Page 41

She huffs, struggling with the uncooperative zipper. “This entire forest is creepy. What else is new?”

“Think about it. Who just leaves their equipment behind like this?”

“Emily and Brian.”

“Okay, besides them.” I gesture at the tent, bleached pink by the sun. The caught zip, the old ashes, the rust on the pot. “Someone clearly never came back.”

“Ha!” She turns around to give me a victorious grin. “Got it!” she crows, yanking the zipper down.

“Are you even listening to me?”

Suddenly, she turns to me, face screwed up. She presses a hand to her stomach like she’s steadying herself, then lets it fly to her mouth as she grunts with disgust. “Fuck, it’s foul.”

The offending odor wafts out. It doesn’t take long to hit me.

It’s like nothing I’ve smelled before. Mostly spoiled food and the unpleasant tang of mold and mildew and body odor.

Cigarettes spilling out of the pack but no lighter.

A broken handheld radio missing its batteries.

Dead bugs pool in the corners of the tent, upturned beetles and lady bugs and moths with what look like eyes on their bent wings.

Faded packets of colorful Fun Dip scattered at the foot of the sleeping bags, their nylon thoroughly gnawed.

I gag, stumbling backward. Even though the tent wasn’t sealed, the captured smell of decay and disuse lingered for what must have been years. Trapped and festering. The odors should have faded with the airflow, but it’s been left stagnant. I can taste the noxiousness in the back of my throat.

“Nothing happened to these people,” Tayla says hoarsely. “There weren’t any backpacks in there. They just packed up and left. We should keep moving, too.”

“Packed up?” I’m incredulous. “This mess they left behind isn’t exactly ‘Leave No Trace,’ Tayla. We should take a look at the expiry dates on the food. It’s our only clue to how long the tent’s been here.”

“This is exactly why I said no distractions!” she snaps. “Whatever happened to them, it was ages ago. We can’t help them. Like, I’m pretty sure this predates us being born, Nova. We have one job, just one, and you’re chasing all this crap that doesn’t even matter!”

“Other people matter,” I say stubbornly. “And you’re the one who starting poking around and investigating here! But the second I want to take a closer look, you cut me short!”

“The only person we should care about right now is Kiara. Do you even give shit about her?”

“Of course I do! I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

“Then quit chasing ghosts and focus on getting the girl.” She stomps past me, kicking the pot into the trees, where it’s swallowed up immediately. Without waiting to see if I’m following her, she flings herself back in the direction we were heading.

I scramble after her, terrified she’ll disappear like the pot.

Shame swells in my chest as I replay Tayla’s words.

Sure, that campsite freaked me out, but I did let myself get distracted by the mystery.

By the fear. By nameless, faceless people who might be just fine, thirty years older, sitting cozy at home and laughing about that one time they camped in the forest and were so terrified they fled without packing up.

“Here!”

At Tayla’s shout, I realize she’s found a place where we can clamber down the side. Frankly, it’s not ideal. As she starts to descend, the dirt shifts, crumbling away under her boots.

“It’s not going to support your weight,” I say, thrusting out my hand to haul her back up.

“I—can—do—this.”

Her desire to be in charge, to best everyone else, to be the smartest in the room is going to kill us both.

I grab her wrist, hoping it won’t get dislocated if it has to support her body weight if the slope collapses.

To be safe, I grapple with her forearm, wrapping my fingers around it tight. “Just take my hand!”

“I’m not scared! I’m fine! I can do thi— ahhhhh !”

“Tayla!” I shriek.

She doesn’t fall far. And when she lands more or less safely, even though it’s on her ass, we’re both embarrassed. She hurriedly makes a show of looking all around, getting her bearings, but I’m pretty sure it has more to do with hiding her pink cheeks from me.

She plants her hands on her hips. “Well, what are you waiting for, Nova?”

I roll my eyes. Of course she has to sound like this is what she meant to do all along.

