“—after forty years of finding wrong ones in town, but, well, that’s not a priority just now anyway.”
Arthur paused, his words echoing in his own ears. He’d said rather too much.
“They bring me hope. That’s all.”
Ira considered him, his expression strange and soft. After a long moment, he closed the book and slipped it into Arthur’s knapsack. “Come on.”
Feeling less foolish than he might have, Arthur closed his knapsack, shrugged on the furs Ira had lent him, and followed. Freya gave a disheartened meow that suggested she was wasting away due to their neglect, but she followed, too.
Outside, snow was falling. Arthur shivered, grateful to leave the vale’s endless winter. The snow filled in his footprints and Ira’s pawprints as if they’d never been there.
Calyx unwound from its tree and dragged itself after them. Ira rounded on it.
“Absolutely not. Stay here.”
It clicked despondently. Despite himself, Arthur pitied it. It only wanted to protect Ira, after all, even if its way of protecting him was deeply unhelpful and had almost gotten Arthur killed.
“Someone has to watch over the vale,” he said to it, “don’t you think?”
He shivered as it turned fronds toward him, feeling, as usual, like it was glaring at him.
“I was only trying to help.”
Ira nudged the plant creature with a clawed foot. “Away with you.”
Calyx moped back up its tree.
They halted before the brambles. Ira’s fingers curled into fists. He paled, his face strained. The delicate white flowers blooming in the valley of his scar were at odds with his expression. Arthur bit his lip, but he touched the back of Ira’s hand. Carefully, barely, in case Calyx came racing down the tree to choke him for it.
Ira cleared his throat, but his voice was hoarse as usual when he spoke.
“Open up.”
The brambles quivered. Thorned canes peeled back, more slowly than they had when they’d let Arthur into the vale. Freya trotted through them with a chirp. Arthur let out a breath but smiled encouragingly and followed. Ira kept close behind him.
They stood at the ravine’s edge, gazing at the water below. Across from them, frost from the stormwings’ passage edged the autumnal flora.
Ira’s fists tightened. “Regrow the bridge.”
Nothing happened. Ira’s nostrils flared.
“It’s not going to listen to me,” he growled.
“Not with that attitude.”
“The forest has hardly listened to me in three decades.”
“We can’t give up after one try.”
Ira gritted his teeth. “Regrow the bridge.”
The forest was silent except for the small, secret rustlings of unseen creatures in the underbrush and canopy. Ira rubbed his forehead. Before he could say anything more, Arthur unfastened the acorn from his neck and held it up.
“I know you want to protect him. And maybe this, too. But we’re going to the heart of the wood—we want to, if you’ll let us cross. We’re trying to help you.”
Silence. Stillness.
Then, a low rumble. Arthur stumbled. Ira grabbed the backof his shirt and yanked him from the ravine’s edge. Freya hissed, darting behind them.
