“Freya,” he croaked.
The cat yowled. The eagle shook her off; she hurtled toward Arthur’s head. He tried to catch her in his arms, caught her with his face instead, and yelped in pain.
With a crack and a roar, the sides split, the far end came unmoored, and the bridge collapsed.
“Freya, jump!” Arthur yelped.
She pushed off his back and skidded with a yowl into the brambles.
Arthur leaped after her. The knapsack weighed like an anchor.
His fingers scraped stone, not enough. He clung to the bridge as it fell, slamming into the side of the ravine.
The eagle whistled once and winged away. Little comfort, now that Arthur clung to a crackling length of bark slick with frost.
He tried to pull himself up. Rose an inch, slipped back down. He clung tighter.
“Freya?”
A disgruntled, furry head peered into the ravine.
“Help me,” he moaned. His hands slipped. Pieces of the bridge cracked apart and fell away, splashing into the stream far below. His breath hitched.In for four, hold for four, out for four, in for oh dearhis hands were slipping farther—
The bark split. Arms straining, Arthur renewed his grip and pulled himself up—up—up. He dug his feet into the side of the ravine and pushed off, hurtling upward into thorns.
The remains of the bridge buckled and dropped, landing with a distant splash at the bottom of the ravine.
Arthur struggled away from the thorns with a whimper, so desperate to be free of them he nearly fell after the bridge. Heart pounding, he sat on the narrow strip of earth between the ravine and the brambles with his head in his hands. His face was scratched. His arms and shoulders ached.
“Mrrf,” Freya said, twisting around him. He let out a breath, comforted by her soft, warmaliveness.
Arthur staggered to his feet, taking stock. He was alive. He wasn’t frozen into a block of ice; his fingers were stiff but not blue. That was something. He had the cat, who wound aroundhis ankles with a purr. Charlotte’s rowan cross and his watch-repairing kit were in his pocket. His father’s silver acorn hung from his neck. Miraculously, he hadn’t lost his knapsack. He shrugged it off, afraid it might have come open during the encounter and lost his books.
All three were in place, alongside the paltry other items he’d had in his knapsack instead of his suitcase. He sat back with a sigh. That was something, too.
But there was a sharp drop before him, thick brambles behind him, and massive eagles who knew where. He shuddered. If they returned, he’d be a sitting duck. He was alone except for the cat. His forehead wasn’t bleeding anymore because the blood had frozen, but it would surely resume bleeding once he warmed up. His fingers were so stiff he doubted he could’ve done anything about that even if he’d had more medical knowledge.
“Come on, Freya. Let’s get off this ledge.”
Whatever was beyond the brambles, it had to be better than here. The cat picked her way through them without so much as a scratch.
“Show off,” Arthur said.
He plucked at the nearest cane, careful not to catch his fingers on the thorns. To his astonishment, at his first touch, the brambles pulled aside, creating a narrow trail.
Arthur peered through. All he could see was Freya’s furry form and darkness.
Shemrowredat him.
“If you think it’s safe.”
He clutched his knapsack to his chest and sidled sideways through the brambles. They closed behind him as he went. He swallowed, feeling like he’d stepped into the cup of a carnivorous plant.
The brambles opened into a thicket of pine trees, throughwhich was whiteness. The pines enveloped Arthur in their spicy scent but, like the brambles, gave way before him and closed behind him. He wasn’t sure why they’d let him through. Whether that was good or not.
“Thank you,” he said, just in case.
Neither trees nor brambles responded. Probably for the best.