My own descent is less dramatic but no less ungainly.

I brush off where the loose dirt has clung to my jeans, wincing at the state of my nails. The once impeccable black polish, shot through with just a hint of midnight-blue glitter, is starting to chip, specks of dirt lodged so deep under the nail that even picking at them doesn’t help.

My whole body is clammy and sticky, and I’d like nothing better than to peel off all my clothes and take a hot, bracing shower.

I’d even take a body wipe, but I don’t have one, and I’m definitely not wasting my drinking water.

I’ve never felt so gross in all my life, and that’s counting the gym days when I actually participate.

I drop my hands to my side before Tayla notices and makes a dig. That’s the last thing I need.

“Do you still have that acorn, Nova?”

I feel for it in my pocket, relieved to find the familiar lump. “Yeah, why?”

“Because I think we just got lucky.”

I follow the direction of her grin. While we had to make our own way down the rocky slope, from here there are low, flat slabs of stone, worn smooth with the years. “Someone made stairs?”

“Someone made stairs,” she says, a silly grin overtaking her entire face. “Mind if I take the lead?”

She does so before I can make so much as a peep.

As far as wins go, our find is a pretty glorious one. The path down isn’t totally without pitfalls, but we’re riding on an adrenaline high, invincibility coursing through our veins. Finally, we have hope.

“Watch out here,” says Tayla, pointing to a dangerous step.

“Thanks.”

In some places, the stone has cracked, jagged edges big enough to trip on.

The steps are polished, slick with rainfall that never reached us.

Moss and weeds choke the stone, brushing our ankles as we pick our way down on nimble feet, careful not to step on the flora or, worse, lose our balance and topple.

The moss is a brilliant green, lush and spongy, and between the snarls of weeds are pretty wildflowers: white mountain laurel; spiky magenta bee balm; charming white-and yellow oxeye daisies; white snakeroot, tall and poisonous, topped with clusters of toothy-looking petals; and beds of tiny, delicate periwinkle bluets.

How is this possible? Half this flora shouldn’t even be in season.

I pause to catch my breath. “Think the fae made this so pretty?”

She smiles at my joke but answers seriously. “Stonemasons, probably.”

“Fae stonemasons,” I counter.

Tayla doesn’t reply, but I hear the muffled sound of her laugh and feel irrationally pleased with myself.

With each step, the full lesson comes back to me: In every blade of grass, in every bug crawling on a mushroom cap, in every broken stick fallen in the dirt, in every budding flower, in every bird that’s ever been born, is the story of the earth.

They want to tell you their secrets. Look closely at everything with your own eyes, Nova girl, because when you find something that makes you question, that makes you change perspective, that’s when you know you’ve found a sign of wonder.

I almost laugh with realization. The wildflowers thriving even as other trees have changed hues into saffron and persimmon and amber honey.

Time preserved as though ensorcelled, suspended forever inside a terrarium.

Birds slicing through the air as if to attack us but perhaps maneuvering us in a direction of their choosing all along…

Signs of wonder.

I decide to keep this to myself for now. If I’m right, I’m right. If I’m wrong, I don’t need Tayla to mock me for it.

When we reach the bottom, she scans the ground like she’s magically developed the ability to track. “We should double back that way,” she says, pointing. “Hopefully Kiara didn’t move from where she fell.”

Fell? This again? “Do you still think she did fall, though? Evan said—”

“Evan has an overactive imagination.”

I stop myself from grinding my teeth in the nick of time. After everything we’ve been through, she’s still denying it? If there’s anything this trip has taught me, it’s that clinging to my denial and trying to fix my mistakes on my own has only made things worse.

Hiding the truth had felt like the best worst choice back then.

How could a daughter confess such a devastating sin to her mother?

How could a child of ten even begin to say how sorry she was, how she never meant it, how she’d do anything to undo it?

How could that child have known then that the awful guilt of what she’d done to her father would be the only thing that kept him alive in her memories?

