The effervescent desert faded to memory as I crossed into the forest’s edge. A painful longing tugged me back to the desert, barely resisted as I traipsed on- the sweet surreal dreams called me back, ghosts at the edge of memory, a siren’s call from the stars.

  I abandoned this longing and pressed forward. I was in the Palewood now- fear had to be left behind, I remembered, as well as conversation. Prior to now, my experiences in the Palewood had been marked by the subconscious knowledge that no true harm would come to me; either Cervis or divine intervention had saved me from harm each time. Now, for perhaps the first time in my life, I was alone. My father would not scan my home forests for me, and no mystical Stag would appear to save me.

  Then the memory occurred that Cervis hadn’t saved me, nor had my father. It had always been my own abilities, my own will, that had returned me to them. Once again, I remembered: I am the heroine, and the damsel.

  Previous ventures into the Palewood had offered a tantalizing view of gargantuan trunks, towers of ivory wood marked by leaves the hue of a winter night’s sky. Crisp light fell, so muted by braided canopy that thin silver beams could have come from sun or moon and made no difference. A hauntingly beautiful monotony drew itself into my awareness as I started through the forest- all the trees took a similar appearance, their layout holding little variance, as though they had been scattered across a grid with little care for nature’s patternless wild.

  My venture began in halting steps that only increased the ceaseless lack of variety. In time, I began to notice minuscule hints to differentiate one tree from another- that one had a patch of cerulean moss at its base; that one had a near-perfect right angle in one root; that one there had a smattering of woodpecker holes in the trunk. A few exposed themselves as dens, the droppings of a night-fox at its base or a patchwork nest of twigs among the branches. Little else offered itself by way of details.

  And then the voice started.

  Already, a faye had fooled me by use of my sister’s voice- Calya’s pretty music presented easy imitation for a faye. Now, far in the Palewood, beyond even the realm of the faye, a new, achingly familiar voice called betwixt the trees. A foggy echo wove through the grand trunks, calling only one word:

  “Aster. Aster.”

  It was enough to grant pause to my step. The voice of my mother, singing her haunting song through the forest. I was lost regardless, the trees and their sameness driving me to insanity, and this voice brought no comfort. But it did bring a memory: I was the Courageous one. And I was brave enough to walk away from the siren’s call, brave enough to avoid the temptation of finding my mother. Everly was dead- there was no changing that, not with any magic in the world, not in any dreamlike realm. No matter how much I wanted that to be her, it simply wasn’t possible. A dangerous voice whispered and whined to investigate- what if it was her? I had thought many things impossible until recently.

  But I had also been fooled enough.

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  Then it emerged in the path, still singing its haunting call: “Aster. Aster.”

  Somehow, even in my determination to walk away from the call, I had gone directly to it. And this time there could be no doubting the identity of the creature:

  A Palewalker.

  Hunched, gnarled, and twisted, its bone-hued skin looked like stretched rubber, dotted here and there with holes that echoed into a vast, empty black. An egg-shaped head emerged from a neck that extended from convex shoulders, black blobs along the head seeming to breathe, swelling and shrinking. A mouth intercepted by sinewy strips of the rubbery skin gaped among the blobs. Fingers, long and pointed and knobby like a witch’s wand, stretched down from the hands unevenly and broken from the palm. I had never seen anything so terrifying in my life. My lungs emptied and I didn’t remember to refill them.

  My eyes stared into the gaping black blobs, met the emptiness there, and dimly registered one of the lengthy, sword-sharp fingers raising to my chest. Three of its fingers danced across my chest, feeling along my shoulders, neck, jaw, ribs. Breath washed out of the gaping hole along its face, a wet and scraping sound, smelling of rust as it washed over my cheeks. I stood frozen, paralyzed by fear.

  The Palewalker’s pointed fingertip skimmed lightly up my cheek. I closed my eye as it lightly touched my eyelid. Something wet ran from its finger and along my eye, and then slithered down my cheek. I opened my eyes again.

  The monster had vanished.

  In its place stood a see-through figure that appeared as nothing more than a silver cloak hovering above the forest floor.

  “Well, are you just going to stand there? This way- quickly!”

  The silver cloak flurried through the trees. Without thought or consideration, I followed, knowing only that the cloak had replaced the terrifying pale-walker and fear had yet to leave my veins. The cloak dodged trunks and briars and bushes as the trees seemed to grow ever thicker, the wood denser, the underbrush higher. I had never seen the Palewood like this, so overgrown and clustered- this section stood apart from any other.

  Then the cloak stopped in cramped clearing and whirled around.

  I nearly ran into him and skidded to a stop, catching a briar to stop myself. Thorns buried themselves in my fingers as I faced the cloak, and then a forgotten memory resurfaced. “Wait- Nyx?”

  “Yes, but you mustn’t talk yet. Search this area, but do not stray more than ten paces from this glen. You’ll know what you’re looking for when you find it.”

  “Nyx, where’s Cer-”

  “You mustn’t talk.”

  I forced myself to listen and do as the disguised night-fox insisted. He knew more of what was happening than I did, and I needed to remember that. I began to scope the surrounding bushes. Vibrant magenta blooms caused rashes to form wherever they touched me. Briars planted more thorns in my arms and legs and stole strands of dark hair. I searched and searched, hating, again, the way of magical beings to withhold information they could easily give. Nyx knew what I was looking for- but perhaps he couldn’t retrieve it on his own, and we couldn’t speak of it.

  I found it.

  Partially concealed under a dry-rotted stump, streaked with slime from a large black snail, Cervis’s journal lay on the forest floor, tattered and torn and singed around the edges. It looked as though it had been long-abandoned. I wondered for the first time how long it had been since Midwinter, and what Cervis had been through, but now was not the time for wondering. He had told me to read the journal only if something happened to him; now, something had, and it was my time to read.

  I picked my way carefully back to the imposing vertical shroud of Nyx, and sat at his feet and began to read.