With a crack, new limbs burst from the trees on either side. They thinned and lengthened, slinging across and braiding together. Vines slithered over them, wove together into sides. With another rumble, logs rolled down the length of the vines, which sheared them into planks.
When the forest stilled, a new swinging bridge hung across the ravine, green with moss and lichens and smelling of fresh wood. Breath catching at the sudden construction, Arthur hung the acorn back around his neck.
Beside him, Ira had gone white, jaw clenched, fists tighter than ever. A few days ago, that expression would have scared Arthur. Now he recognized it for what it was. Ira wasn’t angry; he was afraid.
Arthur touched one of his fists. “It’ll be all right.”
Ira shook his head. “I can’t do this.”
“Yes you can.”
“I haven’t left the vale in more than twenty years.”
Arthur gave a small smile. “You left just yesterday to save me.”
Ira’s fists unclenched slightly. “You keep bringing that up.”
“You keep forgetting.”
Arthur waited, but Ira stared rigidly out at the forest without speaking.
“Let’s breathe a moment, shall we?” Arthur said.
“What?”
“Breathe with me. Just for a minute. Four counts in, hold for four counts, four counts out, then hold again and start the whole thing over.”
“Arthur—”
“Trust me.”
Ira’s mouth twisted, but he nodded. Arthur caught his gaze, despite his own discomfort with eye contact, because Charlottehad kept them breathing together that way when she’d taught him this. He took them through three cycles. By the end, Ira’s fists had uncurled and jaw unclenched.
He let out a breath, running a hand through his hair. “Thanks.”
A strand had come loose from his knot. Arthur tucked it back into place.
“Come on. I’ll be right beside you. Let’s go, Freya.”
The catmrowredand trotted onto the bridge, pleased to leave their snowy prison behind.
Arthur started across, but Ira caught his hand, so tightly it hurt. Arthur’s injured palm throbbed, but he waited. For a long moment, Ira stood like that, hands tight on Arthur’s, eyes squeezed shut. Then, nodding, he opened his eyes. When Arthur took his first step onto the bridge, Ira followed, clinging to him.
Crossing was easier this time, except for Ira clutching Arthur’s hand. Freshly grown, the bridge was not half frozen from stormwings, nor did it crack and creak underfoot—though it did bounce with each step, so much that Arthur had to stop in the middle to fight back a wave of nausea. They reached the other side without event.
Ira slipped one paw off the bridge and onto the forest floor.
Where he stepped, greenery unfurled. Sprouts unwound, then, as if excited to see him, exploded into bitter vetch or heal-all or wild garlic. Toadstools burst through the leaf litter, blue violet, brownish gold, blush pink.
“Oh,” Arthur breathed.
The plants wilted and blackened. The toadstools liquefied.
A muscle tightened in Ira’s neck.
“What happened?” Arthur asked in a hushed voice.
The muscle ticked, but all Ira said was, “Come on.”
