Forestfall E-Book

Lyndall Clipstone

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

The stunning sequel to Lyndall Clipstone's Lakesedge, for fans of Naomi Novik's Uprooted and Brigid Kemmerer's A Curse So Dark and LonelyAt the lake's edge, I made my promise. In the forest, I will fall.The curse that haunted Lakesedge Estate has been broken, but at great cost. Violeta Graceling has sacrificed herself to end the Corruption.To escape death, Leta makes a desperate bargain with the Lord Under, one that sees her living at his side in the land of the dead. And though he claims to have given her all he promised, Leta knows this world of souls and mists hides many secrets.When she discovers she is still bound to Rowan, Leta goes to drastic lengths to reforge their connection. But her search for answers, and a path back home, will see her drawn into even more dangerous bargains, and struggling to resist the allure of a new, dark, power.

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Also by Lyndall Clipstone and Available from Titan Books

Title Page

Leave us a Review

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Also Available from Titan Books

PRAISE FOR FORESTFALL

“In an eerily vivid world of dark magic and darker monsters, this lush fairy tale of a book is so full of yearning, my heart physically ached… What a haunting depiction of death, power, and the lengths we will go to for true love.”

Marissa Meyer, internationally bestselling author of The Lunar Chronicles

“Lyndall Clipstone casts another spell with this lush, atmospheric sequel. I was swept away with Violeta and Rowan into this dangerous yet magical world, and I never wanted to leave it.”

Rebecca Ross, internationally bestselling author of A River Enchanted

“Lush and romantic, Forestfall is a dark, gothic wonderland; as gorgeous as its predecessor.”

Dawn Kurtagich, author of The Dead House

“Clipstone's prose cuts to the bone, Forestfall is a gorgeous, heartwrenching sequel that deftly balances love and temptation.”

Tori Bovalino, author of The Devil Makes Three and Not Good for Maidens

“In this captivating sequel to Lakesedge, Lyndall Clipstone draws us in to the lush and brutal world Below… Forestfall is a beautifully rendered, twistingly gothic tale of love, loss, longing and sacrifice. Utterly gripping, from the first page to the last.”

Vanessa Len, author of Only a Monster

“Romantic, dark, and evocative, Forestfall takes readers on a fairytaleesque adventure to discover just how far one would go for love.”

Jessica Rubinkowski, author of The Bright & The Pale and Wrath and Mercy

“Dark, lyrical and achingly romantic; this series hurts my heart in the best possible way.”

Laura Steven, author of The Exact Opposite of Okay and The Society for Soulless Girls

PRAISE FOR LAKESEDGE

“Lakesedge is an intense tale of mystery and magic that will have lovers of gothic romance eager for the next installment.”

Juliet Marillier, author of the Blackthorn & Grim and Warrior Bards series

“Bloody, sumptuous, and as timeless as a fairy tale.”

April Genevieve Tucholke, author of The Boneless Mercies

“A shadow-drenched fairy tale that readers will happily devour. Lyndall Clipstone's lush prose lends itself to a world both dark and elegant, brimming with monsters and a young woman brave enough to face them.”

Emily Lloyd-Jones, author of The Bone Houses

“This tasty morsel of a book is full of dark waters, family curses, summer bonfires, lakeside summoning rituals, weary boys with monsters inside them, and gods of death who don't play fair. A strong, lyrical debut from a rising star to watch.”

S.T. Gibson, author of A Dowry of Blood

Also by Lyndall Clipstone and available from Titan Books

Lakesedge

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Forestfall

Print edition ISBN: 9781789096880

E-book edition ISBN: 9781789096903

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

www.titanbooks.com

First edition: October 2022

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

© Lyndall Clipstone 2022. All Rights Reserved.

Lyndall Clipstone asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

To B.,I will find you in the dark of the world Below.

Chapter One

Rowan

I was the monster in the world.

I was the monster in the woods.

And though I was spared, all still feels ruined. Torn apart by claws and teeth.

It’s midnight as I cross the hall. Pause at the landing and look down through the arched window. Cold glass, moonlight on the locked garden below.

Harvestfall has eclipsed Summersend. The trees are hung with leaves that are dying or dead. The ground is dewed with early frost. In the altar beneath the jacaranda tree, at the center of the lawn, a single candle has been lit. Illuminating the blackened streaks that still mar the wooden icon frame, turning the Lady to a shadowed shroud.

