In Michelle's befuddled mind, one last ounce of self-preservation was hanging on for dear life and explicitly telling her to keep her mouth shut an her gaze down.  "Mister Greyhound, what are you doing here and why are you talking as if you're going to hurt me? Why is Ansel in chains and is the Prince kicking him?" was what she wanted to scream but fought hard to keep to herself.

Her heart pounded in her throat when mister Greyhound led her away. Up until moments earlier, the Prince had seemed so perfect, but seeing Ansel so miserable had woken her from her dazed state.

Not that she was any less confused. The treatment Ansel received was apparently linked directly to her presence in the forest but who was who and what was what? She still didn't know if Ansel could be trusted, nor the Prince. She wasn't even sure about mister Greyhound anymore.

Playing a meek lamb seemed her best option for the moment.

The Prince's owl followed them deeper into the cave and after passing several doors, Mister Greyhound unlocked one. He pushed her into a barren, dark room and nodded at the owl. "Got this, Strix. Thank you for guarding the door."

The door swung shut and mister Greyhound sagged against it, wagging his finger at her. "I would very much like to have a word with you, young lady, but I'm afraid I don't have the time to repeat what we all told you before. Here now, quickly, let's put these babies into your ears!"

"Who are you?" Michelle stared at him perplexed. This prompt shift of cold blooded demeanor into the good-natured chiding of an old family friend was dizzying.

"You know who I am, dear. Your grandfather's best friend, mister Greyhound."

"That's not what you mean and you know it. Are you a fairy?"

"A Fae shifter, dear. Not entirely the same."

"Like Ansel? You don't look like Ansel."

"I'm not a stag," he said indignantly, "I'm a wolf. See?" He threw his head back and opened his mouth to show her the glint of his fangs."

"I think I'm gonna be sick. Does grandpa know?"

Mister Greyhound put his hand over his heart, persisting in his offended look. "Your grandfather is everything I hold dear in this life. What do you think?"

The only thing spinning harder than Michelle's head was the contents of her stomach. Her grandfather had lied to her. All that vague talk about not driving through the forest after nightfall when he could have told her precisely why. Her stomach lurched, once, twice, and then she folded double and puked all over her pretty dancing shoes.

"How much fae food did you have?" Mister Greyhound stepped closer and swept her hair out of the way.

"Enough," she croaked, not as comforted as she otherwise would've been by the old man gently patting her back.

"There, there. That explains."

"Explains what? Shouldn't I have accepted it? Is it poison?" She desperately fought to keep control of her rising panic.

"No, no dear. I'm very glad you ate it. You did exactly as you should. As far as the food's concerned anyway. Fae food is very nutritious, you see? It keeps you going longer than you normally would. A bit like those energy bars you humans like so much but with an extra kick. I assume it's that extra that makes it so hard to digest for you lot. But better sick than dead, right?"

"Better sick than dead? What are you talking about? Are you kidding? What is going on here?"

"Humans that enter our realm must dance themselves to death. I'm afraid it is the rule."

More vomit exploded from her mouth. As much as she liked to dance, this was not how she had planned to leave this world. "The rule? And you agree to this rule? You're going to let me die?" She wiped her mouth with her wrist. Gross.

"My dear, do you not know who I am?" Again, he looked at her with incredulity as if he hadn't just proven himself to be everything she had never even imagined he could be. "I would never be able to face your grandfather again, which is why you have to listen and do as I say. Let's start by putting these into your ears. We can work on the shoes next."

In his hand lay a pair of tiny, shiny acorns, not at all something Michelle would put into her ears willingly. "Acorns?"

"Pixie acorns," he said in a hushed tone, "they're soaked into pixie protection potion. Feel how pliant they are!"

Michelle reached for the acorns that could indeed be kneaded like tiny balls of play-doh. "And they protect me from dancing myself to death? How?"

"Not exactly, it's the shoes that make you dance till you drop, but it's the Prince's voice that makes you feel good while doing it, and that's where these beauties come in."

The Prince's voice ... he had been enchanting her. Her reaction to him made sense now but that still didn't mean she could trust the shifter before her.

"Why would I believe you? If grandpa truly knew all this, he would've told me."

"He made a promise never to tell anybody about our realm."

"You made him promise to lie to his family? Nice."

"He didn't promise it to me although he probably did it to protect me. Your grandfather is a genuinely caring man. He wanted to protect me as well as the head sentinel he made the promise to. It was Ansel's father if you must know. Your grandfather always did what he could to protect you, Michelle. You shouldn't blame him. On the contrary, you should do everything you possibly can to return to him and put him at ease. He's worried sick about you."

There was not a doubt in Michelle's mind that last bit was true and she rubbed the acorns between her thumb and index trying to assess the harm they could do.

A rapid thump on the door startled them. "Why is this door closed, the Grey?" Ghislaine's voice sounded from the other side. "This takes longer as it should. The Prince wants to see her dance. The stag's not half as funny."

"Please?" Mister Greyhound eyed the pair of acorns in her hand and Michelle took another decision rooted in hope rather than knowledge. From the moment she had decided to follow Ansel into the forest, the academic inside of her had apparently ceased to exist.

The acorns slid smoothly into her ears and nothing out of the ordinary happened. "Like this? Wait! What about the shoes? You said you would do something about the shoes."

"Did I? I can't do anything about the shoes but I can tell you about them. The thing about the shoes is ... they dance when they hear music and stop when they don't, so when Ansel takes out the orchestra and I tell you to make a run for it, that's when you run."

He tugged her toward the door but Michelle made him wait. There was one more thing she had to know. "Ansel, is he one of the good guys? Can I trust him?"

Mister Greyhound cupped her chin and gently stroked her cheek with his thumb, his eyes a mixture of pity and sadness. "Listen to me, dear Michelle, and listen carefully. Ansel is of no concern to you."