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“Her name was Blue,” Miriam said. “She loved a mortal girl named Evie, and Evie loved her back. Loved her enough to help her escape when it became clear the time had come. One night, under the light of a full moon, Blue and Evie hiked high up into the mountains to a jagged peak called Overlook Rock. Below them lay a raging river—and certain death. Behind them was Hemridge and its townsfolk. Pitchforks, shotguns... you get the picture.”

Willow’s muscles tensed in sympathy.

“Blue had to go forward,” Miriam said. “It was her only chance at safety. But the closest peak to Overlook Rock was miles away, and between the peaks was only air. And no one, not even a faerie, can walk across air.”

“So what happened?” Willow asked.

“Blue had a token. A ring, some say. Or maybe a necklace or a charm on a necklace or maybe just a stone from another world. With this token, they say, Blue summoned a bridge made of moonlight. And when the bridge appeared, they say, Evie heard the most beautiful singing in the world.”

Miriam dipped her chin. “And so, Blue crossed that moonlight bridge. She made it to the other side of the veil and was never heard from again.”

“But . . . what about Evie?”

“What about her?”

“If Blue loved her, and she loved Blue... did they find each other again? How did their story end?”

“Well, years passed, and eventually, Evie married a man in Hemridge.”

“What? But you said she loved Blue.”

“She did. But Blue was gone.” Miriam looked melancholy. “Don’t be too hard on her, Willow. Love is complicated. And remember, if Evie hadn’t gotten married, you would have never been born.”

Willow struggled to put together the pieces, but her head remained in the mist-tipped Smoky Mountains. “Are you saying I’m related to Evie? That she’s my great-great-great-great-grandmother or something?”

Miriam laughed. “She wasn’t so old as that. And you, Willow, aren’t so young as you sometimes seem.”

Willow bristled.

“But, yes,” she acknowledged. “Evie was your grandmother’s mother.”

“Then Wrenna was Evie’s daughter.”

“Evie died when Wrenna was very young. Wrenna’s father, a man named Silas Bratton, drowned his grief in alcohol, and he died soon after, leaving Wrenna to fend for herself.”

“Okay,” Willow said slowly, but her mind had snagged on something else. “But hold on. You said Wrenna had the Old Blood. Fae blood. But Blue was fae, not Evie.”

Miriam smiled. “Do children these days still prick their fingers and mix their blood to become blood brothers—or blood sisters , if we’re speaking of girls? Or have health concerns relegated that ritual to history?”

Willow could imagine her mother’s horror if she heard what Miriam was talking about. Although Willow’s mother wouldn’t hear a word of it, of course. Not if her mother’s circle of protection had anything to do with it. Mixing blood? Oh, don’t tell Mercy. It would be too much for her, poor woman.

“So they mixed their blood,” Willow said softly. It was kind of gross. But also... kind of beautiful.

“It’s the only explanation that makes sense.

And Wrenna—Evie and Silas’s daughter—as she grew older, she gained a reputation for being somewhat strange.

People said she was a witch, although it’s my guess that she was more of a medicine woman.

She was good with potions—ointments and tinctures and that sort of thing. ”

Miriam adjusted her shawl. “The people of Hemridge loved Evie and tolerated Silas, and as I understand it, they were fond enough of Wrenna when she was just a little thing. But as she grew older, she grew wilder. Wild girls never have an easy time of anything, do they?”

“Plus, her parents were dead.”

“Yes. That’s right. And to complicate things further, Wrenna was very pretty. Pretty girls don’t always have an easy time of things, either.”

Willow fisted her hands in her lap. It wasn’t a girl’s fault for being pretty.

What did pretty even mean? If the world were fair—which it wasn’t—it would be the men who leered at pretty girls who didn’t have an easy time of things.

If the world were fair, those men would be pushed into pits of tar, where their flesh would melt and drip from their bones. Willow would happily do the pushing.

“But Wrenna fended for herself well enough,” Miriam said. She fingered the edge of her shawl, and Willow forced herself to focus on that. Such softness, such beauty. Better to think of those things than tar and melting flesh.

“I’ve told you that a tiny streak of fae ran in Wrenna’s blood, and that whiff of magic made her very good at what she did. She’d tromp off into Deadman’s Hollow and come back with leaves, roots, mushrooms curled up like tongues.”

“Deadman’s Hollow?”

“A place in the forest where Blue and Evie used to meet. There was a river there once, good for swimming, but it dried up after Blue crossed from our world to her own. Some say it was Evie’s grief that did it.

That the river flowed and flowed, like Evie’s tears, and that when Evie died, the river died, too.

Others—and this is more of a scholarly opinion, I should say—suggest that it was Blue’s crossing that changed the land.

That a rift like that, born of such sorrow, will always leave a mark. ”

Willow pressed her lips together. She wasn’t interested in rifts born of sorrow, rifts that insisted on leaving their mark.

“Folks now—they say it’s cursed,” Miriam said.

“Deadman’s Hollow. But Wrenna didn’t believe them, or maybe she just didn’t care.

Maybe she thought the curse didn’t apply to her, and maybe she was right.

At any rate, she’d gather the ingredients she needed and bring them back to her little house in town, where she’d mix them, crush them, whisper over them. .. no one really knows.”

“Because she didn’t tell them,” Willow said. “I wouldn’t, either.”

“The thing is,” Miriam said slowly, “Wrenna’s potions worked.”

“Um, that’s a good thing.”

“You think so? I do, too. But it gave the people of Hemridge all the more reason to shun her. They branded her as ‘different.’ They warned their children to stay far away. That same old tired story.”

Miriam sank into the sofa. “It’s a vicious cycle, isn’t it? Love can heal most anything. But someone who grows up without love...” She studied Willow. She really, really took her in, or at least that was how it felt. “Hurt people hurt people.”

