Arthur swallowed, closed his eyes, and breathed deeply until the wave of dizziness passed. Ira needed him. It would be like caring for Charlotte on her worst days. Except for the blood.
As he thought of his sister, Arthur’s skin prickled. She might be having a bad day this very moment. What if she lay down, weary and aching, and the forest swallowed her up?
He focused back on his breathing. He couldn’t do anything for Charlotte right now, but he could do something for Ira. And once Ira was taken care of, they could continue on toward theheart of the wood—they could replant the tree—they could make sure Charlotte was safe, wherever she was.
Arthur reached for Ira’s canteen, thought better of it, and found a small bottle of gin amidst the bandages and ointments in the pack. The sight of them calmed him. They reminded him of Charlotte, the composed way she went about binding wounds and treating illnesses and birthing babies, no matter how dire the situation. Surely Arthur could channel her now. Her surety and calm, if not her knowledge. Not thisknowledge—though afterward, if he didn’t muck it up, he could use the knowledge he’d gained in the last six months to alleviate the pain.
Arthur splashed gin on the wound. Ira winced.
Wadding the ruined shirt up, Arthur pressed it to Ira’s shoulder. Ira’s nostrils flared, so reminding Arthur of how he’d been as a stag that he was relieved all over by Ira’s transformation back.
“Isn’t there anything that can prevent you from becoming so... deerlike?”
“I can stay in the vale.”
Arthur bit his lip. “Perhaps you should go back.”
Ira covered Arthur’s hands with one of his own. “Perhaps we should.”
“Notwe. You. If the tree isn’t replanted—not that I suppose I’ll get very far on my own, but—”
A small Vformed between Ira’s brows. Arthur wanted to smooth it away, but he focused on keeping pressure on the wound.
“I’m supposed to protect you,” Ira said.
“Protecting me isn’t worth your life.”
Ira’s eyes flickered over his face. “Maybe it is.”
Something small and soft bloomed in Arthur’s chest. His own life wasn’t worth much at all; Ira’s was far more valuable.
Suddenly, he wondered if there was a reason he’d never found the right girl.
Ira’s shoulder had stopped bleeding. That was something. Letting out a breath, Arthur dabbed dried blood away, packed the wound clumsily, and bandaged it. Freya cleaned Ira’s hair as if for moral support.
“I’m afraid it’s not done well,” Arthur said, but Ira nudged the cat away, sat up, and brushed a lock of hair back from Arthur’s forehead. Arthur shut up, the tips of his ears pinkening.
“I’m practically as good as new.”
Ira got to his feet, grimacing. He leaned more heavily on his left leg than usual. Whatever exactly had happened last night, it had been hard on him.
“We should move on. The wild hunt has gotten us off track.”
Arthur’s heart sank. “How do you know?”
“I feel it. The forest’s magic. Like a map in my bones. You could tell, too, though, with the acorn. Here.”
He held out a hand—almost a paw. Arthur pulled the acorn over his head. Ira curled Arthur’s fingers closed over it.
“The acorn knows where it came from. It’s attuned to the heart of the wood, what’s left of it, and with it you can feel the stump. That doesn’t move, no matter how much the other trees do.”
His fingers tightened on Arthur’s.
“Can you feel it?”
For a long moment, there was only the warmth of Ira’s hand on his. Then, concentrating on the silver acorn, Arthur felt it, like a bright ball of light to the north. A snarl of magic like the tangle of greenery in a wood at the height of summer. The acorn wasalivewith it in a way Arthur hadn’t noticed until now.
“Oh.”
