Kara found herself inching along a narrow, branch-lined tunnel. Her only source of light was the bird’s yellow eye, hovering before her like a ghostly sun. The air was warmer here, and smelled of growth and flowers. She thought it might have been a very pleasant smell, had it not been so overpowering. Branches laced together into a tight, impenetrable net pressed down against her back, increasing in pressure as the tunnel became narrower and narrower. She reached up and could not even find an opening big enough for her hand.

At one point something with far too many legs skittered across the back of her hand and vanished through a seam in the branch net. Kara’s shriek of surprise was answered by a thousand rustling sounds from the trees above. If the creatures of the Thickety had not known she was coming, they did now.

Suddenly the ground opened up, and there was only air beneath her hands. She tumbled free of the tunnel, down a short slope of dark, damp earth. On her back Kara clenched her hands together and breathed in the warm, humid air, unwilling—quite yet—to open her eyes.

“I’m inside the Thickety,” she whispered, but saying the words out loud did not make them feel more real. She felt shame and excitement but above all fear, its shadowy wings spread wide enough to encompass all other feelings.

Kara opened her eyes.

It was dark. High above, a canopy of black leaves created a labyrinthine shield that blocked out the sky and any light whatsoever. On the branches below, however, clung gossamer threads of silver web that gave off a radiant glow like moonlight. These webs trailed off after a few hundred feet, and the remainder of the Thickety was cloaked in impenetrable darkness. Looking into it Kara felt dizzy, as though she were standing on the edge of a great precipice.

A stray strand of web dangled before her eyes, glowing softly. Perhaps my people have been wrong all these years, she thought, staring at its mesmerizing light. Perhaps this is a place of wonder.

Kara touched the thread. It immediately went dark.

This sudden darkness spread to the glowing web above, like a fire along a line of kerosene. Strand by strand the silver light extinguished itself.

But before Kara was plunged into complete darkness, something large and fast swung into action. She couldn’t make out its exact features—it was just a blur of motion—but she did see a large number of legs and what appeared to be long, boneless arms. Spinning new thread between two impossibly fast hands, the creature repaired the web. It chattered at Kara angrily, berating her for ruining its work.

When the creature was finished, the web looked different than before, but it lit the area just as admirably. The webspinner gave Kara one final look of warning, then slipped between a small opening in the branches and disappeared into the darkness.

“Thank you,” Kara said. Her voice sounded strange in this place, distant, as though she were shouting to herself across a stream.

Kara didn’t know what to do next. She would leave the moment the bird returned her locket, but she didn’t think that would happen until she . . . did what she was supposed to do. Perhaps if I look around a bit, something will occur to me. It wasn’t as though she had to explore the whole Thickety, after all—just the area beneath the silver light. If she found nothing of interest, Kara would go straight home, locket or no locket. No matter what, she wouldn’t go near the dark part of the forest. Even Kara’s curiosity had limits.

Thus decided, Kara began her search. She had no idea what she was looking for, so she walked with great care, examining her surroundings closely. If there was something to be found, she prayed she would sense its importance.

She did.

Although it was the right size and shape, Kara did not think the shell belonged to a tortoise—at least not any sort of tortoise she had ever seen. For one thing, the shell was inscribed with burnt-orange spirals that seemed to impart some vague meaning. When Kara bent forward to examine the symbols more closely, however, a painful buzzing exploded in her head.

She quickly looked away. If the symbols did hide some secret meaning, it wasn’t one she wanted to know.

When Kara turned back, the one-eyed bird was sitting on the shell, the necklace dangling from its talons.

She reached for it, but the bird hopped away.

“Give it back!” she exclaimed.

The bird regarded her, its eye a solemn but encouraging brown.

In time. This first.

Kara thought about making another attempt for the locket but knew it was pointless; the bird was far too fast. She knelt next to the shell, hesitant to pick it up. There might be something dead under there. Or alive. Kara dug her hand beneath its underside, trying not to imagine a pair of pincers groping for her fingers in the darkness. She lifted her hand, just hoping to get the shell a few inches off the ground, and jumped back in surprise when it flipped over completely. It was much lighter than it looked.

At the very least, Kara thought, it will make a great sled for Taff this winter.

