The night was clear and cold, as it often was in the weeks leading up to the Shadow Festival. Kara drew her tattered black cloak around her and crossed what remained of the cornfield, her boots crunching against the untended soil. Walking through the abandoned field always made her sad. She remembered playing hide-and-find among its once-flourishing stalks with her neighbors from the adjoining farms, children who would now deny ever stepping foot on Westfall land.

It would be so much easier, Kara thought, if I could bring myself to hate them. The villagers had certainly given her enough reason, clouding Kara’s days with disdain, despite the fact that she had never hurt anyone. But Kara had always been slow to anger, easy to forgive. She saw the way they treated one another: the smiles, the easy conversation. There was good there.

Besides, it was not difficult to understand their fear. Like them, Kara had been taught from birth that nothing was more obscene or inhuman than magic, and the idea that her mother had been a witch filled Kara with deep shame and revulsion (and occasionally, late at night, a thrill of excitement—which only increased her shame). Nothing could be more profane to the Children of the Fold than one of their own succumbing to the evils of witchcraft, and Kara, the mirror image of her mother, was little more than a walking reminder of what had happened.

But what, exactly, had happened?

If she knew, for certain, her mother’s role in the deaths that night, Kara thought things might be better. Even if the knowledge broke her heart, it would be easier than not knowing whether she should love her mother or hate her.

As though searching for the past, Kara raised her lantern high and stepped into the darkness of the orchard.

Three people had died that night; Kara knew this much at least. Her mother had been the third.

The first death was Abigail Smythe, Mother’s childhood friend and a constant fixture at their farm. Kara remembered sitting on Aunt Abby’s lap, tracing her freckles with one small finger while Abigail and her mother laughed over what Father, with a gentle shake of his head, called “some womanly foolishness.” Constance Lamb would often be there as well, though she was Constance Bridges at that time, her face unscarred and smiling.

Kara didn’t remember her mother having any other friends besides Aunt Abby and Aunt Constance, but they had seemed like enough. The three of them were inseparable. Kara couldn’t count the number of times she fell asleep under the kitchen table, cradled against her mother’s foot, the sounds of their pleasant, innocuous conversation more soothing than a lullaby.

Aunt Abby was married two days after Kara’s fifth birthday. Her wedding was particularly festive; although the villagers had already begun to regard Mother with suspicion, Abby, with her smiles and freckles and pies, was beloved by all. The celebration ran long into the night. The next morning the entire community, as was their tradition, worked together to raise a new barn for the couple. Aunt Abby’s body was found there two months later. She had been torn to shreds. Or her head had been replaced with that of a crow. Or maybe she had simply vanished, leaving nothing but her boots behind—there were a dozen different variations to the story. No one really knew for sure, except the fen’de and his graycloaks. And, of course, the person who had found the body.

Mother.

Aunt Abby’s new husband was the second victim that night. His name was Peter, and although Kara hadn’t known him well, he had once given her an apple and told her she had pretty hair. He had been found in the field just outside the barn, his body unharmed but his face frozen in a nightmarish scream.

Taff was not due for another six weeks, but the shock of finding her friends this way sent Mother into early labor. That was what Kara had always wanted to believe. Everyone else claimed it was the stress of using her dark magic to murder her best friend. In either case Kara’s mother managed to make her way to Constance’s farm before collapsing, and it was Constance herself who delivered Taff, only three pounds and no bigger than a loaf of bread.

Kara wondered if there had been time for Mother to hold her son before the graycloaks pounded on the door and dragged her into the night. It was something she had always wanted to ask Constance, along with where she had gotten her scars. From that night on, however, her mother’s friend ignored Kara. She had asked Father what happened many times (though less often as the years passed), but he refused to talk about it. When Kara asked if Mother was really a witch, he simply nodded and spent the rest of the day writing in his notebook.

Only once, when he was deeply in his cups, had he given Kara anything resembling a clue. Stumbling into her room in the middle of the night, he said that Mother had never wanted to hurt anyone but “made a terrible, terrible mistake.”

Kara had pretended to be asleep.

Kara picked up a gathering basket and flinched at the smell of rotten hushfruits. At some point Father had actually done some picking but abandoned the project midway. A soupy mess crawling with bugs was all that remained in the basket.

Turning her head away, Kara dumped it on the ground.

Although delicious, hushfruits were extremely fickle. There was only a small window of opportunity to pick the fruit when it ripened, after which it would shrivel and die on the branch. Luckily, it was easy to tell the proper time: The hushfruit’s color changed from an unappetizing gray to vibrant purple, and the branches of the tree sagged as though begging to be picked.

Looking through the orchard, Kara saw tree after tree with branches so low the hushfruit grazed the ground.

It was going to be a long night.

She moved quickly. Some fruit was already too far gone and exploded in her hand the moment she touched it, dyeing her fingers a dark purple. Nonetheless, she managed to fill four baskets in two hours. By then, however, exhaustion had caught up to her, and Kara found her progress slowing considerably. There was no way she could pick it all, and her heart sickened at the amount of money they would lose. She cursed herself for trusting Father, who had promised to take care of this days ago. I could wake him up right now. Taff too. Together we might have a chance. But she knew that wouldn’t work. Father would just feel guilty about not having done the work in the first place and would spend more time apologizing than actually working. Taff would be eager to help, but there was his health to consider. The temperature had plummeted in the past hour, and she couldn’t make him come out into the cold like this.

No, the only solution was for her to work as quickly as she could. If Kara could gather another six baskets, that would be enough to fetch them a handful of yellows. She wasn’t convinced it would see them through the winter, but it was a start. In the next hour, she was only able to gather half a basket, however, which she then knocked over with her numb hands, sending fruit rolling everywhere. Kara had to spend another half hour on her knees, looking for the scattered hushfruit with her lantern.