I feel the same. Dark as ink, dark as the Corruption that stained the shore, dark as the poison that filled my veins.

There are scars left from what we did. The locked garden. The ruined altar. Earth cut up, a fallen tree skeletal in the moonlight. Deep wounds torn across the ground that look like they were made by claws. All remnants of the destruction I caused when I became a monster. When I meant to drown the world.

The Corruption is gone now. Mended. I’m mended. And yet.

And yet.

I watched the world tear open. I watched Violeta Graceling—the girl I love—vanish into the dark. Held her in my arms as the poison claimed her, as she spilled her blood beneath the dual altar and called to the Lord Under. In that last, terrible moment when the shadows closed in, I heard her voice as she demanded he take her, alive, to the world Below.

Then she was . . . gone.

I thought I knew grief. After my parents died, after I lost Elan. Thought I knew the way it softened in hurried moments and returned when the world was quiet. But this is new. This is a sudden violence. It catches me by the throat when I am at my most unguarded.

At night, after I drift into restless sleep, thoughts of Leta rise, always, though I don’t want them. I wake alone in the dark. The spell she marked on my wrist aches and burns. Like she’s still tied to the other end. And every time, I can’t help reaching out. My hand on the bed, fingers clutched at a vacant space.

I hate myself for it. The way I expect to find her there. Grief isn’t a tithe that can be paid with blood. There’s no way to escape this hurt. This is a pain that I can’t work free from.

Once I called her a ghost. And now, ghostlike, she haunts me. Awake. Asleep. All I see is Leta. How she looked when she crossed the shore, went into the water. How she looked when I carried her to the altar. How she kissed me that last time, her mouth tasting of blood and poison.

She said it was her choice. That she wasn’t afraid. That her sacrifice would keep us safe.

With a sigh, I turn away from the window. Peel the gloves from my hands. I go quietly down the stairs. Though everyone is long asleep, I don’t want to risk disturbing them. I need to be alone. Tonight is my first observance since it all happened. The first time I’ve come—uncorrupted—to the dual altar in the parlor.

The room is dark when I step inside. I close the door behind me. Draw back the curtains and let moonlight pool over the floor. The air is draped with the faded scent of smoke. Beneath that, a hint of old blood.

The dual icon hangs in shadow, but I don’t move to light the candles that line the altar. Instead, I kneel down. Keep my eyes fixed on the floor. I touch the boards, feel them rough beneath my ungloved fingers. There’s a faded crimson stain left behind from when Leta cut herself. Gave her blood to make that final promise.

And this is where—long before that—I cut myself and gave my blood and heard no answer.

I find a sparklight. Touch it to one of the candles. The flame wavers, and I feel the warmth against my face. Now I can see the mark on the floor more clearly. The blood, dried to a faded red, is the color of a pomegranate.

Everything blurs as unwelcome tears fill my eyes. I force them away. Force them back until my vision is spotted with darkness. With a ragged breath, I finally look up at the icon. The Lady is bronze and gold. Her hands outstretched. Light blooms at her palms like brilliant flowers.

Beneath her, the Lord Under is shadows and smoke and darkness.

I stare at him. The silhouette of his cloak. The sharp outline of his antlered crown. Here is the creature who saved me when I drowned. Caught hold of me as I fell beneath the water. Whispered to me as the lake stole my breath. Asked what I would offer in exchange for my life.

I’ve never known him the way that Leta does. To me, he was only ever a voice in the shadows, a presence I felt rather than saw. Like the lingering traces of a nightmare or a half-forgotten memory. And though I called to him so many times—after he killed my father, after I realized he meant to take my family to punish me—he never responded.

But Leta could see him. She could summon him. She spoke to him, she promised herself to him, and she walked into his darkness.

I press my hands against the stained floor. Her blood, my blood. So many unanswered pleas and ungiven promises. Sometimes I think of how different it would have been, if I’d not broken my vow when I turned thirteen and he came back for me. If I had gone with him.

It’s so easy to regret. To think how I could have chosen differently. But it doesn’t matter now. I am here, with a life stolen from the sacrifice of others. My father, my mother, my brother. And now . . . Leta.

