Winterwood

His breathing grows heavy, sleep drawing him under, and my wretched, traitorous heart burns a hole in my chest. I close my eyes and see only the moth—wings against the window, searching for a way in. I close my eyes and see Oliver lying in the trees, snow falling over him, burying him alive.

I slide across the floral-printed sheets, only inches away from him, our fingers still woven together. And I wish I could slip into his dreams—just like my grandmother could. I wish I could see what he sees.

Then I’d know for sure, the secrets he keeps.

Spellbook of Moonlight & Forest Medicine

IDA WALKER was born at the last hour, on the last night of the wolf moon, with chalky-blue eyes and a ribbon of blond hair that later turned black.

She sucked her thumb until she was nine and she often fell asleep in unusual places: the crook of a dogtooth elm tree, a patch of stinging nettle, between the paws of a mother wolf, on the roof of the old house during a rainstorm. Ida could sleep anywhere, even while floating on her back in Jackjaw Lake.

When she was eleven, she saw her first dream that was not her own.

She never intended to spy, but every dream she saw from then on didn’t belong to her. When Ida closed her eyes, she fell headfirst into the dreams of others while they slept. She learned to decipher those dreams with startling accuracy, but she knew that most people would not understand, or grasp, the true meaning of their dreams, so she told them fanciful fairytales instead.

Every full moon she brewed crowberry tea with spinster lemon, and she wove stories together as tightly as the braid down her back. She fell in love only once—to the man who gave her a moonstone ring that reflected the slate-blue color of her eyes, the same man who gave her a daughter who could charm wild honeybees.

Ida Walker died on a warm autumn night, the bone moth at her window.

And no regrets in her heart.

To Brew Crowberry Tea:

One handful crowberries—picked during the coldest night

One pinch poppy flowers, star anise, licorice, clover

Steep all night during a full moon. Drink before sunrise in a teacup held away from the nearest clock.

NORA

I want to trust him.

I don’t want to do what I’m about to do.

But there are things—at least one thing—he’s not telling me.

I watch the swell of his chest, the shiver of his skin while he sleeps as if he were recalling the forest, the snow, the night I found him inside the Wicker Woods. It haunts him still.

And when I’m certain he’s really asleep, I slip from bed, pressing my feet silently to the wood floor. I creep across the loft, through shadows and long patches of moonlight, avoiding the places where I know the floorboards give way an inch or two and would let out a soft shudder. Fin breathes softly from the floor. The whole house is sunken into dreams—except me.

I kneel down by the small chair beside the window, where Oliver stripped out of his coat, and feel along the thick fabric until I find a pocket. I slip my hand inside. And find nothing. My fingers trail along the collar, finding the other pocket filled with a few small twigs and broken bits of pinecone—not uncommon after tromping through the wilderness. I settle back on my heels. Maybe there is nothing to find.

Maybe I shouldn’t look through his things. I would be furious if I found him snooping through my closet, my bedside table. A soft prick of guilt nags at me. But I touch the coat again, the heavy canvas, finding the main zipper and then sliding my hand along the interior of the coat. Sure enough, there is a hidden pocket, smaller than the others, but tucked high along the chest. I feel for the opening and reach inside. Something small and soft meets my fingertips. I pull it out and hold it in my palm: the pouch of herbs I gave him. I squeeze it in my hand, the scent of cloves and cardamom and lily now long gone.

He’s kept it all this time—inside his coat, close to his chest.

I hear him breathing in the bed, and I sink back onto my heels, feeling stupid for looking. For thinking I would find some clue, some small thing to prove him guilty or not. A liar or not. Instead, all I’ve found is the pouch of herbs I gave him—as if he couldn’t part with it, even when its potency wore off.

Wishing I had never snooped in the first place, I slide the pouch back into the pocket. But I feel something else.

Smooth and cold.

I pull my hand back out and watch a small chain unravel, something bulky and shiny at one end.