“Arthur—”
Arthur pushed past. Ira grabbed his wrist, but Arthur whirled around, wrenched away, and shoved him.
“Let go of me!”
Calyx slammed into him.
Vines squeezed around his stomach and ribs, spiraling down his legs and binding them. Clawing at the creature, Arthur collapsed in the snow.
“Don’t,” Ira said, his hoarse voice laced with panic for the first time since Arthur had met him. “Calyx, stop!”
Vines shackled Arthur’s wrists. Calyx wrenched his head back—then tendrils slitheredintohim. His nose. His mouth. His ears. Ira was shouting, but it was distant, muted.
Arthur screamed, tried to, but he choked on plant matter. Leaves sealed over his face, vines wrapped around his neck—he gasped for breath, couldn’t breathe—stars burst behind his eyelids—
He was free. Sucking down air, he scrambled away from where he’d been, afraid he’d find himself trapped again.
“Arthur?”
Several yards away, Ira wrestled Calyx under control. It had grown bigger than Arthur had ever seen, spilling vines and fronds over Ira’s arms and shoulders. Tendrils swayed in Arthur’s direction. He backed away.
Ira’s face was pale, his eyes wide and horrified. “Arthur—”
A vine shot in Arthur’s direction. Arthur turned and ran.
“Arthur!”
He sprinted blindly across the vale, launched himself at the brambles, and clawed his way into them. They smacked him, stinging his cheeks and neck and hands.
“Arthur!”
He was buried in brambles. They yanked on his clothes and arms. A thorn pierced the fleshy part of his hand.
Somewhere behind him, Ira swore. With an unpleasant dragging sound, a vine wrapped around Arthur’s ankle. He kicked at it, made contact.
“Calyx,stop—”
Angry clicking, a growl, and Calyx let go.
The brambles grew thicker and thornier, scratching Arthur’s face, catching on his hair, snaking around a wrist, more thorns piercing his skin. He kicked forward inch by inch.
Amrowrsounded in his ear. Freya crept past, winding through the canes with ease. Arthur gritted his teeth and followed. Thorns tore his shirt and skin.
Then he fell forward. With a splash, he landed face-first in frigid water and sat up sputtering. Behind him, Ira called his name with increasing desperation.
Arthur squeezed his eyes shut. He still felt Calyx forcing vines down his throat, into his nose and ears.
He still saw the wheel tracks in the heather behind the garden back home.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and he splashed away from the vale.
xx. In which leaving the vale does not go well
The air was so much warmer than it had been in the vale that Arthur’s head throbbed at the change. Downstream the water carved into the landscape deeper and deeper, heading into the ravine, but here it only came up to Arthur’s knees.
Arthur tore a thorn from his hand and splashed clumsily through, forgetful of the knapsack and watch and novels and shoes he’d left behind. Forgetful of his wet socks, his many scratches, his torn shirt, his throbbing hand, the blood beading on his palm—even Calyx wrapping itself around his body. All he could think of were the wheel tracks in the heather, and Charlotte coming into the forest after him.
Unconcerned with such things, Freya jumped from rock to rock. She made a face when water splashed her toes but otherwise seemed pleased to be leaving the eternal winter of the vale.