I light the rest of the candles at the altar. Dip my fingers into the salt, then scatter an offering beneath the icon. I start to chant. Hating my voice, the way the notes catch on my unsteady breath, my throat still rough with held-back tears.

The Harvestfall litany, when sung by others, calls up images of tilled fields and bonfire smoke. Of barren branches, and the slow transition toward long nights. But when I sing it, the litany sounds like a wound. It sounds like mourning.

My hands start to shake. I press them harder against the floor. Close my eyes. I reach for the light we’re told is there. The light the Lady became when she made the world. The golden magic that’s strung through everything. It’s been so long since I felt it. When I was Corrupted and made observance, there was only cold. A sense of vacant darkness.

Now I wait, trying to feel beyond that familiar silence.

The candles burn. Smoke streaks the air. I swallow, and it tastes like ash.

For a long while, there’s only stillness. Then heat pulses against my palms. I feel a pull. Startled, I look up at the altar. But this isn’t magic. This isn’t the Lady.

It’s something closer. A wound, still tender.

I raise my hand; slow, uncertain. A thread is tied to my wrist. I stare as it gleams through the dark; a thin golden line that shifts and flickers, like a candle flame. My heartbeat rises as I watch the thread stretching into the shadows. I feel the pull, the strange pulse of heat, the wounded hurt.

Then, with a sudden rush, colors light over me. Peach and rose and gold. And a figure emerges. Pale freckles, pale skin, hair like summer embers. Leta.

She’s there, just beyond the dark. Dressed in black lace with her hair unbound. I gasp, the noise cutting sharply across the silence. She looks up. Her silver-gray eyes are wide and blank. And I want, so wretchedly, for this to be real. Different from those haunting visions that drag me from sleep, every night.

Slowly, I get to my feet. Certain that in the next moment, the next heartbeat, everything will fracture, and I’ll wake alone. My hands pressed to an empty altar.

I whisper her name, more desperate than any plea I’ve ever made beneath this shadowed icon. “Leta?”

The blankness in her eyes is replaced by recognition. She looks at me, all unbearable tenderness. I am filled with longing. Her lips part. Her mouth shapes a word—myname?—but I can hear no sound.

I reach toward her. My hand trembling in the space between us. The thread glows brighter. The other end is knotted at her wrist. Near the sigil left from the spell she cast to save me, when I was almost lost to the darkness.

I touch her there. On her wrist. At the feel of her skin—cold, impossibly cold—my breath comes loose in a shallow, jagged sob. I’m overcome by all I’ve wanted to say since she left. “Leta,” I whisper. “I miss you, so terribly. I don’t even know if this is real. But I . . .”

I trail off as the light begins to blur, and everything turns dreamlike. Leta takes hold of my hand. She doesn’t try to speak again. Her lashes dip, a single tear spills down her cheek. And then, she starts to fade.

I clutch for the thread tied between us—tied from my wrist to hers—but all I feel is shadows. I try to pull her into my arms, but she is mist and embers. A pale wisp, replaced by the flicker of altar candles. Slowly, I kneel. Press my hands to the floor. She is gone.

I’m alone in the parlor. Overcome by a taunting blur of thoughts. All the hopes I once had for a life with Leta. The future I wanted to offer her. Books stacked on the library shelves. Her garden, bright with flowers. The two of us alone in my room, in the moonlight.

Then, a jolt of pain goes through me, so blisteringly fierce that my fingers curl sharply against the stained boards. Like I have claws. Shakily, I sit back onto my heels. Unlace my sleeves. Blood wells at my wrists. The scars where I cut myself countless times for the tithe have turned to open wounds. My blood, it isn’t red. It’s black. And around the sigil that Leta marked on me, the day I became a monster, there are shadows pooled beneath my skin.

Just like before, when the Corruption was overtaking me.

I touch a questioning finger to the sigil mark. The Corruption was cleansed in that last, terrible ritual where Leta went to the world Below. I watched the shore heal. Felt the darkness leave my body. And inside me, where a monster once slept, there was only silence left behind.

I am mended. I am supposed to be mended.

I’m still staring at my wrist, at the spell and the too-dark blood, when footsteps come down the hall. There’s a flicker of candlelight. Then a soft knock on the door. Florence steps hesitantly into the room. She has a shawl wrapped around her shoulders, held in place by a carved, wooden clasp.