The bird cawed, and the strident sound reverberated into the darkness, emphasizing the unnatural silence of the forest.

“Yes?” Kara asked.

The bird, standing on the spot previously covered by the shell, marched in place. It rotated eyeballs until it reached a faded blue.

Help me.

“Help you do what?” Kara asked.

When the bird opened its eye again, the color was a purple so deep you could fall into it. Pay close attention.

The bird dragged its feet backward, with a slight hesitation each time. Drag . . . stop . . . drag . . . stop . . . drag . . . stop. It hopped over to the shell and perched on it, gazing at Kara expectantly.

“You want me to dig?”

The bird hopped up once.

Yes!

“That’s what the shell is for, isn’t it? For digging.”

The bird hopped again.

“Is something important buried here? Is that why you wanted me to come with you?”

The bird’s eye rotated for a long time. Finally it settled on dark gray, a stone wet with rain. For some reason Kara had trouble understanding the meaning of this one. It seemed a bit ambiguous, but as far as she could tell, it either meant “most important” or “not me.”

Picking up the shell with two hands, she began to dig.

The black soil made no sense. Cupped in her hand, it felt much heavier than the earth from her farm, like a fistful of iron filings. Yet even after Kara filled the large shell with dirt, she could lift it with ease; if anything, a soil-packed shell was slightly lighter than an empty one. This was completely impossible, of course, but Kara was quickly learning not to question things in the Thickety.

She continued to dig.

Surprisingly soon she was standing waist-deep in a hole of her own creation. Kara tried to remember how long she had been digging. She could not.

And then, on her next scoop into the dirt, the shell made contact with something solid.

Immediately Kara knew this was the end of her search. It wasn’t that she had a bolt of intuition. It was that the shell crumbled in her hands, spilling between her fingers as it disintegrated into black soil. Within moments there was no sign that her makeshift shovel had ever been there at all.

Kara plunged her hands into the dirt and unearthed a rectangular object wrapped in cheesecloth.

This belonged to my mother, she thought. She wanted me to have it, which is why she hid it in the one place on the island it could never be found. Or . . . something wants me to think that.

It was too dangerous. She should leave the object here and return home before someone saw her. That was the smart thing to do.

But what if it really was Mother’s? This might be my only chance to learn the truth.

Before Kara could make her final decision, the bird fluttered in front of her and dropped the locket. The ivy cascaded gracefully into Kara’s palm.

“Thank you,” she said, tying the locket around her neck. Its familiar weight made her feel whole again.

The bird’s eye shifted to a sullen blue. It was a difficult shade to read, but Kara thought it might be some form of sympathy. No: not just sympathy.

Sorrow.

With a final caw, the creature disappeared into the darkness, leaving her alone.

That one means me no harm, Kara thought, and would not guide me to something dangerous. She began to unwind the cheesecloth. There was a second layer, made of different material, beneath the first. Kara thought it might be some sort of animal skin, though it was none that she recognized. She flipped the object over and saw that the skin had been sewn together with black thread, creating a sealed pouch.

Whatever was inside, Mother had taken great care to protect it.

Kara withdrew a small penknife from the folds of her cloak and cut carefully along the stitches. The thread had been pulled taut and snapped easily.

The skin slid to either side, revealing a black book.

It was bound in a strange material, cold and shiny and oddly moist when Kara touched it, though when she removed her hand, her fingertips weren’t the slightest bit damp. Like the black soil, the book seemed to take exception to the natural laws of the world; though it was larger than the Path—a hefty tome, to say the least—it barely had any weight to it.

Vaguely she remembered seeing the book before. She had been four or five, her mother still alive.

In the barn . . . exploring . . . bored . . . a secret trapdoor . . . black book inside . . . Mother tearing it out of my hands . . .

Kara struggled to remember what happened next, but there was nothing more. She wasn’t sure it mattered, though. The most important part of the memory had already been conveyed.

The book had belonged to her mother.

What if it’s a witch’s book? A grimoire? You need to bring it straight to the Elders.

But this voice of reason crumbled beneath the weight of Kara’s curiosity. She started to open the book—just one peek, just to see what’s inside—and that’s when she realized she was no longer alone.

