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Most of the entries documented ordinary plants: foxglove, feverfew, yarrow, willow bark. The remedies she’d made from them were equally ordinary, although she never described anything that way. She’d called them old knowledge, spoken with the quiet reverence other people reserved for religion.

Then there were the Screaming Woods entries.

Flowers that bloomed only beneath a full moon. Fungi that changed color when someone lied nearby. A moss capable of producing enough heat to keep an injured animal alive through winter.

And one small, unassuming plant Grandma had believed could slow the progression of a wasting illness no specialist had been able to name, much less treat.

The drawing was incomplete. The notes were worse. Half a Latin classification, three possible locations, and a description of the scent that read, like rain falling on something you thought was dead.

Scientifically useless. Emotionally devastating.

I had twenty-one days to find evidence that the plant existed. Not necessarily a living specimen. A pressed sample, pollen residue, or even a reliable historical record would be enough to justify a larger study. Enough to obtain proper funding. Enough to bring in researchers with better equipment and more influence than I had left.

Enough to prove Grandma right.

The vine released my hand.

“You’re not the one,” I told it softly. “But you’re something.”

It rustled its leaves as if willing to accept this distinction.

I reached into my bag and removed a narrow plastic marker. I wrote the date, approximate coordinates, and the temporary designation SW-V01, then pressed the marker into the soil several inches from the base of the oak.

The vine promptly snaked down and flicked it over.

I stared at the marker lying in the moss. “Was that necessary?”

One yellow flower bobbed.

I replaced the marker farther away. This time, the plant left it alone, although several leaves remained angled toward it with obvious suspicion.

“You’re very territorial for something without a central nervous system.”

I glanced over my shoulder as a deep sound rolled through the trees behind me. Nothing moved except a few drops of water falling from the branches. The sound could have been wood shifting. Some of these trees were immense, with trunks wider than my rental car and roots thick enough to form natural benches.

It could also have been an animal.

The innkeeper had assured me that the woods were safe provided I stayed on marked trails, respected the boundary signs, and didn’t follow any music that seemed to be coming from underground.

I was complying with at least one of those instructions.

Mostly.

The public path was still visible through the trees, although the view was partially obstructed by ferns and a fallen birch. I’d left it less than ten minutes ago after spotting the yellow flowers on the oak. The small wooden sign beside the path was so weathered that I couldn’t read it, but there was no fence, rope, or locked gate.

I was almost certain it hadn’t said trespassers would be eaten.

The noise came again. Lower this time. Rougher.

A growl.

I rose too quickly and nearly lost my footing in the moss. The vine caught the sleeve of my jacket, steadying me before I could fall.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

It released me with a prim little twitch.

I scanned the spaces between the trees. I knew black bears lived in this part of the country, although sightings near inhabited areas were uncommon. Black bears also tended to avoid people. They didn’t stalk botanists through enchanted forests while making ominous noises.