“Do you have an idea of the most likely place to find a gloaming creeper between these three rivers?”
Dr. Silva arched her brows. “Ifyou were going to venture into the Wilds—which I am not recommending, to be clear—I would suggest starting at the Dismal. This part of the Wilds is drier, before you get down into swampier lowlands. You’re going to find sassafras, maybe some white cedar trees. River birches are less common but still a possibility. If the plain has flooded recently, the gloaming creeper could have been washed out, so I would start as far upland as you can. But again, I don’t think I can recommend, in good conscience, that you enter the Wilds. Especially not now.”
“Understood. I don’t think it’s going to be a problem,” Maggie said, but Arthur wasn’t so sure that was the case. Based oneverything Dr. Silva explained, there didn’t seem to be another option.
Dr. Silva shuddered. “I’ve always enjoyed living by the Wilds. It’s always felt safe, even with the occasional ghoul or banshee sighting, but this pall has changed things. I’ve been too nervous, even just going from Ulmus Hall to my house.”
Familiar guilt curled in Arthur’s gut. It paralyzed him until he didn’t know what he could say, but then Maggie was offering Dr. Silva reassurance.
“Have you refreshed your ward runes lately?” Maggie asked her, and she responded she just hadn’t had the time. Before Maggie spoke again, she reached over and rested a hand on Arthur’s arm. “Dr. Taliesin and I can come by and take a look for you.”
“Oh, I couldn’t ask you to do that,” Dr. Silva said with a wave of her hand. “You’re both so busy.”
“We would be happy to,” Arthur said, trying not to stare at Maggie’s hand on his arm. Like they were a unit. “It’s the least we can do after your help today.” Maggie’s hand slipped down, her fingers trailing along his elbow before returning to her side.
“That’s very generous of you both. If you mean it, I’ll send an email with my address, and you can come by anytime.” Dr. Silva checked her watch. “I’m so sorry, I have another appointment in the greenhouses in about fifteen minutes. If you need anything else, you can find me there until later this afternoon. Feel free to use the plant library for your research as long as you need. And if you’re going to stay past two, could you give Bruce his lunch?”
Maggie eyed the plant in the corner warily, probablywondering as Arthur was what such a monstrous plant could eat. “Of course,” Arthur said. “We’ll take care of the little guy.”
Alone, Arthur and Maggie split off, looking around the expansive library. Arthur paused in front of the map of the Wilds. The longer he stared at the route the Dismal took in the Wilds—a looping, winding creek that grew in size until it met up with the Dour and the Despair—the more certain he became. Maggie wasn’t going to like it. He sighed.
“Everything okay?” Maggie was back by his side, and he startled as her fingers grazed his elbow again, a look of concern on her face. He looked down at her hand, and she pulled it back like she hadn’t meant to do it at all. Was she touching him more? It felt like something had shifted since they went into the pall together, since he’d carried her out of it.Tell her, came the part of his brain that talked sense, but he ignored it. Again.
Instead, he said, “I hope you like camping.”
Maggie’s face fell, and she looked over at the map he’d been examining. “I hope you don’t mean what I think you mean.” He grimaced. “What about Dartwood? Maybe they have some of the decoction ready.”
Arthur shook his head. “Even if they do, and that’s a bigif, it would take too long to get here, and that’s if they’re willing to part with their rare decoction. It would be easier if it was for sale,” he went on, more to himself than Maggie.
“Fine, then we go into the Wilds.” She shuddered. “But what is this about camping? We walk in, we grab the vine, and we go. No tents or sleeping bags necessary.”
Arthur pointed to the Dismal with one finger and the edgeof the Wilds with the other. He drew his two fingers together. “Even if we enter at the northernmost point, that’s still a miles-long round trip through dense forest. There’s a path, but the deeper we get, the less well it’s maintained. Even if we rush, even if we find the gloaming creeper right away, we still probably couldn’t do it in one day.”
Maggie crossed her arms. “I did not sign up to camp in the Wilds.”
“It could be fun?”
“I thought you wereoh so concernedabout my well-being, and you want me to camp in that ghoul-infested hellhole?”
There was something about this Maggie, the one who didn’t give a shit what he thought, that Arthur couldn’t get enough of. He wanted to get a rise out of her, so he smirked. “It’s not as bad as all that.”
“Do you know what’s in there?” she practically shrieked.
“I promise,” he said dryly, “I am very familiar with the flora and fauna of the Wilds.”
“The flora and fauna,” she mimicked. “Well, that sounds downright pleasant. Charming, even. But that forest is nothing but ghoul nests and banshee hideaways.”
“If you take proper precautions, the Wilds are very safe.” Arthur glanced up from the map. His eyes met Maggie’s, and her expression softened as they looked at each other, but when she swallowed, her jaw tightened. “Do you trust me?” he asked her.
He wondered what was running through her mind. He had been reckless with her safety before, and they were here because of his bad decisions. He didn’t blame her for being frightened, for hesitating to put any trust in him when he’d let her downagain and again. But fantasmia were predictable. The Wilds were familiar.Thiswas something he was confident he could do.
Before he could reconsider, he reached up and brushed an out-of-place strand of her hair back, pulling his fingers away before they could linger. “I won’t let anything happen to you this time,” he said quietly, stopping short of making a promise he couldn’t keep.
Something like hope bloomed in his chest when she said slowly, “Okay.” She brushed back the same strand of hair. “I trust you.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
It would be a lot easier for Maggie to stomach the coming trek through the Wilds if the square mile around Hawthorn weren’t blanketed in a dense, pall-induced fog. Thankfully, Maggie hadn’t even bothered to put away her winter clothes as the seasons shifted, because the weather was so unusually chilly. She’d dug through her clothes to try to find something—anything—to wear to traipse through the Wilds. She settled on black leggings, an old long-sleeved Hawthorn shirt, and a colorful fleece she could remove when they emerged from the pall fog. She set a Hawthorn Splinters baseball cap on her head and threw her hair into a messy bun at the nape of her neck. She’d had no idea what kind of shoes to wear but finally chose a pair of neglected sneakers.
