“The repercussions of a past version of yourself coming face-to-face with the current version would be…” The god shuddered. “Just don’t let past Baz see you. And for clocks’ sake, don’t lose the pocket watch. You lose it, you lose yourself.”
“Meaning?”
“Ever seen a ship caught in a storm? That’ll be you, adrift in the currents of time, and good luck finding your way back here then.” The god closed Baz’s fingers over the pocket watch. “Don’t. Lose. It.”
Baz’s hands felt unbearably clammy. “Thank you,” he said, trying to put on a brave face.
“Well.” The god gave him a curious look. “Don’t thank me just yet.”
The god snapped his fingers, and shimmering threads of light pulled Baz back into the past.
3EMORY
EMORY MUST ONLY HAVE BEENout for a few seconds. She opened her eyes to Virgil hovering above her, saying something she couldn’t hear, his voice muffled, distant. Above him, the sky had started to darken again. Emory sat up with a start, Virgil keeping her steady as she scanned their surroundings.
Not a single ash-umbra was left. The winged horse was nowhere to be seen.
Ivayne crouched over her mother, whose arm was badly hurt where the lightning lance had pierced flesh. Emory sent a wave of feeble healing power to mend the wound. Her magic still felt depleted, and she realized with new clarity that she hadn’t been the one to chase away the ash-umbrae or the strange men.
That voice…
Her eyes caught movement nearby, where a child was staring at them, half-hidden behind a mossy mound of rocks.
The girl couldn’t be more than seven or eight. She had red hair braided in a crown atop her head and wore a fur coat that wasseveral sizes too big for her. Her eyes widened when she saw them all looking at her.
“Hello?” Nisha called out to her. “Who are you?”
The girl put a finger to her lips, then beckoned them over.
“Yeah, like that’s not creepy at all,” Virgil muttered.
“Should we… follow her?” Vera asked.
The child motioned for them to come with more persistence. And so, with little other choice, they did.
Storm clouds had gathered, angrier than before. Lightning the likes of which Emory had never seen lit the skies in neon blues and purples. The girl picked up speed as the wind did, great gusts of it winnowing around them in whirlwinds that picked up grass and dirt and snow and rain that lashed at their cheeks like arrows in a battlefield. Just when Emory thought the wind would knock them all flat on their backs, the girl fell over a ridge.
No, not a ridge—she’d jumped down into a trench, its sides made up of those basalt columns they’d found beneath the tree cavern back in the Wychwood. The girl pressed on one of the columns, which was no column at all but a door that looked like one, revealing an opening through which a grown man could just barely fit. She motioned again for them to follow, and this time they did without hesitation. It was either follow the creepy child or suffer the eerie storm, as Virgil pointed out.
As soon as they were all inside, the girl shut the door soundlessly behind her, and for a moment they were in utter darkness. Then—hundreds of tiny blue lights shone above their heads, illuminating the tunnel they found themselves in like a ceiling of stars. Nisha reached out a finger toward the pretty lights, only to draw back with a sound of disgust. Upon closer inspection, Emory realized why: the lights were glowworms.
“Over here.”
This came from the girl, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Oh, so she does speak,” Virgil grumbled.
And she wasn’t the only one. Sound came alive down here, their own voices echoing against the rock walls. And farther down, the chatter and hum of voices reached their ears, along with the clash of pots and pans and the crackling of embers and the raindrop patter of some kind of cascade.
The tunnel opened onto a vast grotto that was in fact an entire village. Houses built into the walls, communal areas spread out between them. And though the people were indeed talking, they did so quietly. As if they were scared to make too much noise—which only begged the question why.
Their group got strange looks and murmurs thrown their way as the girl brought them to an elderly woman with silver hair and deep laugh lines who greeted them with a smile.
“Welcome, travelers. I’m Inga.” Her voice and accent were lilting, musical. “We’re glad you’ve made it this far. We’ve been expecting you.”
Emory frowned. “How do you…”
“Know who you are?” Inga finished with a mischievous grin. “We have eyes up above. Saw you coming. Please, sit. Eat.”
