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I scratched that option off my list, hiking across bridges, up and down stairways, peeking from treehouses to terraces. I marveled at the architecture, running my hand over railings and levers and shutters, the wood worn but not decrepit. Each piece linked and separated, a sprawling contraption of an Autumn city. Practical and playful, with its rocking chairs and swings and vista balconies, with its transport pulleys and tubes that objects—or people—could slide down.

Mother would have thrived here. I had to remember everything, so I could describe it to her later.

I wandered into bungalows, grain cellars, and lofts. I rifled through cupboards and book shelves missing actual books. I rummaged around for journals or maps or anything that might give me a clue. A scribble or scratch, hinting that someone had known more than others.

I’d meant for my search to be cursory, but once I started, I couldn’t stop until I’d invaded each dwelling. By the afternoon, my bolts ached, my woodskin chafed, and my stomach growled. I detoured to a communal kitchen, where a kettle, dried sausages, and strings of onions hung over baskets of turnips. I devoured two fat links, packed an extra one, then washed the meal down with a pitcher of water.

The rogue swaggered into the room. I cornered him, refusing to let him eat in peace until he broke down the area, what niches to explore and what creepy ones to avoid. On my way out, I heard him call out to me, saying not to let any critters make a nest in my hair.

Without a backward glance, I flung my arm up, glad that I still had nine fingers left, including the most important one. I tossed my middle digit his way, a token of my feelings for him.

With my satchel flopped over my shoulder, I scouted further afield into the forest. Punk flapped through the slots between trees. In a nut grove, shelled nuggets rained on us while a sleeping opossum dangled upside down from a branch, the crank of its tail coiled around the limb.

My boots crushed puddles of ginger and wine-stained leaves. Rustic scents rose from the woodland, old soil and bark. Creatures chattered, the noises stuttering through the netting of boughs.

Everything felt the same but different, the colors richer, the sounds deeper, the scents savorier. Like a tale from a page.

The branches curled more ambitiously. Like they might have an agenda. Like they might dance—or snatch a person off their feet.

This place looked tailored for curses and wishes, watchful of its inhabitants. As if these woods had a soul.

I orientated myself, getting the gist of the area while searching for clues: branches that might be shaped in a queer way, maybe like arrows pointing in a direction? Or an inconspicuous acorn path? I searched for hints of where the fairytale lumberjack might have walked on that fateful day. Or if the logger had even passed through this area.

I took inventory of the trunks, of their arrangement, monitoring for patterns of tree types or maybe a single species standing out from the crowd. I noted spots that might have been attractive for lumber work, with fine bark for chopping.

This, assuming anything remotely useful or similar would still exist after a century.

Punk plopped onto my shoulder and released a weary chirp. She’d been jolly up until then, as the scenery morphed and a murkiness wrapped around the colors. The branches suddenly appeared craggier, not curled as they had been a second ago. Pinholes of white jabbed the air in random spots, like wicked fairies keen on spying.

Enthralling and eerie. Familiar and alien. Inviting but unwelcome.

My woodskin tingled. It felt as though the woods recognized me and hadn’t decided whether to be glad about it. Whether I should be here or not.

The wind picked up. The woods seemed to shrink, closing in around us. A greeting and a warning.

You’ve come. Now go away.

I wanted to stay. I wanted to go.

The critter noises rang longer and sharper, a wince to the ears. Punk shuffled across the ledge of my shoulder. Absently, I stroked her wings.

Had that exposed root just...twitched?

Had that trunk just...grunted?

All right. It was getting a little intense. Time to call it a day.

We scurried out of there, passing from moody spots to pleasant spots, so closely bunched together. Acorns cracked under my soles. Clouds pushed a chill through the air.

I exhaled when we reached the boundary of the treehouse colony. For an instant, I got an idea of how Mother felt, fearing the trees, thinking they would harm her for using their wood. Not that it was true.

My gaze skipped across the isolated community, searching for a glimpse of blond hair. For some reason, I wanted to see him. By the time I gave up, I’d recovered from the shakes.

***

I passed Lyrik’s potion room, inspiration smacking me in the face.

He stood inside his lair, hypnotized by a decanter and his own thoughts. He could be another useful allyifI could tell him the truth—which I couldn’t