She looks at me, then at the altar, and her face turns solemn. “Are you all right?”

“I’m . . . not sure.”

She takes another step toward me. Her brows rise when she notices my bloodied wrists. I start to pull down my sleeves to hide the cuts. But it’s too late. She’s already seen.

“Rowan, what have you done? Did you hurt yourself?”

The again hangs unspoken between us. I curl my hand over my wrist. “No.” She watches me, waiting for me to say more. But I can hardly understand what just happened, let alone try to explain it. Silence draws out. Finally, I sigh. “There are still bandages in the drawers.”

She puts her candle down beneath the altar. Tucks back a piece of hair that has come away from the braids she wears, twin rows at the sides of her head, the strands loosening to waves as they fall past her shoulders. She goes over to the table beside the chaise and opens the drawer. The box with bandages and a jar of Clover’s honey salve is still inside. Left from when I would come here after the tithes.

I feel strange, hollow, as I watch her take the box out of the drawer. It’s been months since the last time I went to the lake, cut myself, and bled into the ground. But the memory is so vivid.

The cold slither of darkness. The Corruption devouring me. The poisonous magic that ruled my life for so many years.

Florence lowers herself to the floor beside me. Balancing the box on her folded knees, she opens it and takes out the supplies. With a linen cloth, she starts to clean my wounds. I force myself to keep still. There’s part of me that wants this so badly. To let her take care of me. To sit here and feel the gentleness in her touch as she wipes the blood from my wrists.

But the sweet smell of the salve makes me sick. All I can think of is the night Leta followed me when I gave my tithe. We came back here afterward, and I told her about my connection to the curse on the shore. It was the first time I’d ever shared that secret. I expected the worst . . . that she would be disgusted, that she would fear me. Instead, she held my hand and promised to follow me into the dark.

My chest goes tight, and a strangled sob comes from my mouth. I clench my teeth against the sound. Before Florence can react, I roughly take the cloth from her and gesture toward the door. “I don’t need your help. You can go.”

She hesitates a moment. I know she wants to reach for me. She twists her hands in her skirts, watches me as I finish cleaning the wounds, tie bandages around my wrists. Quietly, she asks, “Before I leave, will you tell me what happened?”

I run my fingers down the inside of my arm. The sigil has gone silent now, but when I touch it, I imagine I can still feel that pull, that pulse. Still see the thread of light, stretching away into the shadows.

I spread my hands; palms upturned. “I saw Leta.”

Florence gives me a guarded look. “What do you mean?”

My eyes go to the floor, the faded stain beneath the altar. “When I made observance, instead of light or magic, she was there. I looked into the shadows, and I saw her. I spoke to her. And afterward, this happened.”

I gesture to my wrists, now bandaged. Florence watches me, her brow creased. Slowly, she moves forward. Puts her hands on my shoulders. She’s careful, deliberating as she struggles to choose her words. “Rowan. She is dead.”

“She was there.”

My voice catches. I take a sharp, wretched breath as I try to fight against it, the slow creep of doubt. Leta can’t be dead. She can’t be gone. It was so real. The way she appeared before me, the pull of the spell, the thread tied between us. Her moods laid out in a wash of colors. The twist of my heart when she soundlessly shaped my name.

I’ve been haunted by memories of Leta since she left. But this wasn’t another dream, a desperate wish cast across the night when I’m alone, in the dark. This was real.

Florence slides her hands gently down my arms. “I know how difficult this has been for you. I thought, perhaps, if we had a pyre—”

I pull away from her. “No.”

Her fingers knot around the fringed ends of her shawl. She looks at the altar. The movement of the candlelight makes the figures in the icon seem, for the barest moment, like they are . . . alive.

Sighing, Florence lets her hands fall to her lap. “Violeta gave herself up to keep you safe. She tore herself apart for all of us. To reach for her like this . . . It’s a dangerous path to follow.”

“What other choice could I possibly make, after she risked so much for me?”

“Rowan, my love. You need to let her go.”

I close my eyes against more unwelcome tears. Trying instead to picture myself in the locked garden at midsummer twilight. A slender moon in the gloaming sky. Leta, with her skirts tucked back, showing me her scars as she confessed the truth of her connection to the Lord Under. How she gave her magic to him in exchange for Arien’s life—a trade that left Arien with darkness in place of his alchemy. How she blamed herself for all he had suffered because of that darkness.

