Mary bends at the river's edge, plucking wildflowers from the muddy bank. Two rough men seize her arms and drag her down the path. She kicks and shouts, but a heavy hand clamps over her mouth. The gold thread at her wrist goes slack as they vanish into the trees.
Mary wriggles free and bolts through the woods. Her wooden clogs slip on damp leaves and she drops behind a hollow log. The men's voices boom closer. Torchlight flickers through the branches — bright dots like angry fireflies in the dark.
She scrambles to the river and leaps into a shallow pool. The cold water soaks her dress instantly. Boots pound on the stones above — the men are close. Mary clutches the floating gold thread and holds her breath.
Two small silver fishes glide to the surface and loop the gold cord gently around Mary's waist. Their tails knock against her skin — tiny, insistent thumbs. She feels their pull and opens her eyes underwater.
The fishes dive hard, pulling the cord taut. They dart downstream and the men's torches blur overhead. The water rushes warm and fast around Mary's shoulders, carrying her away from the noise.
They break the surface near the village dock. The fishes nod once, their scales catching the moonlight, then slip back into the dark with a soft splash.
Mary climbs onto the cobblestones and runs across the square. Her wet clogs slap against the stone. She throws herself against her mother's door and hears the latch click open.
Inside, the hearth fires glow amber. Her mother's arms close around her. Mary presses her damp cheek against the apron, breathing in woodsmoke and dried lavender. On the windowsill, the gold thread lies curled safe.