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The dilemma had caused me to toss and turn all night. If anything happened to Nicu, his family would incarcerate me, and my head would roll. I’d already committed one crime. I didn’t need to be accused of another.

If anything happened to Mother while I was gone...

If she did something extreme and got the neighbors’ attention...

I’d saw off my nose for her. I’d trade my followers for her. I’d storm a castle and steal from the Crown for her.

But I didn’t believe the trees ate carpenters out of revenge for taking hunks of bark. I hadn’t been the one holding a mallet to my day’s work.

Nor, in the past, holding a mallet to other things.

To other people.

Two choices. Either stay and watch over her, risking proximity to the castle, and losing out on the final acorn. Or leave her alone, risking the unknown of Autumn’s woodlands, and chasing the possibility of healing her.

I grabbed my feather hat and set it atop my head. Mother cupped my cheeks, the skin of her palms dry and calloused, her touch nevertheless gentle.

Most times, the contact was peaceful. Other times, it wasn’t.

Sometimes, she acted reasonably. Other times, she didn’t.

“My timber girl,” she said, her hemp apron dusting the floor. “Take the axes and take the safest route. Mind the trees, protect yourself. Promise me.”

“Anything for you,” I said around the rock in my throat.

The sun rose outside, highlighting the white of her braids. “While you’re away, be the truest girl you can be. An honest girl.”

I’d spoken too soon. I should have said anything for her—within reason.

***

An hour later, I rode our mule out of the lower town, two saddlebags balanced on its haunches. For confidence, I wore my signature ensemble: charcoal gray pocket skirt, ivory shirt, pecan-dyed cape with a gray-lined hood, and my feather hat. A mishmash of neutral Autumn tones, like the overcast sky meeting the earth.

Once certain that Mother had stopped watching and vanished from the window, I idled while Punk guided Nicu from the backyard, steering him toward my waiting spot. I’d been about to help him, but he mounted behind me without assistance, wrapping his arms around my middle and tucking his head beneath his own hood, to avoid possible recognition as we left the town walls behind.

From there, we passed through the oat fields, the stalks’ dainty tips tickling our limbs, and then slipped into corn fields. Ahead, Punk scouted the area, her plumes cutting through the clouds. I’d brought a map of Mista, but my sidekick enjoyed navigating.

The fields melted into a forest, the majestic beeches soon replaced by aspens—my namesake, unfortunately. Yeah, it was pretty, but Mother had still chosen a wimpy wood to name me after.

Blanched bark. Warty ridges. Spindly boughs.

Weak wood. Hobby-crafting wood. Easy to cut.

I’m not a twig. I mean, look at me!

A stream trampled the spokes of a mill wheel, all splashes and creaks. A Mista butternut beaver paddled through the water.

The first chance we got, we clomped off the trade road and down a denser path. Nicu babbled, challenging me to grasp most of what he said, but I liked that about him. He charmed without knowing it.

Deeper into the woods, I remembered something. “What did you mean last night, about a true acorn?”

“Mmm?” he asked, resting his chin on my shoulder.

“You said that maybe my acorn heart wasn’t the true one for me.” I’d rejected this, yet it still tickled my mind. I wiggled on the saddle, unable to find a comfortable position. “You said maybe the third nut was meant for me, not Mother.”

“It doesn’t matter. You don’t believe that.”

“But why did you say it?”