rises and offers me a hand to help me up. I take a deep breath as I straighten. Smells flood up my nose. Moss, the vanilla-sweetness of Joe Pye Weed, wet leaves, the tannic edge of the bogs. Good smells. Earthy smells. Frog-song rises from my left and I know theyā€™re calling me to a stand of trillium. My connection with Earth, the real Earth, my Earth, opens wide again.

I take a step towards the frogs, another. Feel the rightness of my direction. And of the path Iā€™ve chosen. Maybe the demon wonā€™t be happy when he discovers what Iā€™ve done. Maybe he wonā€™t ever have to discover it. But I like having the ability to rid myself of his bindings whenever I want to. Having the freedom of choice.

Itā€™s long after midnight by the time I get home. Iā€™m yawning, and the Horse uncharacteristically blows out a long breath as I slide to the pavement in front of my house.  Do fae horses get fatigued?

The Squire doesnā€™t seem fatigued, and waits with his usual patience while I dismount and regain my footing after tangling up in my stupid skirt. When I turn to say good-night, he holds out his gauntleted hand.

I peer up into his palm. Thereā€™s a tiny glass tube sitting in the middle of the chain mail. I take it and turn it over between my fingers. No clue what it is. Demon-repellant? A girl can hope.

ā€œSorry,ā€ I say. ā€œWhat is this?ā€

The Squire drops the reigns heā€™s holding with his left hand and cups both gauntlets together. The bowl. I get it.

ā€œFae super-glue,ā€ I say. Despite the fact that old magics donā€™t really like being thanked by young magics, I say it anyway. Heā€™s more than earned it tonight. ā€œThank you. For everything. Iā€™m in your debt. Again.ā€

The Squire shakes his helmet. Then he reaches out and touches my cheek. A quick brush of cold metal against my skin. Then he and the Horse are gone and thereā€™s just the soft night breeze against my cheek.

Hmm.

I walk slowly into the house, kicking at some fallen leaves. Let myself in quietly to avoid waking the demon, and jump when he calls to me from the kitchen, ā€œHot chocolate, sweetness.ā€

I kick off my muddy boots and drop my overflowing backpack by the door. Walk warily into the kitchen. I expected him to be asleep. Will he notice what the Squireā€™s done to the bindings? I didnā€™t think Iā€™d have to face this until the morning, although some small rational part of my mind recognizes that the time wonā€™t make any difference to his reaction.

The demonā€™s standing at the stove. Two steaming mugs sit on the table. The mouth-watering smell of melted chocolate fills the kitchen. Three salamanders sit on the floor at the demonā€™s feet, in a neat little line: crimson, blue and cream. As I walk into the kitchen, the demon bends down and offers Wizard a piece of something brown and crunchy. The other two lizards crowd closer, eager for their share.

ā€œHi,ā€ I say softly, not wanting to disturb this very domestic, if infernal, tableaux.

ā€œHey. Thought you might like a midnight snack. You zest that lemon while Iā€™m watchinā€™ these? Donā€™t want ā€˜em to burn.ā€ He nods at the counter where thereā€™s a lemon and a little stainless-steel zester that I definitely donā€™t own sitting on a cutting board.

I move to the counter, stepping over the lizard-line, and pick up the lemon and zester. Beside me, Jou opens a waffle-iron that I also donā€™t own. He takes a golden-brown waffle out of the press, pops it onto a pile of waffles sitting under a dishcloth, and pours more batter into the iron. My kitchen fills with a warm bread smell, a million times better than toast. Saliva floods my mouth and I have to swallow hard to keep from drooling.

ā€œYour idea of a midnight snack is a lot more epicurean than mine,ā€ I tell him.

Jou chuckles. Such a nice sound in my kitchen late at night. Some of the tension that knotted my neck and shoulders on finding him awake ebbs.

I create a small pile of lemon shavings on the cutting board while Jou cooks three more waffles. Two go under the dishcloth. One gets fed to the lizards. Jou shoo-es me to the table, and the lizards out of the kitchen, while he assembles the waffles and fixings.

Watching him, seeing the care with which he

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