That evening in the garden was the first time I realized I loved her. That I wanted her to stay with me, wanted to give her a place where she wouldn’t ever be hurt again. But safety was never something I could offer. All I did was make everything worse.

“Florence, I don’t care what I become.” My voice is a growl, reminiscent of how it sounded when I was changed by the Corruption. I swallow against the remembered taste of mud and poison. “If it means I can find her, then I don’t care what happens to me.”

She draws back. For just a moment, her expression turns raw. Cast heavily with depthless grief. Then she takes a breath. Her features settle into the familiar, resolute mask she’s worn since my father died.

I know she wants to care for me, but I can’t let anyone close. Not again. I have to face this—my ruin, my hurt, my destruction—alone.

Florence gets to her feet and picks up her candle. I swallow down my guilt. Try to forget the feel of her hand, gentle on my wounded arm. “It’s not just yourself to consider,” she says quietly. “Have you thought about Arien? What will happen if he loses you, as well?”

All I can do is shake my head. She pauses for a beat, then with a tired sigh, she goes out of the room. The silence left behind is tangled as thorns.

I put my hands back against the floor, press my palms over the faded marks on the boards. Before, my whole world was the Corruption. Poison in the earth. Poison in my veins. It wasn’t easy, but I was able to face it single-mindedly: the hunger, the demands, the tithes I paid with my blood and my body.

I’ve never really thought how it would be on the other side of it all. I was a monster, and then I wasn’t. I was alone, and then I wasn’t. But Florence is right. I stole Arien away, brought him here to use his magic for my own gain. And now, because of me, Leta is gone. The only family he had left.

I take a deep breath. Blow out the candles. Tendrils of smoke wreathe the altar frame. For just a moment, the silhouetted icon looks exactly the same as the outline of Leta when she appeared before me.

I need to find out if what I saw was real. To put myself back into the shadows, where I can reach to her through the darkness. I need a way to poison myself, willingly.

I was a monster, and then I wasn’t. And now, to find Violeta Graceling, I need to become that monster again.

Chapter Two

Violeta

There’s no sky in the world Below, but I know that night has fallen.

From beneath the trees I’ve watched the light change from dappled shadow to faded gray to full dark. Now the heartwood forest is striped crimson against the shadows. The trees have bloodied bark and slender leaves. Their branches are strung with mothlights: tiny glass lanterns lit by luminous wingbeats.

In the distance, just beyond the haze of mist, is a thicket of brambles. Taller than me twice over, with thorns longer than my fingers, it goes all around this part of the forest in a neat, unbroken ellipse. The wall has only a single gate, an arched structure made from vines and serrated leaves.

The gate has never opened.

At least, not for me.

I reach for a mothlight, unhook it from the branches. With the jar clasped between my hands, I set off on the path that leads toward the bramble wall. My lace-hemmed skirts brush against the ground as I walk. I’m all in black, dark as the shadowed forest. A wide silk ribbon at my waist, sleeves of translucent moth wings, a mantle of cobwebbed lace.

It’s cold here, always cold. Coldest at times like this, when the shadows cross the path and drape between the branches. I miss the sunlight. The heat and brightness, the languid weight of the air.

An icy wind stirs through the trees, raises prickles on my skin. I raise the jar between my hands, hold it close to my face, so I’m bathed in silver light. For a brief moment, I let myself imagine I am in the world Above, and it’s Summersend. And when I breathe I can feel the sun go far down inside my body, to turn my heart and ribs all golden.

Then I push the memory away.

I’ve reached the thorns. I stand before them, looking over each curve of bramble, each folded leaf. Slowly, I reach out, press my hand to the gate. On my palm, the scar that cuts in a crescent across my heartline throbs softly in time with my pulse. From beyond the wall, I can hear the sound of footsteps. I feel a pull from the center of my chest. The kind of stirring that comes when like calls to like.

I hear the rustle of thorns, the stir of leaves. Beneath my pressing hand, there is only air. But then I blink, and with one brush of my lashes—down,up—I miss whatever tenuous magic allows the gate to open. When I look again, the brambles are unchanged, still set tightly together. My hand still pressed against the woven vines.

The only difference is that now, the Lord Under is before me.

