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“And they shall always be a part of me. Do look after things. We have much to argue about when I return.”

“What makes you think we shall argue?”

I give Philon a knowing look. “We’ve the realms to discuss. I don’t delude myself that it shall go smoothly.”

“More tribes have heard. They will come to sit with us,” Philon says.

“Good.”

Philon reaches into the burned leaves and blows on them. They spiral and flutter until they form an image of the Tree of All Souls. The image lasts for only a moment. “The magic is in the land again. In time it will come back a hundredfold.”

I nod.

“Perhaps we shall visit you in your world sometime. Your world could do with a bit of magic.”

“I should like that,” I say. “But you will behave yourself, won’t you? No taking mortals for playthings.”

Philon’s lips twist into an enigmatic smile. “Would you come after us?”

I nod. “I would indeed.”

The creature extends a hand. “So let us remain friends.”

“Yes, friends.”

Gorgon accompanies me as far as the Borderlands. “The rest of this journey is mine alone, I’m afraid,” I say.

“As you wish,” she says, bowing. Her snakes dance about her head in a merry halo. She does not try to follow me, but she doesn’t leave, either. She lets me leave her. By the time I have crossed into the Winterlands, I no longer see her, but I feel her all the same.

Tiny blossoms have sprouted on the branches of the tree. Their defiant colors push up through the gnarled bark. The tree blooms again. The land is not what it was before. It is strange and new and unknown. It pulses with a different magic, born of loss and despair, love and hope.

I rest my cheek on the Tree of All Souls. Beneath the bark, its heart beats sure and strong against my ear. I stretch my arms round the tree as far as they will go. Where my tears hit, the bark glistens silver.

Little Wendy steps up shyly. She has survived. She’s pale and thin and her teeth are sharper. “It’s beautiful,” she says, admiring the tree’s majesty with her fingers.

I step away, wiping my eyes. “Yes, it is.”

“Sometimes, when the wind blows through them leaves, it sounds like your name. It’s like a sigh, then,” she says. “The most beautiful sound I ever heard.”

A gentle breeze catches in the branches then and I hear it, soft and low, a murmured prayer—Gem-ma, Gem-ma—and then the leaves bend down and trail delicate fingers across my cold cheeks.

“Wendy, I’m afraid I can’t help you cross over now that you’ve eaten the berries. You will have to remain in the realms,” I tell her.

“Yes, miss,” she says, and she doesn’t sound sad. “Bessie and me, we’re stayin’ on, makin’ a go of it. Can I show you sum’thin’?” Wendy asks.

She takes my hand and leads me to the valley where our battle was recently fought. Amidst the patches of icy snow, unexpected plants grow. Their roots burrow deep under the ice; they grow despite it.

“Tell me what you see,” she says.

“Lovely shoots sticking up. Like early spring,” I say. “Did you plant these?”

She shakes her head. “I done only this one,” she says, fingering a tall plant with thick, flat, red leaves. “I put my hands in the soil, and it was like I could feel the magic there, waitin’. I put m’mind to it, and up it grew. And then, it’s like it took hold, and the rest come up all on their own. It’s a start, innit?”

“Yes,” I say. The valley stretches out long and far, a mixture of color and ice. The injured land struggles to be reborn. It is a very good start.

A man approaches me timidly, his hat in his hand. His terror shows in his shaking limbs and searching eyes. “Beggin’ your pardon, miss, but I was told you be the one to help me cross on to the next world.”

“Who told you this?”

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