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Even better, under the guidance of Poet and Briar, under the approval of Queen Avalea, this place had branched into another Autumn haven. People with ailing minds—formerly branded as born fools, as simpletons—traveled here for short durations, for reflection and recovery. They bunked in bungalows, with guardians to oversee their progress. Afterward, they either settled here for good or returned to their roots.

The treehouse colony had become a residence and a sanctuary.

This had won me a tepid sentence from the Crown. Poet, Briar, and Nicu had appealed to Her Majesty. Then I’d explained my acorn theory to the queen, and as a group, we’d made the journey, where the confirmation flourished before us.

Aire hadn’t joined us. Not that I had expected him to.

As a compromise, the queen had placed me under house arrest, confining me to one of the bungalows. I’d only been permitted outside to help with the upkeep as people began to return. That, and I’d had to clean and tend to every piece of weaponry delivered to me.

I’d done it. I’d earned their pardon.

Someday, I might even earn their patronage. Someday, I might become a master weaponsmith for them.

After my sentence, Mother had been allowed to travel here and establish her own reprieve. This place and its nearness to the fairytale helped her get used to the trees again, even if it didn’t cure her. Little by little, she roamed amongst the oaks.

Piebald pigs squealed. A mama guinea pig led her pups across a walkway.

On my way out, I stopped outside Lyrik’s old potion room, the shelves now filled with jarred potatoes instead of curiosities. The cauldron bubbled with soup instead of some volatile brew.

I’d heard that he returned only once, to collect his supplies and donate his horse before heading to Winter. He must be there now, in the land of science and scholarship. I wondered if he regretted it.

Maybe someday I’d find out.

Maybe someday Nicu would forgive him.

I waved at Mother’s neighbors and trotted down a winding staircase, my body clanking although I’d enjoyed a nice bed of hot stones before my trip. Hiking along the stream, I glanced at my reflection in the water and winked.

The bolts of my knuckles. The knot of wood above my lip.

One other thing that had happened while here: I’d had an overdue realization. Wishes were great, but I couldn’t rely on just that. Not on a magic cure or treasure.

Nobody could. It was our wishesandwills, our hopesandactions, that gave us life—that shaped it.

Mother and I had always had what we needed. We had each other.

The workings of her mind didn’t make her useless. My woodskin didn’t make me distorted. We’d show the world that we lived a creative and skilled life, contributing to this kingdom, living as an example of it. We’d show the world we were just like everyone else, flawed and hindered, but real.

I’d been stripped of my fairytale features, only to want them back, knowing that would never happen. And so, I’d hiked into the woodland, into the locust clearing one dawn, and I carved my desire into a tree trunk, amidst all the other yearnings inscribed there by strangers. I carved what I missed most about myself, acknowledging it and expecting nothing in return.

I simply gave my want to the woodland. I gave it away. I let it go.

And so, nature had been generous. And that morning, it surprised me, returning me to the body that I’d been born with. A restored life.

It gave me back my woodskin.

In the paddock, Punk perched between the mule’s ears and chirped, eager for her birdhouse. In another three months, we’d return to fetch Mother and take her home, back to our cottage in the lower town. Until then...

“Just you and me,” I said to Punk.

The mule brayed. I rolled my eyes and scratched its coat. “You, too.”

Down the trade route, the wagon rocked, bumping over stones and stray brambles. I didn’t mind the idea of camping along the way. It felt nice to be on my own for once.

At one point during the journey, I halted the vehicle at precisely midday and waited by the hickories. Moments later, a girl slipped from the woods. She wore a checkered skirt, a quiver slung over one shoulder. A fox prowled around her feet.

She cocked her head. “Took you long enough.”

I pursed my lips. “People wait for me. Not the other way around.”