She actually felt relieved when she squeezed one too hard, and it burst in her hand. At least its innards were warm.

I’ll just rest, she thought, sitting at the base of a tree. In a few minutes, I’ll feel refreshed. Then I’ll be able to work faster than ever.

Kara closed her eyes. When she opened them again, she couldn’t feel her feet, and a bird with an eye in its chest was perched on her knee. Kara’s first instinct was to scream, but she felt so tired, so sluggish, that she was unable to open her mouth. She realized, somewhere in the back of her mind, that this was a very bad thing. That she really needed to get to her feet and move around.

Her body refused to listen.

She stared at the bird before her. Its feathers were a deep, rich blue that rippled like water in the moonlight. There was nothing but a bump where its head should be, with a small, dark hole that might have been a mouth. Its single eye was the dark green of murky swamp water.

As Kara watched, the eyeball rolled to the left, and a second eye took its place, this one slate gray. No sooner had this new eyeball fixed itself in the bird’s socket than it was replaced by a different eye, the same blue as the bird’s feathers. If Kara had not seen it move into place, she doubted she would have known that the bird had an eye at all. This strange piece of camouflage quickly rolled to the side, replaced by an eyeball that glowed yellow and gave off a faint but welcome warmth.

At no point did the bird blink.

It’s trying to get my attention, Kara thought. It’s trying to wake me up.

The bird-thing’s eye moved again, and a few eyeballs rolled by without stopping. Orange. Magenta. Albino white. Kara imagined the eyeballs lined up inside its body like marbles on the wooden track of a child’s toy. There didn’t seem to be enough room in its tiny body for all of them, but Kara supposed they weren’t playing by the typical rules anymore.

Finally the bird settled on an eyeball that pulsed and danced with the fiery red of an inferno. Kara’s head burned just looking at it, but some of her exhaustion had drained away. As soon as Kara pressed her hands into the earth and began making the effort to stand, the bird flew to a nearby branch and watched her carefully.

“Thank you for waking me up,” Kara said.

The bird hopped backward. Deeper into the orchard.

“Hey,” Kara said. “Where are you going?”

The bird moved again. This time it took flight, not stopping until it reached the end of the row of trees, where it perched on a branch and faced Kara.

“You want me to follow you?” Kara asked.

The bird’s eye changed color. A vibrant orange.

Yes.

Kara walked to the end of the row, her feet stinging as feeling returned to them. As soon as she reached the bird it took off down a different row of trees.

Found a branch. Faced Kara. Waited.

They did this several more times. They were nearing the opposite end of the orchard, which also marked the northern border of her family’s farm. Beyond that was only the . . .

Of course. Where else could such a strange creature have come from?

“No,” Kara said. “I can’t go there.”

The bird’s caw cut through the night, a strident burst of sound with no end in sight. Kara clamped her hands to her ears. Above her the fragile hushfruits suddenly burst, their purple innards raining to the ground.

“Stop it!” Kara screamed. “Please! I’ll follow you!”

The bird stopped, changed eyes. Pink. Kara thought it was pleased with itself.

It flew out of the orchard and into the wind-torn night, Kara close behind.

Kara crossed the border of her family’s land and stood before the Fringe, an expanse of wild growth that separated De’Noran from the Thickety.

Although it had been cut just this morning, fresh stalks and saplings already stood as high as Kara’s knees. Mother had taught her about the different types of plants—so, unlike other villagers, Kara knew which could heal and which should be avoided. But the Fringe was always changing, and in the darkness it was difficult to differentiate between the red moss that could soothe sore throats and the moss that would make your fingernails fall off.

This is crazy, she thought. Besides, if someone sees me, it will be the Well for sure. Maybe worse. Yet Kara continued to follow the bird. Soon she reached a point farther than she had ever dared travel, even with Mother. Only Shadowcutters—those Clearers assigned to remove flora located within the shadows of the Thickety—were permitted to go so far. Kara’s heart quickened as she slid past drooping, willowy stalks from which hung a dozen mustard-yellow spheres. She knew that each sphere would burst under the slightest pressure, producing nightmarish hallucinations.

Finally the weeds cleared. The Thickety stood before her, massive and ancient and foreboding, with leaves that remained black no matter what the season. The branches here were knitted into an impenetrable wall, save one spot: a small opening no higher than her knees. She noted, with a slightly sick feeling, that she would fit perfectly.

The bird waited patiently, its eye a glowing yellow. Showing her the way.

She thought about Simon Loder and his blank, haunted eyes. The Thickety had done that to him. He had experienced something so terrible that his mind had chosen to shut off completely rather than remember it. Who was to say the same thing wouldn’t happen to her?

“I won’t go in there,” Kara said.

The bird cawed once, a gentle pleading.

Kara took a single step forward, and her mother’s words returned to her through the mist of years: Never journey past the Fringe, for though the Thickety is closed to most, I fear he may make a special exception for you.

“No,” Kara said, backing away. “Never.”

The bird stomped its feet up and down.

“I should never have come this far.” She was exhausted and light-headed and had nearly frozen to death. But now that she was thinking clearly, Kara understood that she needed to get as far from this place as possible.

The bird’s eye swiveled: lavender. The precise hue of her favorite flower.

I’m sorry, it seemed to say.

Before Kara could swat it away—before she even knew what was happening—the bird swooped onto her neck. Kara heard a snap and watched the bird disappear into the Thickety, her necklace held fast in its talons.

“No!” Kara exclaimed, grasping the spot on her chest where the locket had rested for the last seven years.

It was all she had left of her mother.

And it had been stolen.

Without thinking, Kara crawled through the hole in the Thickety, determined to get it back again.