Once upon a time, in a small village to the south of the new city, there lived a girl. As happens in such villages, there were many girls. And as the new city was still very new indeed, it was the custom for girls coming of age to celebrate by attending a ball in the city. All the girls coming of age would, at the end of spring, travel by carriage to the new city, dressed in their finest formal gowns, each one accompanied by one of the boys from their village, or another one of the villages which were not so far away.

Now, as it happened, spring was approaching, and all the girls of the village had found a boy to take them to the great ball in the new city save one. As is the province of children, all the other boys and girls teased the young woman mercilessly over her solitude. They would drive her, crying, from the fields where they played and invent mocking rhymes which were passed throughout the village.

Truthfully, the girl had no interest in the great ball. Her only wish was to see the new city, and the first taunts over her lack of an attending boy left her more confounded than injured in any way. But time had worked its wounds and, even if she wished to show them all up, there was no boy for miles around that would be seen with her. Still, she vowed she would make them all regret their harsh words. She wrapped her cloak about herself and set off into the dark woods.

She walked for some hours, listening to all the animals around her, following no path, but veering always away from the sound of life, until she was soon surrounded only by silence. It was from this silence that a large, gray wolf emerged. It bared its teeth and it raised its hackles, and it readied itself to spring upon the girl and make a meal of her. Before it could do so, she struck it a harsh blow across the muzzle, and looked directly into its eyes. The wolf saw she was not prey and was not scared, and so it was cowed and had no other choice but to follow her bidding.

The girl and the wolf made their way back to her home, and she bade the wolf lie down in the stables. She lit three candles and fell to sewing. All night long she labored, for the great ball was the next day. As dawn blossomed in the sky, she called the wolf from the stables into the house. She ordered it to stand up on two legs, and dressed it in the guise of a man, and clothed it in a fine suit. The wolf admired his new guise and said, “This is all lovely and clever, good lady, but I do not know to what end, nor even your name.”

“My name is not your business,” said the girl, “You may call me lady Catherine, if you like.” The name appealed to her. “As for what you shall do, you will accompany me to the great ball in the new city. You will lay eyes on no other woman but me, and you will dance with no other woman but me. To me alone you will show kindness, but to all others you may indulge your lupine instincts and savage them with what words you will.”

The girl took the wolf’s arm in her own, and together they went to the ball. All the other girls looked at her with the venom of jealousy in their eyes. She had chosen well, for though she could disguise his form, there was no hiding the nature of the wolf. Thus the night passed, and each girl in turn endeavored to distract the wolf from his lady Catherine. And, in turn, he savaged each one with his own brutal and cunning wits, tearing out their throats with words so they could say no more, the blood draining from their faces in much the same way as he would have it drain from their bodies, but for the will of the girl.

As for the other boys, none dared approach him. The bravest met his eyes for moments only, then turned away. There were no other wolves among these children.

The great ball was regarded as a rousing success, but only by one person. And when all the other children left at the end of the night to return to the small village, the girl remained behind. “Small villages breed small minds,” she declared. “I have no more interest in such frivolous girls and silly boys. I will make this city my own.” Dismissing the folly of boys, she stripped off the wolf’s suit and its guise of a man, and made it walk on all fours again. “Come wolf, I have no need of a boy, but a wolf may yet prove its worth.”

In this way, the lady Catherine set out into the city. She made the city her home as if she had lived there forever, and lived her life twice over again on its streets. But though she never ceased to tire of the city, it seemed she had erred in one capacity. The women of the city were no less frivolous than the girls of the village, and its men were no less silly than the village’s boys. Though something of the aura of the city found its way into their speech and mannerisms, she soon discovered these traces were gilded surfaces hiding the dull bronze beneath.

She pondered this one evening, sitting beneath the light of a kerosene lantern, in the small house which she had acquired over her few months of living in the new city. At last she took up her tools of sewing and mending once again, and worked for three full days, with three lanterns lighting her stitches. On the fourth day she summoned the wolf once more, and made it stand on its hind legs again. Now she dressed it in the guise of a woman (for, being a wolf, its true nature was as mutable as the girl wished it to be), and dressed this lupine mannequin in finery.

“My wolf, you have been faithful for longer than fair sense demanded, and never is your conversation silly or frivolous. I am tired of searching for an equal in this city, for I fear the only equal to be found is the city herself. Thus I will ask of you, rather than order, if you will live with me as an equal. I will give you a name, and you will be as I am, and in turn I will tell you my own name as well.”

In truth the wolf had hoped for such an offer since she was stripped of her humanity at the ball. She readily agreed, and the wolf and the lady lived together as equals from that day on.