Willow rolled her eyes. Some people turned their pain into a weapon, sure.

But not everyone. Some people, after being hurt, just.

.. shut down. Retreated. Wore jingle bell skirts to try and reclaim themselves, only to duck into the library and hide while the rest of the world spun on without them.

She curled her toes against the soles of her sandals. Serrin. Serrin.

He was out there.

She. Would. Find him.

“The people of Hemridge rejected Wrenna, so Wrenna rejected them in return,” Miriam said.

Willow dragged herself back to the present. “How so?”

“The usual ways. She was short with them, even haughty. The townspeople called her ‘uppity’ because she didn’t lower her eyes and say ‘yes, ma’am,’ ‘no ma’am,’ ‘whatever you say, ma’am.’”

“Good for her,” Willow said.

Miriam lifted her eyebrows.

Willow’s cheeks grew warm, but she held Miriam’s gaze and lifted her own brows in return.

Miriam looked away first. “I suppose that’s why no one wanted to listen when she told them what happened.”

Willow’s heart beat faster in a way she didn’t like, and a cold, sick feeling spread through her stomach. “Which was?”

“She was walking home from Deadman’s Hollow after spending the day gathering herbs. She was hot, sweaty, tired.” Miriam’s lips twisted wryly. “The pastor of the church pulled up and offered her a ride—and she said yes. She climbed into his car.”

Stars popped and fizzled at the edge of Willow’s vision.

“The pastor took Wrenna back into Deadman’s Hollow, where the Stillwood Tree grew tall and strong.

” Miriam’s gaze went distant, and her voice took on an eerie, singsong quality.

“Sometimes it hummed, the Stillwood Tree. Sometimes it whispered. ‘Leave,’ it said. ‘You are not welcome here.’” She rocked where she sat, a gentle back and forth, and her eyes seemed to fill with fog.

“‘Leave now, before the shadows grow teeth. Leave, or the forest will claim you for its own.’”

Willow’s queasiness grew, and she felt herself begin to drift away from the world. It was as if her body’s atoms let go of one another all at once. They stretched and strained and separated, and Willow wondered if she, like Miriam, was filled with fog. Or maybe she was the fog?

Miriam slapped her palms against her thighs, and the pop of sound snapped Willow back into herself. She glanced down and was surprised by the fact of her flesh and bones. She plucked at her skirt, pinching the fabric and releasing it. A tiny silver bell chimed a tiny silver chime.

“As for Wrenna...” Miriam said grimly.

“Well, you know already. It’s written plain as day across your face.

She fought the pastor. She kicked him and clawed at him and screamed till her throat was raw.

But there was no one to hear her out there in those haunted woods.

” The emphasis she gave the word was bitter and resigned.

“Just as the pastor planned it,” Willow said hollowly.

“Just as the pastor planned it,” Miriam said.

Her eyes were hard now. The fog had dispersed.

“Wrenna stumbled back into town with her clothes torn and her face streaked with dirt and tears, but no one wanted to believe her when she told them what had happened. ‘Not the pastor,’ they said. ‘He’s a good man. He would never.’”

Not Mr. Chapman. He’s a good man. Oh, Willow, perhaps you misread the situation?

Miriam exhaled. “A few months later, Wrenna’s belly started to swell, which only made things worse.”

“Stop,” Willow rasped. Her body couldn’t hold any more.

“But she saw the pregnancy through. She had the baby.” Miriam smiled sadly. “She named her Lark.”

“ Stop ,” Willow cried, and it was like wrenching free from a nightmare, the kind where you try and try to wake up, and finally you do, only to find that the real world is just as ugly. “Please,” she choked, and Miriam’s eyes widened—first in surprise, then in alarm. And then—oh, God, no—

Willow stood up. She could not take this woman’s pity.

“Thank you for sharing your stories,” she said, her teeth so tightly clenched she could have had lockjaw. “Folklore? That’s what it’s called? What an interesting field of study.” She heard how false she sounded and didn’t care a whit.

She gestured at the library door. “But the party. I should get back. My father...” She swallowed. “It’s my job to socialize with the guests.”

Miriam rose slowly. She straightened her soft gray shawl. “Of course. I understand.” She frowned. “Willow, if I upset you—”

“You didn’t!” Willow broke in. “Not at all.” Willow made a smile shape with her mouth and stuck out her hand. “It was nice meeting you. Thanks for stopping by.”

A bewildered-looking Miriam allowed Willow to usher her out of the library. From down the hall, the hum of the party grew louder.

“I’ll tell my dad you liked the library,” Willow said brightly as Miriam opened her purse and rummaged through its interior. “Thanks again for coming.”

Miriam shut the clasp of her purse and offered Willow a business card printed on creamy cardstock.

Dumbly, Willow accepted it.

“My telephone number and home address,” Miriam said. “Drop by any time—and I mean that, Willow. I’ve lost the knack for sleeping as I’ve gotten older, so I rarely bother trying. You’re welcome morning or night, no matter the hour.”

“Thank you. How kind. But I don’t think so.”

She tried to return the card.

Miriam refused to take it.

“You’re going to have questions,” she said. “You’re going to need answers. There’s more to Wrenna’s story—”

“ Shh !” said Willow. The hall was vacant save for them, but still, her heart thumped painfully. “I won’t have questions. I don’t want answers. There are no answers anyway.”

“But her story is your story,” Miriam said.

“Not really. Not in my opinion.”

Miriam pressed her lips together, then gave herself a shake. The smile she gave Willow wasn’t fake, like Willow’s had been, but troubled.

“You might not think so,” she said carefully, “but sooner or later, you’ll change your mind. When that time comes, find me.”