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“Maybe I have a soft spot for fools,” she said quietly.

“And rabbits?” I asked.

The corner of her mouth quirked. “Maybe.” She reached out suddenly and caught my hand. She ran her fingers over my palm, examining the unbroken skin. My breath caught. Her fingertips were cool and callused. “There’s not even a mark,” she said. “It must have healed you. But why would it do that?”

“I saw it, you know. The Other,” I told her.

“You mean the figments?” Bryony asked. She let go of my hand, and I felt a flicker of disappointment.

“No, I mean I saw it. Really saw it.”

“That’s not possible,” Bryony said, shaking her head. “The dark soul—it’s not a physical thing you can see. Not in this world, at least.”

“I don’t think it was this world,” I replied. “It was like I was looking up at a night sky—like I was floating in space. But all the stars were black. I could see it moving in front of them.”

“You don’t know what you saw.”

“But I do,” I said, angry now, tired of being told that I didn’t know what I knew, didn’t see what I saw. “It was beautiful. And horrible.”

The look in her eyes was a mix of hope and grief and jealousy and wonder. “I’ve always wanted to see it. Not the faces it wears, but what it really looks like.”

“Maybe you will someday,” I said. I didn’t understand her connection to that thing, but I could understand being awed by it.

“Maybe.” She dropped her eyes. Her hands cupped her elbows. “I’m glad you’re okay,” she admitted.

“I’m a long way from okay,” I told her. “Bryony, whatwerethose things? The Folded and the shadows, I mean. They werereal. Solid. The figments aren’t like that, are they?”

Bryony shook her head. “You might think you feel a fleeting touch from a figment, but it’s all in your head. But the dark soul makes other things, too.” She spoke in the careful cadence I’d come to expect from her explanations, like she’d never had to lay it out for anyone before. “The figments are like... a mask, maybe? They’re a way for it to be seen and heard. They’repartof it. The shadows and the Folded are more like dolls. The dark soul made them, but they’re separate from it.”

“So it makes monsters,” I said, shuddering.

Her brows drew together, her expression sorrowful. “There’s something wrong with it. It’s like it’s broken. That’s why the things it makes are so violent. It used to make all kinds of things, wild and beautiful like the hounds—but not for a long time now. They were always dangerous if you weren’t careful, but it’s way worse than it used to be.”

I’d thought the way she kept fumbling for an explanation was because she didn’t know how to make me understand. But I was starting to realize it was something else. “You don’t actually know for sure what it is, do you?”

Her lips skinned back from her teeth, her breath hissing. “I’m the Witch of Harrow,” she said. “The witch has always—”

“Did you know the last witch?” I asked, interrupting her. She faltered into silence. “You’re as much in over your head as I am,” I said, feeling a bit smug—but then dread stole in. I’d been counting on her knowledge.

“We’re not alike,” she said. The venom was back in her voice. “I may not know anything, but I know that the Vaughans don’t belong here. You claimed this place, but it isn’t yours.”

“And what about you? You serve the dark soul?” I asked.

“I’m no one’s servant. The Vaughans came to these woods, and they built Harrow and they trapped something here. They treated it like a monster, but the witch knew better. And because she saw the truth of it, it could never deceive her. The witch chooses the dark soul, and the dark soul chooses her, and there is only truth between them.” Her shoulders were thrown back, her head held high, and her eyes burned with conviction.

“You keep saying that it can’t trick you,” I said. “You aren’t just talking about the weird things people feel around me. Do you mean the figments?”

She shook her head and ran her hand through her hair, pulling it back from her face. A few strands leaped free again immediately, falling over her eyes. “It can change things. Small things, usually. Tiny little tweaks to reality. A red door is suddenly white. Flowers grow in the wrong season. Other people don’t remember that it was different before. But my memories can’t be changed.”

“Then that’s what happened this week,” I said, putting it together. “Iwasn’thanging around all week, but everyone else remembers it that way because the dark soul changed things around?”

“I’ve never seen it change something that big, but maybe,” she acknowledged.

“What else has it changed?” I asked.

She shrugged. “Recently? Just the flowers.”

A shiver went through me. “What flowers?”