Seven

Eleanor dreamed of twisting roads and the glitter of sharp glass stars, and woke to arguing voices. One of the voices rose, angry and sharp. “What do you expect to do about it? You’re hardly more than a girl; there’s so little of the warrior in you.”

Eleanor knew that voice. Her eyes snapped open and she bolted upright. She had been lying with Otto’s hoodie bundled under her head, among the roots of a tree on a bed of strangely colorless moss. Now she struggled up to her feet. A few yards away, looking haggard and cross, stood Pip, Otto—and Eleanor’s mother.

Eleanor’s knees wobbled again, but she forced herself to stay upright and swallowed down a wordless cry. Her mother looked exactly as she had the last time Eleanor had seen her. Harder and sharper than her mother ought to be, her eyes slate gray and her mouth set in a firm, unbent line.

The woman’s expression flickered faintly with interest, but not with warmth or recognition or love. This was not Claire Barton. It was the hedgewitch. The Story was the only thing left, but still Eleanor wanted to run to her and wrap her arms around her.

More than that, she wanted the woman to run to her, arms outstretched.

But Eleanor’s mother was gone. Gone, gone, gone, said the beating of her heart, and her whole body ached with the word.

Eleanor curled her fingers under, letting her fingernails dig into her palms. She drew in a long breath through her nose. And she made her heart as cool and clear as glass.

Pip gave a wordless cry and strode across the mossy forest floor, pulling Eleanor into a tight hug. Eleanor shut her eyes to block out the sight of the woman who wasn’t her mother and buried her face in Pip’s shoulder. Otto hung back, but he lifted up his fingertips in not-quite-a-wave, and she mirrored the gesture.

“You’re awake,” Pip said, and her voice was ragged with relief. “You had us seriously freaked out.”

“How long was I out?”

“Only a few minutes,” Pip assured her.

That was a relief, at least. “Where are we?” Eleanor asked. She looked around, mostly so that she didn’t have to look at the stranger who looked like her mother. They stood in a drab forest. The trees were spindly, their leaves withered on their branches. A cold gray light filtered down, the sky overcast and dull.

“This is another world, isn’t it?” Eleanor asked wonderingly. “I brought us here.”

The hedgewitch grunted disdainfully. “The Wending brought us here. You merely told it where you wanted to go. And directed it to snatch me as well, it seems.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Eleanor said, forcing herself to look at the hedgewitch.

“A strong desire doesn’t always need to be spoken to be understood,” the hedgewitch said. “Smart of you, though. I’ve done a fair amount of research on the Wending, after all.”

Eleanor didn’t say anything, but privately she thought that the hedgewitch didn’t understand—if her desires and longings had brought the woman here, it wasn’t because she was the hedgewitch, or a valuable ally, or anything like that. It was because Eleanor had been afraid.

And more than anything else, she’d wished her mother was there to comfort her.

Gone, gone, gone, said the beating of her heart, which wasn’t cold glass after all, and Eleanor’s throat constricted around a sob.

“Then I really am the world-walker now,” Eleanor said dully.

The hedgewitch snorted. “You will be, in time. You certainly have not earned the right to call yourself that just yet,” she said. She folded her arms, giving Eleanor a look that was deeply unimpressed. “Right now you are a foolish girl with a power she cannot begin to understand. A pity you won’t live long enough to harness it.”

Eleanor flinched. Even if this wasn’t her mother, hearing the hedgewitch talk about their inevitable deaths left her feeling bruised and broken.

“You know, the Thirteen Tales of the Gray really didn’t capture what a complete bummer the hedgewitch is,” Pip said, rolling her eyes. The hedgewitch’s lips pressed into a thin line, exactly the expression Eleanor’s mother made when she was annoyed, and Eleanor looked quickly away.

“Much as I would love to stick around, I am in the middle of a research project,” the hedgewitch said. “So if you could ask the Wending to open a road for me, I’d be much obliged.”

Eleanor gritted her teeth, anger flaring at the hedgewitch—for being rude, for being unhelpful, for being the wrong person entirely. Even these few minutes with the woman made her feel ill. Her mother was dead, and this thing looked like her, and it was so strange she couldn’t even feel grief—just this horrible, stomach-churning wrongness.

“Fine,” Eleanor snapped. “I didn’t mean to bring you here anyway.”

She turned away, unable to stand looking at the hedgewitch. She stared down the dirt road, trying to see all the shimmering threads she’d used before. Find the threads—grab hold of them—open a road.

She stared. And waited. She willed the bright threads to appear, for a new road to spin itself out of nothing, for another world to unfold before her.

But nothing happened.