He couldn’t remember his name, either, but that seemed equally unimportant. All that mattered was that his back had stopped twinging (had it ever twinged to begin with?), the fog wrapped around him like a blanket, and he was pleasantly sleepy. He removed his spectacles, lay down, and closed his eyes, calm washing over him. He would lie down for a while, and when he awoke, he’d go back to what he’d been doing, whatever that was...
He frowned. Now he’d lain down, he was rather less comfortable. Something dug into his hip, a hard point that disturbed his rest.
He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a rowan cross. His frown deepened as he gazed blurrily at it. It was important for some reason.
The fog grasped at him, but he shuddered it off.
“Not now,” he murmured. “I’m trying to...”
Arthur shot upright, reaching for his spectacles. His sister. Charlotte had given him the rowan cross. He gripped it tight, its points digging into his palm, his mind clearer for focusing on it. He didn’t know how long that might help. He was short of breath; perhaps breathing in the fog was doing this to him.
How had he ever thought it warm and comfortable? Fumbling for his knapsack, he wrenched a handkerchief free and held it over his nose. He shouldered his knapsack and scooped up the sleeping cat, hoping he could negotiate cat, cross, and handkerchief at once.
The fog’s grasping fingers made him want to peel his own skin off. He shook his head, shuddering away from it. It came at him from every side, but he squeezed his eyes shut and trudged forward. He’d walked into it; he could walk out of it.
Lottie, he thought, clenching the cross.Lottie, Lottie, Lottie—
Something crunched underfoot. Several somethings. Arthur tripped but righted himself and kept going.
Then he was free. His mind cleared; his breath returned. Clutched uncomfortably in one arm, Freya awoke with a disgruntledmrrf.
“Are you all right?” Arthur asked. She headbutted him. “What do you suppose...?”
He turned warily toward the fog. Now he was out of it, it didn’t look like normal fog. It was vaguely gold despite thedimness of the forest, which was darker than it had been earlier. Stumbling through the fog, he’d lost time, and he wasn’t sure how much—but it seemed more time than it had felt.
He’d lost the stream, too.
The fog dissipated. As it did so, strange spindly forms appeared on the ground.
Arthur stepped toward them, gripping the cross tighter than ever. Skeletons. In the moss were skeletons. Three people, a bird, a squirrel, one that might have been a fox. Each laid out as if its owner had lain down and fallen asleep like he’d nearly done.
His breath hitched. “Let’s get out of here.”
He jogged away, the cat bouncing in his arms. He didn’t remove the handkerchief from his nose until he’d put distance between them and the fog.
xxxv. In which Arthur finds someone unexpected
It was nearly dark by the time Arthur located the stream again. Despite its blackness, the sight comforted him. Shrubs clustered nearby, closer to the water than he would’ve liked, but they looked healthy. He could shelter in them for the night.
“That’s something,” he told the cat. She headbutted his ankle.
He squeezed into the shrubs’ midst. Twigs scratched his face, but once inside he found he could fit semicomfortably. If he curled on his side, he could lie down.
“It will certainly feel safer sleeping in here than out there,” he said to Freya. “Even if it’ll be awfully dark.”
Nosing at the shrubs’ roots, she ignored him.
He clambered back out, crept to the edge of the stream, and peered up at the break in the canopy. Stars glimmered between shreds of cloud drifting across the velvety sky. No rain tonight, probably. No wet socks. That was something more.
Sighing, he wondered whether Ira had made it home yet. He might’ve, if he’d flown the whole way. He might as well transform, now; he could hardly become more beastly than he already was.
Arthur swallowed. Yesterday morning, he’d been so afraidIra would remain a stag forever. He hadn’t realized then how much worse it could be. How Ira could transform in other ways, losing himself to the forest’s anger.
What must it feel like, Arthur wondered, to lose one’s will—one’s self—to the wood? His heart clenched. No wonder Ira had been so scared.
Letting out a breath, Arthur squeezed back into the shelter of the shrubs.
In the morning, he awoke stiff and sore with the cat tucked into his side. The stream burbled outside his shrubby shelter.
