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believe.”
    “The way one would raise a prize calf for the market.” His tone was as sour as week old milk.
    She stopped spinning and turned to him, glaring. “My father loves me. He wants the best for me. Is there any harm in that?”
    “When it puts you at the king’s mercy? Yes.”
    Gwyneth nearly knocked her stool over as she rose and marched over to fetch another bale of straw. She was sweating as she dragged the heavy load past the dark-cloaked man.
    “You will never be done in time at this rate, and there won’t be time for my payment,” he remarked. “I will help you to finish faster.”
    With a swirl of his hooded cape, he turned from her and brought over another bale of straw. He handed her bundles of straw and replaced her distaff each time it was full of gold. Gwyneth’s hands flew as she fed straw into the flyer, her foot was a blur operating the treadle and the wheel spun so fast it made her dizzy. She was fairly certain the stranger was responsible for this increased speed with his mysterious magic.
    Much sooner than the previous evening, or at least she thought so, although she had no timepiece with which to measure the night, the seemingly insurmountable task was finished. Rows and rows of golden thread sat on the floor. Only a few bobbins were still empty, and there was no straw left except for chaff and dust that littered the floor.
    Her back stiffened as Gwyneth became aware of the stranger standing behind her. His hands rested on her shoulders, heavy and warm. She was torn between pulling away from the unfamiliar touch and purring like a cat as he kneaded her muscles lightly.
    “Are you ready to pay my price?” The low rumble of his voice set her very bones trembling in a not entirely unpleasant way.
    In answer, Gwyenth rose from the stool and turned toward the dark figure, ready to do her duty. She rubbed her numb and stiffened fingers against her palms, trying to restore the feeling in them. Her mind spun like the spinning wheel through all the possibilities of what he might do to her. What he did do took her by surprise.
    The demon stepped toward her and took her hands in his gloved ones, turning her palms up so he could examine her cut and swollen fingers. He bent his head over them and she felt the warm, moist puff of his breath against her skin just before he pressed his lips to one palm. Her hands were hidden in the shadow of his great hood, but she felt every touch of his unseen lips as they traveled over her hands, kissing each finger, every pad of her palms and even her wrists.
    By the time he pulled away, releasing her hands, Gwyneth felt no more soreness. She rubbed her fingertips against her thumbs and found the cuts from the straw miraculously healed.
    “How did you…?” She stopped speaking. Having accepted the reality of spinning straw into gold, it was a little absurd to be amazed by a simple healing.
    “What will happen now?” she asked instead.
    His hesitation gave her the impression that perhaps her savior wasn’t too certain himself now that the time for payment had arrived. He touched a gloved hand to the edge of his hood and, for a breathless second, she was certain he would throw it back and reveal his face at last.
    Instead, he lowered his hand, reached beneath the folds of his great cape, allowing her to catch a glimpse of equally black shirt and trousers beneath, and brought out a long scarf—black, of course. At first she imagined he would bind her wrists with it, then Gwyneth realized what it was for.
    “Turn around,” her anonymous visitor commanded, and when her back was to him, she felt his presence close behind her again. She heard the whisper of silk before she felt the cool, smooth material slip against her forehead and cover her eyes. He bound the blindfold tight around the back of her head so there was no chance it might slip down.
    Gwyenth listened hard to the sounds of his movement, a slight rustling, soft breathing, the tap of boot heels, a