Tree.
“You … want me to go to thetree?”
She nods so fast I fear her head might topple off her bony shoulders.
The sun’s probably about to rise, and I’ve only ever visited the tree at night …
My grip tightens on the lantern spilling harrowing shadows across her face now lit with a spark ofhope.
Beautiful, chest-breakinghope.
I offer her a soft smile and nod.
* * *
Pushing free of the shadowy jungle, the world opens for me like drapes drawn to the warm kiss of morning.
Loose hair and shirt dancing with the tousling sea breeze, I step closer to the tree clinging to the edge of the cliff like a gnarled hand, the budding sun casting the ocean in bronze ripples, heating my skin and enriching my senses.
Despite the warmth spreading through my veins, blooming beads of luster and making my fingers tingle, a deep melancholy washes over me like the rising tide …
Last time I was here,hefound me.
Held me.
Comforted me.
Then I screamed at him and told him terrible things—cold echoes that chill me to the bone.
Arms wrapped around my middle, I step close enough to the cliff that I can see down to the stony shore below; to the weather-worn dinghy I noticed when Cainon led me to the abandoned Unseelie burrow.
I let my gaze coast across the ocean to the small island sitting in the bay, and my heart skips a beat.
Another.
There, littering the simple mound, is a dappled blaze of color.
Red, orange, pink, purple, yellow—
Wildflowers.Thousandsof them swaying with the breeze, their vibrant petals bared to the rising sun. Clumped together in places, scattered in others, cushioned by lush green grass so bright and bold it reminds me of the grounds at Castle Noir.
My knees give way, and I crumple, pressing my palms upon my heaving chest as a restless energy squirms to life and pumps through my veins …
There’s something out there; something Hattie wants me tosee.
Leaning against a stack of crates, I flip the token between my fingers as I watch the long ferry cut across the river, sail bulging. I screw my nose up at the smell of fish and bodily waste baking in the evening rays.
A desperate chorus of yells rips my attention to three cloaked Shulák standing on the back of a cart, tossing loaves of bread at a hoard of children with sunburnt cheeks, chapped lips, and tattered tops. They dive on the offerings like gulls, then fall into a squealing, scrapping heap.
I shudder, ripping my gaze away.
The ferryman—a large lump of a man who takes up an entire seat built for three—coaxes his vessel against the wooden pier. Leaning forward, he huffs and puffs, tossing a length of rope around a post, his face flushed from exertion.
Two scrawny men pass me by, dark shadows cushioning their hollow eyes, looking like regurgitated death. They stop at the ferry, scratching their skin, nibbling their cuticles, edging from foot to foot. They hand the ferryman plain silver tokens and step down onto the vessel.
I move forward, setting mine into his plump, sweaty hand. He closes one eye and looks through the small glass window punched into the center.
According to Blythe—the unfortunate man whose robe I’m wearing—this particular token isspecial.It says I can be trusted. That I’ve been vetted, my faith tested, and that I’ve proven myself worthy of initiation. Of this personal, in-the-flesh meeting with the infamousMadame Strings.