Outlined by hook-sharp thorns, he gleams in the dark, casting a glow that twins the mothlight I hold. Pale hair, pale hands, pale eyes. And though I’m here in this skyless forest, when I see him, I think of a moon. Full and sharp and white. I think of fields covered by midwinter frost.

There’s a soul in his arms, the body wrapped in a silken shroud that turns it to a featureless shadow. He looks me over, silent a moment. “What,” he says, “are you doing here?”

I hold up the mothlight that I brought. “I’ve come to help you.”

His brows rise, and the bared edge of his teeth catch the pale gleam of my light. The moth dances inside the jar, its wings fluttering rhythmically. “I can see well enough in the dark, Violeta.”

Then I uncurl my fingers and show him what I’ve held, clasped close to the center of my palm. “And I have this.”

His gaze falls to my hand. The seed is large and round, amber dark. It was rough when I coaxed it loose from the cone I found, half buried in the debris of the forest floor. But I’ve worried at it with my fingers so much that the edges have become smooth.

The Lord Under brushes past me and makes his way to the path. “I thought I’d given you enough to occupy yourself, without you having to haunt me through the woods like a little ghost.”

“Like a ghost?” There’s challenge in my voice as I echo his words. I wait to see if he’ll rise to meet it. When he doesn’t respond, I go on. “Is that what you call it, what you’ve done to me?”

Irritation flashes in his eyes as he glances back over his sharp, mantled shoulder. “You really want to argue this again? It was your choice. If you have regrets—that isn’t my concern.”

It was my choice to make the bargain that led me here. I was desperate to protect Arien, to protect . . . everyone I loved. And in spite of the hurt, in spite of the danger, as the threat of the Corruption grew, I went willingly to the altar and summoned the Lord Under. I asked for his help. In exchange for his magic, I gave up the most precious thing I had—the memories of my family.

Everything I had of them is lost, swept from my mind. I know I must have loved them. That we had a life together, when I was a child, before they died. But it’s all gone. There’s only emptiness now. A terrible, unending ache.

I chose it all. The pain. The sacrifice. To risk myself, to come into the world Below and cast that final spell. I welcomed the darkness. I let the Corruption devour me. All I’ve given up, each step I’ve taken that’s led me here, it has always been my choice.

That doesn’t make it hurt any less.

I bite my teeth together until my jaw aches. Try very hard to keep my voice steady when I speak. “I don’t regret this.”

“Have you forgotten that you begged me to spare you from death?” His eyes narrow, lit coldly with a surge of anger. “What I’ve given you is a gift. One I’ve not granted to anyone else, ever.”

I curl my hand into a fist, trapping the seed in the darkness of my palm. “Maybe I’m not a soul inside a tree. But I’m not truly alive, either.”

“Enough.” He raises a hand. Shadows stir up from the ground, striking jagged shapes into the air around us. “If you want to help me, then hurry up. Otherwise, you can go back home.”

He turns away and continues to walk, not waiting to see if I’ll follow. The word—home—is barbed as the thorns keeping me trapped in this part of the woods. My eyes fill with a sudden rise of tears. I blink them away fiercely. The thought of crying in front of the Lord Under right now feels worse than anything else I could do.

I breathe out a frustrated hiss between my clenched teeth and go after him, my skirts caught in one hand so I can walk fast enough to catch up. We fall into step, both of us tensed with our separate anger. The shrouded form in his arms must be heavy, but he bears the weight carelessly. His cloak brushes the ground behind him, a trail of swirling shadows. We move in silence, our footsteps over fallen leaves the only sound.

I follow him into the woods. It’s a different path than the one I took from my cottage. That path is narrow, weaving through moss-covered stones that line the way like sentinels. Here the trees are taller, the mist wrapped silver-thick around their crimson trunks.

We pass beneath branches strung with mothlights. Step over hollows of roots that are circled by pale, luminous mushrooms. Aside from my cottage, most of this walled-off, thorn-bound space is filled with heartwoods. But eventually, the forest becomes more sparse, and we reach a grove where a bare piece of earth is framed by two older, taller trees.

The Lord Under turns to me. The irritation from before is still in his eyes. With a clipped, tense motion, he indicates the shrouded soul in his arms. “Is your life here so truly wretched, Violeta? Would you prefer to have given it up completely?”

