Mairwen grabs one of the vines and says, “Wither,” with all the insistence in her heart. The vine twists and withdraws, but Aderyn whimpers.
“Stop, stop, little bird, and listen: He is back at the heart of the forest.”
“What? Who?” She wipes her tears and clenches her jaw. In her veins, her blood throbs. She needs to do something, to rage or run or find the Bone Tree and demand it obey her.
“Vaughn. Your...” Her mother’s voice fades; she winces as if confused.
“What? Lord Vaughn? He wasn’t at his manor. He was gone? Did he do this to you?”
“Yes.”
“Why?” she shrieks.
“I remember him. I remember him when you were small, and before you were born. I’ve been dreaming of him the past three nights, strange dreams... like memories, and I—I remember him.”
“So do I. Everyone does,” Mairwen whispers. “I remember his—his father, too, because he liked me.”
“Not his father. Vaughn has no father. He is no man, little—little bird. He is forest and flowers... stones and clay... all beasts.”
The roaring in Mairwen’s ears is suspicion, is a wild guess, a terrible thrill of truth that she does not want. “The old god,” she whispers.
“Your father.”
“No.” Mairwen scuttles away from her mother. “No,no. My father was a saint! Carey Morgan, and his bones are on the—on the Bone Tree. I touched my finger to his moon-white cheekbone and looked into his empty eyes!”
She remembers it with perfect clarity.
“I am the daughter of a witch and a saint!”
Mairwen faces the girl in the long white veil, and the girl lifts her hand, points at Mair, and says—
“No,” Mairwen whispers.
the girl lifts her hand, points at Mair, and says, “You are not one of us.”
•••
EVERYTHING IS SILENT.
Silver trees surround her, laced with white vines and moonlight. Her feet brush rocky earth, with no sign of grass or deadfall, and through the branches stars twinkle against the impossible blackness of the night sky. She cannot see the moon. It must be low. Only two hours until dawn.
She leans into Baeddan’s shoulder as they shift and slowly spin, dancing beneath bobbing little lights.
“They’re waking,” Baeddan whispers. He lets go of her hand, and lets go of her waist.
“Who?” Mairwen glances all around. She is so weary, and so at peace, she could close her eyes and sleep against that nearest tree, with Baeddan’s arms around her, and listen to his erratic heartbeat and strange songs. Maybe in her dreams the words would make sense.
He backs away awkwardly, as if he does not know where to look. “Watch, Mairwen Grace. They are so beautiful.”
Standing in the center of the grove, Mairwen waits alone.
Filaments of light drip down from the stars, setting aglow the cracks in the tree bark, and all the vines shiver, bursting with violet flowers that turn silver and white and then gray as ash before falling quietly to the earth.
The trees shake, and all the light coalesces into figures and faces, pushing free of the trees, gathering light into sheer veils. Nine women, with flowers growing out of their chests. They remain before their trees, all but one, who walks toward Mairwen.
She holds her breath but does not flee.
The girl drifts nearer, and through the long, white veil Mairwen sees dark eyes, white-violet skin, parted lips, and dark hair falling in fat curls around her face and shoulders.
