A figure emerges from the trees. She’s small, and her long hair blows in the sharp wind. She draws closer, and I see blushing cheeks and a small nose that rounds out a perfect face. She’s no older than Idalia, and she’s frightened.

I jump out, and the woman stumbles back, her eyes wide with terror.

“Who are you?” I ask, holding up a fist. Usually, I’m above hitting a woman, but not here, where nothing is as it seems.

She raises her hands and shakes her head. “No enemy of yours, I promise! I heard a noise, and I never hear noises! So, I came to look. Who are you?”

“Not likely that I’ll tell you, knowing you’re probably a mirage of this evil Wood!”

“A Devil’s Mirage? That is what you think I am? Here, feel my hand. I am real!”

“Don’t touch me!” I warn and rear back as she reaches her palm toward me. “Or it’ll be the last thing you do!”

One brow curves up, and her eyes gleam in a familiar way that I can’t place.

“Fine,” she says curtly. “Stay in the woods and freeze. I was only going to offer you a place to stay, but I now see that you have it all figured out.” She doesn’t give me a second look as she retreats.

I don’t trust one thing within these trees. She could be a mirage or one of The Others. But she’s offering shelter from the cold. If I stay here, I risk whatever else The Wood sends or contracting the Gray. It might prove to be the dumbest decision I’ve ever made, but I lurch forward.

“Wait!” I cry out to her, then swallow whatever pride I might have left within me. “Fine. Let me feel your hand.”

She huffs a breathy laugh and walks back, one arm extended.

Hesitantly, I brush my hand over the top of hers. Skin. Delicate, soft skin.

“Okay,” I concede, shoving my hand beneath the Aeradian cloak.

“Not a mirage. That’s a promising start. So, where is this place of yours?”

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty

Idalia

I don’t know how many days passed before we arrived at the castle. It’s not beautiful, as I once thought; the vines that sprawl over its stone grow weak and diminished. Where it was once vivid with rich colors, it is now a fading gray. The guards drag me by my arms down three staircases. It grows darker with each passing floor. I haven’t eaten in days; I’ve been given little to drink, and my mind is tired. So very, very tired.

“Welcome home, icy bitch,” one of the men says as he throws me into a murky cell. I land on my back and stare at a dark, stone ceiling covered in mold.