I try not to think of it, the moment I awoke and discovered the truth of our final bargain. He mended me, just as I had asked, but the only way I could remain alive was to stay in the world Below. And that, even that, was my choice. When I fell into a fury of hot, wretched tears, the Lord Under told me he could make the hurt stop. That I could let death claim me.

But when I sacrificed the memories of my family for the power to fight the Corruption, it was for eternity. I’ll not remember them in either world. If I had accepted his offer, and given up my life, my soul would be alone. Without my parents, and without Arien—when his time comes to depart the world Above. And in that terrible moment at the heart of the bone tree, to be alone was more unthinkable than being here.

I shove past the Lord Under, go over to the bared space and kneel down. He shifts back a few paces to wait, the soul held carefully against his chest.

In the tree behind him there’s a carved alcove with an altar set inside it. The icon is blotched with damp, a blur of mildew and moss, and the shelf beneath is draped by hardened rivulets of melted wax.

It makes me think of the altar at Lakesedge, how I knelt at observance with Arien and Clover and let them see my magic for the first time. Warmth teases my fingertips, and I feel the faint hum of power gathering across my palms.

Carefully, I unfold my hand and look down at the seed. I dig a small hollow in the earth, dirt embedding in dark crescents beneath my fingernails. I press the seed into the ground, and cover it. I reach into my pocket and take out my pen.

When I push back my sleeve, the cold air makes me shiver.

Alchemical sigils line my arm. A reminder of everything I did in my seventeenth summer. A reminder of everything I’ve given up. The spells I cast as I worked and fought and failed to drive back the Corruption that threatened to claim Lakesedge Estate—and its lord. All of it mapped out, sigil by sigil, forever on my skin.

I set the pen to my wrist. Sketch over the spell I once used in that other life, that other world, to awaken a forgotten garden. Memories rise of tender heat, of hands gentle against my scars. I close my eyes and force the thoughts away. I can’t think of him, not now. I’ll be undone.

I bite the inside of my cheek, concentrate on the pain until the memories subside. They fade slowly—tooslowly—leaving behind a persistent ache at the center of my chest.

Once I’ve written the spell, I press my hands flat against the ground and close my eyes. My magic stirs awake, and the sigil sparks alight. I picture a thread spun from my hands, slowly woven around the seed, until it forms a glimmering net that draws tighter and tighter.

This is the first time I’ve used alchemy in the world Below since I mended the Corruption. The power I used that night, when I called down the darkness and welcomed it inside me, is gone. Now I only have the small remnants of magic from before. Faint as a single flame burning softly in the dark.

But still, when I draw on my power, it hurts. The same way it has ever since I sacrificed the memories of my family. All their warmth and light is gone now, replaced by the desolation of a moonless night.

As I cast the spell, an ache of absence fills me. The magic moves through my veins with unbearable coldness, as though my blood has turned to ice. Longing overwhelms me, for things I’ve lost, things that are impossible to retrieve. My breath starts to catch. My ribs feel tight, folded too close against my heart. My mouth tastes of blood.

I try to listen to the forest, the way the air whispers around me like a voice I can’t quite hear. Slowly, painfully, I take hold of my power. It blooms reluctantly and I press it, hard, into the earth. The seed splits open; roots spiraling downward as branches begin to rise.

My hands tremble as I fight to keep hold of the spell. A gasp escapes my parted lips, and I bite down against it. Force out more power. Then, with a final rush, the tree breaks through the earth and pushes up—bark and leaves rasping against my palms.

I drag myself free of the spell and slump forward, my eyes still tightly closed. The magic dissolves around me with a softened hush. I press my lips together, feel the sting from where I’ve bitten them. I lick away the wet smear of blood.

The Lord Under puts his hand on my shoulder. His thumb marks a path against my clavicle, almost tender. But I push him away. “Don’t touch me.”

He steps back, leaving space between us. I take a few more ragged breaths, steadying myself, then slowly get to my feet. The tree rises above me, a new heartwood spun into existence entirely with my magic. I let out a fractured sound—somewhere between a laugh and a sob—as I look up at the crimson branches, the needle-fine leaves. A heady, painful pride fills me. I want to give in to it, delight in it, but instead I squash the feeling down.

To be proud of myself for this . . . would be a betrayal.

