More swaying.
Behind me is the bright aroma of a marigold in full bloom. Mary has rooted herself into the earth, no doubt drawing on its moisture. Her petals are outstretched as far as they can reach. The missing ones have regrown.
“You, too?” I ask her.
She goes stick-straight.
“All right, then.” I lightly touch Mary’s small, clay pot. It’s almost cool enough to handle. “Folost, we’re getting you ready to go first.”
He flickers out of existence, reappearing in the remnants of the hearth.
The majority of the embers are still too hot to walk over without making trips back to the well to douse my path. But that’s a good thing right now—I’m counting on the heat.
I carry one last bucket to the remnants of the hearth. One brick is different from the rest—handmade and fired from the same river clay as Mary’s pot. It also bears Grandma’s thumbprint in its center.
“Folost, go burn somewhere else for a minute. I’ll be quick,” I command. He hesitates, staying in the hearth near his brick. “I promise, it’ll be all right.” I hope.
Putting his faith in me, the little fire spirit flickers to life elsewhere in the remnants of the home. Taking a breath, I dump the bucket of water on top of the still scorching bricks of the hearth.
The second the cool water meets the hot brick, it lets out an almost screeching hiss. Cracking and snapping sounds fill the air. I return to the well, and repeat the process once to ensure that the cracks run good and deep and the pieces are now cool enough to handle. I sift through them, finding one small shard that has the edge of Grandma’s thumbprint.
The sliver of brick in hand, I race back through the pathway of mud and ash, to the firmer ground, and up the hill. Along the way I collect Aurora’s boots that had fallen, re-slinging them over the strap of my satchel. I hastily rummage around the base of the nearest tree, looking for the sturdiest stick I can find that’s slightly larger than the shard of brick. On my return to the burnt patch, I retrieve my knife from my bag and notch a spot for the piece to wedge within.
Kneeling once more, I coat the top of the stick in wet mud. Ideally, I’d have some other clay. But Folost is mindful of where he burns; he shouldn’t jump to the wood.
“All right, come along.” I hold out the stick to a still flickering ember.
Folost jumps from burning patch to burning patch with sparks trailing behind him. He’s all too eager to return to thelittle token that helps ground him in this world. The small crackling seems to whisper,Thank you.
“You’re welcome,” I reply. Then, my focus shifts. “Right, Mary, your turn.” I cross back to her, sticking Folost’s little torch into the ground near her. Then I retrieve her pot, now cooled. I safely replant her and then, using some plain twine from the sewing satchel, I affix it to the heavy belt at my hips, making sure she won’t easily fall.
My friends situated, I allow myself to catch my breath, taking stock of what I have. If the house was going to burn down, this was the time for it to happen. I emptied the hutch of bundles this morning. Because I’d gone into market, I had my cape and both my satchels. One of which is still laden with supplies for the road.
The empty boots at my side are a reminder of who’s still missing.
“Right.” I scoop up the tiny torch that gives off all the light of a candle. But Folost has never looked mightier to me. I focus on the tiny flame. “You’ve done so much, friend, but can you sense where Aurora is?”
A pause. A shift as the flame circles the sliver of brick. Then two eyes. A single blink.Yes.
“Can you lead the way?”
Yes.
“Mary, tell me if we are walking into danger.” I trust the small plant to commune with her larger counterparts as we ascend the hillside.
There’s a burst of floral aroma that smells like affirmation. I wonder if I’m having an easier time communing with both thanks to Aurora’s magic. It might not have been enough to save my home, but it will be enough to save her.
I start up the usual path, but a streak of compressed grasses distracts me. Diverting course, I head for the track, kneelingbeside it. Sure enough, it has the markers of large and heavy feet—eight of them. Two lykin. I follow the trail up to the edge of the woods.
Branches are broken. Split and dangling at uncomfortable angles. Folost illuminates the singes that blacken the trees where woven ribbons should have proudly fluttered in the breeze, and the claw marks that dig trenches into the earth. But the most stomach-churning thing that Folost’s light lands on is the drops of blood.
One of the lykin, or Aurora’s?
I fear I already know the answer. But for the lykin’s sakes…I hope I’m wrong.
CHAPTER 4
The woodsI once knew like a friend have now become an enemy. A sinister aura hangs from every branch and lurks behind every tree trunk. It’s all made worse by the iron scent of blood.
