HARPER ANDIDEPART ATfirst light, laden only with our wits and whatever supplies fit into our rucksacks. We’ve donned our plain, everyday dresses. I’ve secured my hair into the tightest braid I can manage, a strip of red falling to my lower back, the heavy strands unlikely to move except in gale-force winds. Harper has arranged her own hair into an elaborate updo, something more appropriate for a ceremonial event than an extensive trek, but I hold my tongue. At least she had the foresight to wear boots.
Upon reaching the edge of the barley fields, I glance back, just once. The abbey, pale stone tucked into climbing ferns, appears in blurred pockets through the trees. I have never left Thornbrook for so long. I wonder if I will be missed.
My gaze flicks to Harper. She stares at me, blue eyes mistrustful beneath her smooth brow. We have until the eve of the tithe to return to Thornbrook. In less than two months, another seven-year cycle will reach its end. One of us will hold Meirlach in hand. And the other, unfortunately, will not.
“Do you want to leave anything behind?” I gesture to the straps cutting into her shoulders. “There’s still time to lighten your load.”
Harper rears back. As usual, I have affronted, insulted, offended. “If I were you,” she says, dropping her voice, “I would worry about your own ability to keep up.” She looks me up and down, smiles sharply, and shoves past me. “Come along, while we’re still young.”
Very well then.
We do not converse the entire morning. The unexpected blessing allows me space to ponder and plan. According to the map, the nymph-guarded entrance is located twelve miles south of Thornbrook. We should reach it by dusk, barring further delays.
Our route follows an abandoned foot trail through the forest, though none I have ever utilized. The air steams as the sun climbs, and the ground slopes into small hills where the trees have clambered over one another in search of sunlight. A glance over my shoulder reveals Harper struggling to navigate the numerous twisting roots.
“I warned you about the pack,” I say. My back aches, but I’m used to the strain.
Harper snarls something unintelligible and fumbles to remove her canteen. Sweat slithers down her face and neck; her updo has lost its shape. Sagging against the nearest tree, she gulps the liquid eagerly.
“Slowly,” I bark, hoping Harper took the necessary precautions. As long as we bless the water prior to drinking it, any taint will be cleansed, regardless of whether the fair folk poisoned the source. “We still have miles to go.”
Harper tears her mouth away from the canteen, gasps out, “I liked you better when you kept your opinions to yourself,” then drains the rest.
My face burns. Why do I bother offering advice when she refuses to listen? “We aren’t far,” I say, unfolding the map with shaking hands. At least I sound unaffected. “Only a few more miles. Do you want to break for lunch?”
“I’m not hungry.” A fierce proclamation, better suited for an extensive audience. The trees are a poor substitute.
I do not believe her, but I’m certainly not going to argue. “Fine.” I fold the map back into its square.
The motion draws her eye. “You say we have miles to go, but I question how much quicker we would reach our destination if someone more capable was in charge.” Thus she straightens, chin lifted, a rim of gold etching her slim frame. “I’ll take over from here.”
When the day is done, the world dark, my journal open on my lap, these are the moments I will remember: how my heart races at her barbed words; the feeling of falling from a great height despite the firm ground beneath my soles. But mostly, I will remember this: the whisper of parchment against my fingertips as it passes from my hand to hers. The conflict I wish to avoid. The words I did not say.
Harper smiles as I relinquish the map, tucking it into her pocket. “Much appreciated.”
By the time we reach the entrance to Under, the heat is well and truly boiling. Ferns carpet the bent path, each long, crenated tongue licking at our ankles. Harper pants heavily as she trudges through the green thicket. If she regrets taking on the effort of leading, she is too proud to admit it.
A few paces ahead, mushrooms encircle a massive boulder, which stands atop a grassy knoll. According to the map, this entrance will lead us to Under.
“We’re here?” Harper asks. Dirt coats the hem of her dress, and mine.
“Yes.” Upon further inspection, I spot a small, circular cutout in the rock. A door? Striding forward, I knock.
“Do you have an appointment?” An airy voice floats from somewhere behind the boulder. No, not behind.Within.
Harper and I exchange a look. She waves her hand as if to say,Do something.“Um… yes?”
“Name, please.”
“Brielle of Thornbrook.”
There is a pause. I bite my lip, worrying its flesh between my teeth. “I do not see your name on the list,” the voice states.
Harper shoots me a mutinous glare, because of course it’smyfault my name isn’t on the list. Mother Mabel gave me no additional instructions aside from informing me to knock and offer a loaf of bread to whoever answered the door.
“Are you sure?” My question teeters on shaky legs. When did the lies become default? “It should be there.”
The round cutout cracks open and pushes outward like a door. I squint into the opening, then stumble back as a creature emerges on four spindly legs, scuttling forward like a spider. Harper yelps and dashes into the safety of the ferns.