I thought I could bury my mistake as a child so Mom never had to know what I’d done to Dad.

I’d tried to find him on my own, even though I could never get very far.

But then, without thinking, I’d hexed Kiara.

And it was impossible to deny my responsibility when it mimicked the same tragedy as before, so I decided to help her find the wishing well so I could save my dad, too.

I needed the Fellowship to make it this far.

Only in being willing to accept help and work together can we pull off this quest—and that won’t happen if Tayla keeps denying what’s in front of her.

Whether that’s the roots, or me and Kiara, or whatever other horrors are lying in wait for us. I just doubt that she’s ready to do it.

My grip on courtesy is fraying fast, but I still make an attempt to keep the tone from my voice. “I’m just saying . If those roots did snatch her, they’re not likely to have just politely left her where we could find her, are they?”

She gives me a disappointed look, like I’m a glass-half-empty person and she’s the one brimming over with frothy optimism. But from her lack of cutting rebuttal, I’ve given her something to think about.

And just like that, the tension returns with a vengeance.

We chew on date squares for lunch, forced to take small sips of our water just to help the oatmeal crust go down.

I finish first and fold my wrapper up into a neat square, tuck it in my backpack to properly dispose of later.

Tayla complains with every bite that it tastes like sawdust, but she forces herself to finish, mouth screwing up in revulsion.

I didn’t think it was that bad, but some people are just complainers.

The moment I zip the side pocket up again, a single black butterfly introduces itself, dancing like it’s going to land on the tip of my nose then darting down to my boots.

It flies from left to right in agitation, not giving up on whatever its mission is.

Without its army of butterfly buddies, this one is quite pretty on its own.

“Guess who missed us,” I say over the noisy crinkles Tayla makes as she rolls her wrapper up into a thin stick then ties it into a knot. I throw out a hand. “Wait, do you hear that?”

She comes to a standstill, tucking her trash away, and cocks her head quizzically. “Hear what?”

“It sounds like—”

Hssssss!

We both freeze.

The butterfly zooms back up to my face, flapping its wings ferociously, then takes off into the trees.

“Nonononono,” Tayla moans as one word. Her shoulders defensively hunch up to her ears, and she squeezes her eyes tightly shut, but the sound comes again, louder, closer.

We can’t escape the knowledge of what it is or the horrifying fact that more hisses are joining in, a chorus of serpents slithering through the forest floor right under our feet.

“There’s too many,” I whisper. “How is this even possible?”

“Maybe we interrupted a snake convention?” Her voice is sarcastic, snippy—or tries to be anyway.

Green, black, bronze. The snakes are quick, too, not staying in one place long enough to count them. It makes zero sense. Snakes are generally pretty shy unless they’re provoked. They don’t pursue people.

I don’t know about her, but personally, I’m 100 percent up for digging up Henry Prior just to kill him all over again. Signs of wonderment—what total bullshit.

I’m tired, and I’m cranky, and I’m confused. Obviously my realization coming down the steps was wrong. I’m overthinking everything. If the earth was trying to show me signs of wonder, a forest floor full of snakes is not the way to go about it.

Tayla visibly pales, which is quite a feat considering how fair she is. “Are any of them poisonous?”

“Not that one.”

Relief softens the harsh creases in her expression.

“But that one, that one, that one…”

Her lithe body scrunches. Fear sprints across her face, and whatever she sees mirrored in mine makes her suck her lips into her mouth and bite down with her teeth like she’s trying to prevent sound from escaping.

Telling her to be as calm as she can won’t go over well.

Since she looks like she could pee herself any second, there’s exactly zero point in asking if she knows what to do in this situation.

Dad would probably know. But he’s not here right now, and I am.

Without hesitation, I dive into my memories.

This one is jagged with nostalgia. Revisiting hurts because I’m so young, which means Dad is, too. When I flip through all my memories of Dad, I don’t come back to this one often.

But this is the one I need.