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Lucy had never kissed a boy before. His taste was sweet and hot—toe-curling, a delight. It frightened her, but not enough to give it up.
It did not last. Lucy heard a weeping cry, and broke away, staring at the woods. She heard it again, a voice calling out, and it took her only a moment to find that pale feminine face, luminous in the rich green shadows of the forest. Lucy leapt to her feet and ran. She felt Barnabus behind her, but she did not look back, afraid if she did the woman would disappear.
Mary. She heard a crow shrieking above her head—an animal caw that suddenly sounded very human—but she ignored that, as well.
She reached the edge of the forest just as Barnabus caught up with her. She thought she heard Henry shouting, but Mary was there—right in front of her—and the woman whispered, "Please, help me."
Lucy sucked her in breath—fighting for courage—and jammed her hands through the underbrush toward Mary. Barnabus grabbed her waist—another set of hands joined his, as well—but it was too late. Something took hold of her wrists, yanking hard—and the face in front of her changed. It stopped being Mary, and became instead a shadow, a gasp of night, like that slithering tendril of nothingness she had witnessed in her vision.
Raw terror bucked through her body. She tried to pull back, fighting with all her strength. Whispers rose from the trees—all those voices she had almost forgotten, soaring into her head like a scream.
Lucy was pulled into the forest.
THE FIRST THING SHE NOTICED, WHEN SHE COULD see again, was that the world around her seemed quite ordinary. She was in the forest, yes, but she had been inside forests before, and this was no different. The shadows were long and the canopy thick, and the twilight that filled the air was neither gloomy nor particularly menacing. It was simply dense—with vines of wild rose and new spurting growths of seedlings; poison ivy, ferns, tiny bowing cedars and those massive trunks of oak that spread fat like squatting giants all around her. She smelled the earth, something else—like rain—and the air was still and warm and humid.
Lucy turned in one slow circle, trying to find the edge of the forest. She was close, she knew she should see Barnabus or Henry—at least hear their voices—but even the birds did not sing, and all she could see was leaf and branch and shadow.
"Hello?" she called out, thinking of that creature which had pulled her inside the wood. Fear clutched her throat, pounding against her heart, but she steadied herself, fought herself, and regained control. She thought of Mary too. Trapped here for twenty years. She wondered if the same would happen to her.
She heard something, and turned in time to see an immense pale figure part the gloom. A white stag. Tall and broad, with a deep chest and a long neck that glittered as though sprinkled with dew. Its hooves had been polished to the sheen of pearls, and its eyes glowed with a wild raging light. Tiny bells hung from its silver antlers, and the sounds they made were those same whispered voices Lucy had heard in her head—now louder, cries and sorrow ringing with every delicate knell.
A woman sat upon the stag. She was divine: pale and slender, sparkling as though spun with stars and diamonds, her hair so long, it almost swept the ground. A Snow Queen, with a ma
She held herself with such lightness, Lucy imagined she might float to fall, and as the stag stepped near, Lucy saw that the woman was perched on a fine dainty saddle shaped like a frog.
"Witch" was not the right word for this woman, Lucy thought. A witch was human. And this… creature… most definitely was not.
"You are trespassing on the land of the Sidhe," said the woman, her voice strong, ringing. "What say you?"
"I say no," replied Lucy awkwardly, fighting for courage. "You brought me here. So I was invited."
A faint smile touched the woman's mouth. "You thought you were saving a heart that belongs to me. So you are a thief. Much worse, I think."
Lucy steeled herself. "You're talking about Mary. Mary doesn't belong to you."
The stag shook its head and the bells wept. Lucy thought she heard Mary's voice within those tones. She closed her eyes for just a moment, searching, listening hard, but when she looked again at the woman, she was gone from the stag.
A cold hand caressed the back of Lucy's neck, and she flinched, whirling. The woman stood before her, impossibly tall. Her eyes were as green as a spring leaf in morning sun: crisp, sharp, ageless. She peered at Lucy like she was a snowy owl, and the girl a mouse, and there was a hunger there that was implacable and terrifying.
"All that enter the forest belong to me," said the woman softly. "And now you, as well."
"No," Lucy said. "I want to go home."
"Home." The woman smiled. "This is home."
"There are people waiting for me. For Mary, too."
"Mary," she said quietly. "Mary betrayed my trust. She tried to fetch help. You. Quite shocking that you were able to see and hear her. I find that fascinating."
Lucy did not. "Let us go. Please."
"For what reason?" The witch smiled, tilting her head. "Shall I tell you a riddle and have you guess the answer? Or perhaps have you perform three impossible tasks, each more harrowing than the other. Oh, better still, tell me stories to keep me amused. Be my fool, my jester of the wood, and perhaps in a year or twenty I will release you."
Lucy doubted that. So she said nothing, instead waiting, watching, refusing to let herself feel a moment lost. The woman's smiled faltered, just slightly, and that momentary weakness humanized her presence in ways that made her seem less regal than ridiculous—as though her shocking appearance was nothing but an attempt to impress, awe and intimidate.
Lucy suddenly felt stronger. "I won't beg you. I won't be a fool."
"You already are," said the woman darkly. "You are nothing."
"No more than you," Lucy replied recklessly, following her intuition. Perhaps too well: a cold hand grabbed her chin with crushing strength, yanking up until she stood on her toes, forced to look the woman in the eyes.
"You love," she whispered harshly. "I can smell it on you. Should we test that love? Do you truly think the one your heart cares for would wait? That handsome young man who used to be mine?"
"Barnabus," Lucy said, hoarse.
"Barnabus," she hissed. "I raised him long before that old crow sank her claws into his heart. He was mine. My son, in every way but one. But that one… he remembered."
"He did not love you." Lucy could feel it, see it: a little boy with blue eyes ru
The woman glanced away, and then, softly, almost to herself: "He would never call me mother. He refused. And so I punished him."
"You took his voice."
"I could not have him calling another by the name he refused me."
"So if someone refuses you, you hurt them? What good does that do?"
The woman gave her a sharp look. "Respect must be shown. And I am a queen."
"You are a queen who is alone," Lucy said, and the woman released her so quickly, she staggered, rubbing her aching chin. The woman—the queen, the Sidhe, whatever that might be—watched her with cool steady eyes, a gaze she now knew Barnabus copied well. Lucy met those ageless eyes, letting her thoughts roam, picking up as she did tendrils of thought and vision: the woman in her finery, wandering the endless expanse of forest, alone. So very alone.