Winterwood

Time had never moved in a straight line for Nora, but on that night, she learned it could slip forward and back when her heart begged it to. When she asked.

She could undo the mistakes of the past.

She could make right her wrongs.

She could bring boys back from the dead.

And she would use her nightshade many times.

Nora Walker fell in love only once, with dizzying ferocity, with a boy who knew precisely what she was. She remained at Jackjaw Lake for the remainder of her life, in the old house set back in the trees, and she wrote many stories within the spellbook. Like the winter a storm blew over the lake and not everyone made it out alive. Not at first. She became a storyteller, not just of her own tales, but of the lost items she found inside the Wicker Woods. Of the people she met. She told their stories so they wouldn’t be forgotten.

Her own death, however, is a blank spot never noted here. For time was not easily measured for her—the year and age of her death, of most events in her life, could not be certain.

But Nora is said to have lived the longest, strangest, most wholehearted life of any Walker who ever lived.

Some even say her tale might not yet be over.

That the story of a witch, one who slips through time, can never really have an end.

How to Bend Time:

Light a black candle beside a south-facing window—let it burn for ten winter minutes.

Hold a piece of green glass over the flame, casting a prism onto the floor.

Write the desired date and time on a white sheet of paper and burn over candle.

Close both eyes, then blow out flame.

EPILOGUE

There is no such thing as a common forest.

A place of ordinary trees and unremarkable terrain.

Woods are formed of mischief and misdeeds, thorns to bite at exposed skin, roots to catch a loose shoelace dragging down a path. Malediction lives in the dark, it festers beneath thick canopies of evergreen limbs, burrows into the damp wood like needle worms.

But some forests are older than most. The oldest kind. Some forests grow hatred in their bark and moth-eaten leaves so that no safe passage can be made through such a place.

Unless you are built of the forest. Unless blood as black as tar swells through your veins.

Unless you are a Walker.

Walker women have never feared the trees—the ancient sway of limbs clawing at their long, sooty hair.

Locals say they were sprouted from the ground itself, pushed up like green saplings greedy for sun and warmth. That their bones are built of roots and briars and stinging nettle.

They belong to these woods. To the Black River where gold was found along the rocky shore. To Jackjaw Lake, dark and bottomless. To the fattened moon, tethered in the sky—awaiting the whispered words of a Walker’s furtive spell.

The history of Walker women is strange and storied and woven in folklore.

And that’s how they prefer it—to be made into legends.

Acknowledgments

At times, writing this book was like losing myself within a dark, dark wood. I might not have found my way back out if it weren’t for a few spectacular people.

A ridiculously huge thank-you to Nicole Ellul for venturing into the Wicker Woods with me. For conjuring spells and unexpected endings and word magic. There is surely moonlight in your veins! Thank you to Mara Anastas and Liesa Abrams for providing a home for my dark, twisted tales. To Jessi Smith and Thandi Jackson, thank you for reading countless drafts. Thank you, Sarah Creech, for designing a perfectly spooky cover; Mike Rosamilia, for designing an equally spooky interior; and Jim Tierney, for the magical art. Thank you, Elizabeth Mims and Sara Berko, for making sure stories become books. Thank you to Clare McGlade for rounding out the rough edges. Thank you to Caitlin Sweeny and Alissa Nigro for your marketing magic! Thank you, Lauren Castner, for all the top secret work you do! Thank you, Cassie Malmo, for juggling schedules and making sure this story gets into the hands of as many readers as possible. To Anna Jarzab, Emily Ritter, Jill Hacking, and Chrissy Noh—you ladies are superheroes. And thank you to all the fellow book nerds at the S&S office who make this book possible in all the little/big ways that are never seen!

Jess Regel, you’ve read an unnameable number of my stories—ones that no one but you or I will ever read, and you have been the greatest ally I could ask for. Cheers to the books buried in both our old inboxes. Thank you for everything. Truly.

To Mom and Dad, thank you for all the bedtime stories. To Sky, thank you for distracting the animals while I write and for eating only cereal when I didn’t have time to cook. Love you endlessly. To Mel and Andra and Andee, still the best friends a girl could ask for.

To Ann and Nicky, Jeanie and Tyler. I was on deadline during our trip, but you guys still made sure I got in that turquoise water and played cocobocce. I heart you all. Banana.