The Lord Under examines the heartwood for a long moment before he turns toward me. There’s a strange cast to the lines of his face, as though I’ve unsettled him. Slowly, he reaches out and tucks a loose strand of hair back from my cheek. He hesitates, his finger ribboned by one of my curls, before he draws away. “Thank you for your help, Violeta.”

Begrudgingly, I reply, “You’re welcome.”

He moves closer to the tree. I pick up the mothlight, hold it out for him so the light glimmers against the crimson bark. He pauses for a moment, one hand pressed to the trunk, his splayed fingers pale and starlike. Then he rakes his claws down the length of the tree. It splits instantly beneath his touch, baring an inside that’s glossed with sap.

My chest tightens, and an anxious, jagged shiver goes down my spine. Watching the tree peeled apart is like seeing my own skin torn away. My ribs folded open, my heart laid out. It makes me feel strange and sick and small. I think of the Lord Under with the soul in his arms. I think of myself devoured by poison as he carried me through the forest.

I close my eyes, turn my face away. But it’s no good. I can still hear the tree as it takes the soul. The creaks, the groans, the shift and shudder as the wound starts to heal over. My hand that holds the mothlight trembles. As the glass tilts, light flickers across my closed lids, and the moth flutters a protest against the inside of the jar.

I swallow down my anger, my hurt, my fear. I did make the right choice. I did. Staying at the Lord Under’s side, with all the pain of what I’ve sacrificed, is better than to be alone inside a heartwood. There, I’d have nothing except the same ache as when I use my magic. A barren loneliness, an empty darkness, a razed field.

Leaves rustle as the tree knits closed. After a few beats of stillness, I open my eyes. The tree is whole. Just smooth bark, as though it has always been this way. There’s not even a scar. I swallow down the last traces of bitter nausea that linger in my mouth. Wipe my sweat-slick palms against my skirts.

The Lord Under looks between me and the heartwood. “If you’re to make a habit of this, you’ll have to develop steadier nerves.”

I scowl at him. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

He regards me for a moment, then folds his sleeve over and reaches out to wipe away a smear of blood from beside my mouth. His lashes dip, and he offers me his arm. “It’s late. I will walk back with you.”

I hesitate for a moment. Hold the mothlight to my chest, the wingbeats inside the jar matching the pulse of my heart. I’m still angry with him, but there’s been a shift between us. He let me help him—I grew the tree; I held the light. The smallest tilt of balance, one tiny shred of power clutched tightly in my fist.

I run my tongue over my bitten lips. Go to his side. Tuck my hand into the crook of his elbow.

We make our way back out of the grove. He’s so much taller than me, and the top of my head barely reaches his shoulder, but he evens his pace to match mine so we can walk beside each other.

When we reach the narrow path that leads to my cottage, I draw away from him, expecting him to leave. But he continues on, following me down the slope.

We always part here. Except for that first day, after I awoke in the bone tree. I still remember how I felt when he brought me to the cottage, seeing it rise up from the depths of the hollow. The sharp despair that caught me by my throat when he explained to me that this place—a house in the woods, encircled by a wall of thorns—was how he’d met the terms of our bargain. That he had made me a home in the world Below.

It feels strange to be here now, on that same path, to hear the echo of his footsteps behind me as I walk. I turn to him and lift my brows in question. “Do you think I’ll get lost? Or don’t you trust me to go where I’m told?”

His mouth tilts into a sharp smile that gives away nothing. “Perhaps I’m being polite and seeing you safely through the woods.”

I shake my head at him, huff out a quiet laugh. I walk on, and he follows. Trailing me like a shadow.

As the path leads us into the hollow, the ghost mushrooms clustered beneath the trees light the air with a pale glow. Past their luminous shimmer, I see a wooden altar nailed to a branch—peeled paint and lichen, the icon weathered away. A row of stones that might have once been a wall. A curved iron shape that looks like a gate, opening into nothingness.

My cottage comes into view slowly, the gleam of the front window faintly visible through the mist. Set beneath two enormous heartwood trees, it’s more forest than house. The walls are made of roughened wood that still bear scraps of crimson bark. Tangles of ivy hold together a roof of woven branches. There’s a wreath on the door, leaves and bellflowers. Just like the one that decorated the front door at Lakesedge.