The figure of a man stood at the edge of the darkness. A pumpkin-orange, hooded cloak draped around his body and flowed through the trees like mist. He was far taller than a man should be, at least seven feet. Shadows obscured his face, and for this Kara was grateful. She knew that if she looked into his eyes, a part of her would be lost forever.

His hand reached out to her, clearly revealed in the glow of webs above them. Branches, shifting and curling like fingers, but branches nonetheless.

Kara felt her body go cold.

Sordyr.

A half-formed moan of terror slipped from her lips. Her breath came in short, needy gasps.

Run! she told herself. Get away!

But Kara could not move. Her feet felt encased in ten feet of dirt.

The Forest Demon regarded her from the darkness. His perusal made her feel weak and insignificant.

Kara found herself walking toward him.

What are you doing? she screamed. Turn around! But Kara’s body had become a distant thing, too far away to hear her. Slowly but inextricably she made her way toward the cloaked figure.

With a single branched hand, Sordyr reached into his chest, pushing through the barklike skin. Kara heard digging sounds, and a moment later he produced a large, black seed, covered with dirt.

He held out the seed to her.

“Yours,” he said.

Suddenly her mother’s words floated down to her.

The Forest Demon will offer you a part of himself. You must refuse it, or you will become his forever.

Sordyr shook his branched hand impatiently.

Click, click, click.

Kara held the unearthed book before her like a shield. “This was my mother’s,” she said. Strength flowed through her. She thought of Taff, her father. If she allowed Sordyr to keep her here, she would never see them again.

Kara turned and ran.

Behind her Sordyr’s branch hands clicked together, a strange and terrible language. The webspinner reappeared, using its segmented legs to string itself, upside down, along its glowing web. It was joined by another of its own kind. Then four. A dozen.

Sordyr’s hands clicked together again. Louder this time. A command.

With shocking speed the creatures began to dismantle the web.

Kara ran as she had never run before, dodging the suddenly appearing pockets of darkness. The black soil pulled at her feet like sand. Above her, webspinners chittered loudly as they worked. Strands of dead web floated to the earth, becoming tangled in her hair, her hands. Kara kept running. The opening was close, less than five hundred feet away, but there wasn’t much time; the light had dimmed to a faint glow. If she didn’t reach the opening before darkness overtook her, she would have no chance of finding it at—

A webspinner struck her shoulder. It was a glancing blow, but Kara was unprepared and lost her balance. She fell to one knee just in time to see a second webspinner leap in her direction. Kara swung the book. It connected with a satisfying thunk that sent the webspinner sprawling. She turned toward the tunnel in time to see a third webspinner, already airborne. Kara rolled out of its way. And ran. The Thickety was almost completely dark now, but Kara could still make out the entrance to the Fringe. Less than a hundred feet away, a welcoming sort of darkness. Two webspinners landed on her back, but Kara ignored them, the frantic tugs on her hair, the wild chitterings in her ear.

The moment she slipped into the opening between the trees, the webspinners let go. She could hear their voices, soft and defeated, as they retreated. Their master would not be pleased.

Crouching, Kara took a few steps into the shelter of the tunnel. She could feel the branches just above her head, but they no longer made her feel trapped. They felt like armor. Safety.

Then Kara heard the voice behind her, as soft as a knife pulled from a sheath, as old as life itself.

“Kara,” it whispered.

She felt warm breath on her ear. It expanded throughout the tunnel, filling it with the smell of autumn and fungus and dead things.

“Kara,” Sordyr whispered again.

Branches clicked as he reached out to touch her.

Kara scrambled along the tunnel at a frantic, clawing pace. The scrapes and scratches along her knees and back meant nothing. The pain didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except the small beacon of morning light in the distance.

She scampered into the fresh air of the outside world. The book in her hands felt substantial and real, and she hugged it to her chest as she navigated the Fringe. Only when she was a good distance away did Kara look back at the Thickety.

The opening between the trees had closed. Nothing pursued her.

But Kara could still feel his breath on her ear, hear his voice in her head.

Kara.

Her name. He had known her name.

Wondering if she would ever feel safe again, Kara opened the book.