Page 20 of The Girl in the Forest

And then what?

Do not believe in fate, Noa!

I turned my back to the light. Told the nymphs I wanted to be alone. They had to know I was upset over what they’d shared, but they granted me privacy.

The magic did the same, although the veiled entrance remained in place. And I wondered if the slobbering puppy magic, meeting my every need, was the same magic demanding payment from Grayson for the sins of the kings. And if it was…

The cave quieted. I sat with an arrangement of water bottles in reach and an open journal on my lap. Sleep seemed unnecessary. I didn’t wonder why. Time was not my friend, but by watching through the veil, I had some sense of how fast time passed on the outside.

Not as fast as I’d feared. The sun rose and set. The translucence would clear and time would slow long enough to notice a wolf pacing in circles.

His pelt was dark brown, but around his muzzle was the gray of age. The steady pacing reminded me of Oscar sorting fishing lures.

Perhaps the wolf was so aged it had wandered into the forest, unable to find the way home. I remembered a friend of mine from high school, talking about her old dog, who would wander into a corner of the room and stand there for hours, unable to figure the way out.

“Go home, wolf,” I whispered, looking down at the journal in my lap, and when I glanced up again, time had jumped and the wolf was sleeping on the ground, exposed to the pouring rain. I shouted at him to go, to find shelter, but doubted the wolf could hear me.

The sheeting rain lessened. Light faded to dark gray, then night for what might have been four hours. Brightened again. The wolf was still there until the time when I glanced up and he was gone. I was relieved, but also missed the companionship. As if realizing that, the magic thinned the veil until details came into focus. I could see the trees, and the grass, still trampled from the wolf’s pacing.

I hoped the wolf made it home. That he wasn’t still pacing where I couldn’t see him. But when my heart cramped with concern, the light outside shimmered as if inviting me.

Come out, come out, come out.

Instead, I pushed to my feet and wandered deeper into the cave, where every morning, I’d find a basket of fruit and cheese waiting. But today, the magic brought flakey croissants and a sealed carafe of coffee that steamed when I lifted the lid.

“Thank you,” I said, because the magic appreciated gratitude, and I was grateful as I gulped down that first cup of coffee, with the cream already added in the correct amount. The little touch of cinnamon I liked.

The flakey, buttery layers of the croissant tasted particularly good, not like the heavy yeasty crescent rolls so often passed off as croissants in the human world.

After a sigh of pleasure, I told the magic, “This is wonderful. You probably think I don’t eat enough. Or sleep enough. But I’m not tired or hungry. I’ve been reading the journals every night, so don’t worry about me.”

Flames wavered upward around the wood in the fire ring, then settled down, which was as close to answering back as the magic came, other than whipping chairs away or slamming down bowls of cereal.

But when the mushrooms on the walls pulsed, I remembered Grayson inking runes on my skin, and the memory hit hard enough to make me angry.

“What?” I demanded. “You can’t say it?”

The firelight danced, tinting the sand with a rosy glow.

“You’re supposed to be neutral.” I tore into a second croissant. “You say I have choices, but then you pout if I don’t pick the one you want.”

When sparks popped, I rolled my eyes. “Oh, I see. You know better than I do, but maybe you’re the same magic that came up with all these ‘sins of the kings and queens’ and decreed it as fate.”

When the smoke curled upward in lazy ribbons, I thought it looked smug, and I tore another piece of croissant, waved it in the air.

“I don’t believe in fate. Neither did my mother. And I loved my life before, you know.” I shoved the food into my mouth. “I loved being that girl in the forest, taking photographs. It was a good life.”

A slab of burning wood broke apart in a sea of sparks.

My teeth clenched. “Okay, fine. Argue every point, but it was good, and I know I’ll never go back to who I was then. That doesn’t mean I’m believing everything Caerwen and Effa said.”

No flicker from the flames or pulse from the mushrooms this time, making me wonder if I wasn’t already fracky, standing there with my loose hair, arguing with a cave, lost in a delusion. How much sense did it make anyway, thinking I could talk to the magic and it would listen—when it was the same magic that condemned people for the sins committed by people they didn’t even know?

I could talk to the nymphs. They would listen. But they were like sisters who didn’t agree with me, and I didn’t want to be angry because of their point of view. Silence was better, and I turned my back to the fire, wandered toward the light again.

Sitting by the veil had become a compulsion, as if some revelation waited, and as I settled cross-legged on the sand, a curious movement on the other side drew my attention.

Was the wolf back? I almost hoped he was because I’d grown lonely. But what I could see through the mist wasn’t a wolf. I guessed he was male, young, but not a child. Perhaps an older teenager. His arms crossed, dropped to his sides, crossed again. His attention was on the ground—he was staring at the matted grass where the old wolf slept.

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