Roland had to leave them. He only mentioned work at the forge, saluted his friend and rushed back faking a smile to hide his own concerns.
Even before he was gone, the silver dog returned into the hole and back to a werewolf she ordered Brenin to go pick more water.
When he came back, Joan was turning her back to him.
A pile of silver fur had formed near her.
She gestured for him to bring the buckets close, then for the man to get back.
"Rest now. It will be a long night."
"What's going on?"
"Three days from now, Joan of Cormoran must marry Corentin of Pivert and make him lord of Cormoran." She sneered. "That is why they are not hunting us."
He had washed his face with water at the stream. She could feel how fresher it was even without looking at him.
She was hiding her front to him.
So naturally, that human, feeling prisoner, was trying to get glimpses of it.
"What does that have to do with the night?"
Joan didn't let him get any.
"You will turn into a beast, then go to the sawmill. At the carpenter's workshop should be a carriage. See how long it might take to finish."
"Sounds simple." Then: "Wait, as a beast? You want me to wander the hamlet as a werewolf?"
"Yes."
He took that opportunity to pull her shoulder, as much to protest as to see whatever she was hiding from him.
Her hand intercepted his and threatened to break it. Brenin had to pull back, same as touching a burning rock.
With the other hand she had covered her side.
"Do as you are told." She fumed.
"Or what? You will kill me?"
"Or you will kill."
He looked away, exasperated. Walked to the back to lie there and try to get comfortable on the rough soil.
Sleep took forever to come to him but eventually the monotony, the slight darkness and wandering thoughts allowed him to snatch some rest.
When he woke up, evening had fallen. The ray of light at the entrance was gone.
A mantle had been thrown over his body.
Brenin looked at it first, then at the werewolf who still offered only her back to him. There was even more fur in two piles around her. One empty bucket had been thrown away.
She didn't give any hint of having noticed him but he knew better.
"Where did you find this?" He asked.
His fingers were touching the rough fabric. He could not tell what fiber this was, only that it was neither wool nor nettle. Silk? The woodcutter did not even know what silk felt like.
The mantle was of a light grey slightly bluish even in the dark.
She didn't stop her work.
"Don't wear it tonight."
"Of course, your highness."
He laid it down instead to protect from the cold ground, considered staying there some time longer but again, knew better. Some part of him could feel the stars going bright.
"So, how do I turn?"
"Hunger. Anger." Joan sighed. "Pick your axe and strike me."
That was an offer the human did not feel like refusing. He had got up, walked to straighten the bucket back up then snatched the heavy axe.
She was offering her back to him.
Both could tell he would not be able to kill her. He had fuzzy memories of her surviving worse, of himself surviving worse than a few axe swings. She perceived him holding that axe as if about to cut some tree.
His hand too close to the iron head.
Still he approached and braced, raising the weapon as much as the ceiling allowed. Breathing heavier. His arms started to stir.
Seconds later he still would not strike. That human was held back by a mix of feelings, some fears, some doubts, so uncanny the situation felt to him. There was a monster that had ruined his life, whose touch his arm remembered too well, offering him her back.
"Weakling." She groaned.
Even that failed to extract the necessary anger from him.
"Not all of us are innate killers! Can't you at least turn and look menacing?"
"You... are..." She hissed. "You idiot, you can't even hurt me!"
"I know, that doesn't..."
"No, you don't! My blood will stop your blade before it ever reaches me! Get in your head that you are nothing but a puppet of flesh!"
That finally got the man to swing.
His heavy blade fell on her neck and he felt it, his muscle straining suddenly, resisting the motion. Anger fought anger as his eyes went wild.
But the sharp edge stopped, having barely grazed her skin.
Joan could hear his agitation, his blood boiling finally and hated how weak he had been. The same human who had resisted the curse for two days had failed to cast blood from her.
But now that he had seen it was true, Brenin pulled the axe for a second strike. Fear had been replaced with excitement, the blind hope of breaking past that resistance that had forgot how iron could hardly hurt those cursed.
Instinctively, his two hands had slipped further away from the iron head and to the base of the handle.
All of his strength unfurled, crashing against the overhwelming urge the curse imposed to keep her safe.
Once more, the blade did hardly more than caress her.
A red veil had fallen over his vision. He could feel his entire body stir and stretch but could not care less, focused as he was on seeing that neck fly.
She stopped the third swing with her hand.
"Now go." Her voice ordered.
Brenin watched himself turn toward the entrance. Had had dropped the axe without barely an hesitation. Once turned, her will was absolute.
"Wait."
He was about to climb out of the hole, turned to her his bestial eyes.
The werewolf had not yet realized the churning hunger in his stomach that was driving him more than any thought.
"You will make excuses to stray from your task. The moment you give in to one, you are lost. Do you understand?"
That beast was in no state to answer.
All it cared was to go out and seek blood. It might have even forgot about the carriage, but for a direction to its hunt.
It took another minute of silence for the human to emerge from that trance.
When she perceived some humanity back in his eyes, she waved him off. The werewolf, restrained for so long, exulted and rushed out. Its howl sounded so puny to her, truly miserable.
He would fail, she thought. Succumb to the curse and feast, and she would have to kill the whole hamlet.
But there was no time left for that human to learn.
So, no matter how tense she felt herself, a catastrophy jolting her spine, Joan kept threading the fur and weaving it with claws alone. The second mantle would take her another couple hours and after that she would still need a tunic.
Or conversely a cote for herself
Joan of Cormoran could not be caught walking among the cattle in company of a foreign man mere days before a noble's marriage.