The huntsman should turn back at the edge of the woods.  

Night swallows the sun hours ago, leaving only a sliver of moon to guide him. The trees here grow too close, their branches tangled like skeletal fingers. The air smells of damp moss and something faintly metallic—old blood, perhaps, or rust.  

Then he sees it.  

The tower rises from the earth like a broken bone jutting through skin. Vines choke its surface, their leaves black in the moonlight. At first, he thinks it abandoned. Then movement catches his eye—a flicker of gold high above.  

A girl.  

She leans against the window ledge, her face turned toward the sky. Moonlight paints her in silver and shadow, but even from this distance, her beauty strikes him like a physical blow.  

Her hair is the first thing he notices—thick waves of gold spilling over her shoulders, so long it disappears behind the ledge. It shimmers faintly, as if woven from actual sunlight. Her skin is pale as fresh milk, smooth and unblemished, untouched by wind or sun. The cascade of her hair drapes around her, shifting like liquid with every breath she takes.  

For a moment, he simply stares.  

Then instinct prickles the back of his neck.  

Something is wrong.  

No tower stands this deep in the woods without reason. No girl lives this high without a way down.  

He creeps closer, boots silent on the damp earth. The vines rustle as he brushes past, their leaves whispering against his arms. He circles the tower once, then again, running his hands over the stone. His fingers search for cracks, loose bricks, hidden hinges—anything that might hide a door or ladder.  

Nothing.  

The stones are cold and solid, worn smooth by time. No handholds, no footholds, no secret latches. Just fifty feet of unbroken wall.  

Above, the girl sighs, a sound like wind through reeds. She still hasn’t noticed him. (Or so he thinks.)  

He hesitates, then calls up: "Miss?"  

She startles, her hair rippling like water as she turns. For a heartbeat, she simply stares down at him, her eyes wide and dark in the moonlight. Then, slowly, she smiles.  

"Hello, mister," she says. Her voice is soft, lilting, the kind of voice that makes you lean closer to catch every word. "What brings you here?"  

The huntsman adjusts his pack, suddenly aware of the dirt on his clothes, the sweat on his skin. "I came to hunt," he says. "But how did you get up there?"  

Her smile falters. "I mustn’t say. Mother warned me about boys." A pause. "You’re a boy, aren’t you?"  

He huffs a laugh. "I’m not a boy, milady. I’m a man." He pats the satchel at his hip. "I’ve got berries. A bit of pie, too. Homemade. Still warm, if you’d like some."  

Her eyes light up—a child’s delight in a woman’s face. "I have my ways of getting up here," she says, then gestures to a wooden contraption bolted to the window ledge. A pulley, crude but sturdy, its ropes frayed with age.  

"You have a rope?" he asks.  

She tilts her head. "What’s a rope?"  

He blinks. "Never mind," he says slowly.  

With a shrug, she gathers her hair in both hands and tosses it over the pulley. It cascades down the tower’s side, a waterfall of gold that shimmers faintly in the dark. The scent hits him first—lavender, yes, but beneath it something deeper, earthier, like wet soil after rain.  

"Am I supposed to pull it?" he asks.  

She giggles. "No, silly. Hold on. I’ll bring you up."  

He hesitates. The hair looks soft, impossibly so, but when he grips it, the strands hold firm as braided leather. As she hoists him, his boots scrape against the stone, sending loose grit pattering to the ground below. Halfway up, a vine brushes his arm, its leaves clinging like curious fingers.  

Then the window ledge is under his hands, and he is tumbling inside, knocking into the girl as he lands. The small table beside her rocks, its legs screeching against the floor. They fall together in a tangle of limbs and gold, the huntsman barely catching himself before he crushes her.  

For a breathless moment, he finds himself staring at her bare feet—small, delicate, the toes slightly curled against the wooden floor. A child’s feet, soft and unmarked.  

Then he looks up.  

Her hair has shifted in the fall, parting like a curtain to reveal the slender curve of her shoulder, the dip of her collarbone. Strands still cling to her, coiling around her arms and waist like a second skin.  

She doesn’t seem embarrassed. Just curious.  

"Welcome," she says, and extends a hand. Her fingers are slim, the nails clean and rounded. No calluses. No scars. "My name is Rapunzel."  

He takes her hand. Her skin is warm. Too warm. Like fever.  

"Gio," he says, standing.  

THE PULLEY