Tree knights, they were called, mostly human, but with an ounce of tree magic in their veins. They had the ability to become nearly indistinguishable from foliage to human eyes. They were known to be tall, stoic women—they were, almost without exception, all women—with very little in the way of humor or wit. They were the guardians of the forest, the keepers of the outside realms, and they were, in a word, terrible.

Ainsley was the first to spot one, gasping and whirling her sister around excitedly to point with a shaking finger.

“Look, Em! Do you see? Do you?”

The strange moment when she cut her palm forgotten, Emmeline found herself shaking for a reason entirely different from excitement.

“Wh-what are th-they?”

When she spoke, it was as if the forest came alive. Dozens of women pulled themselves from the trees to stand tall and proud, encircling Ainsley and Emmeline. The tallest of the knights leaned forward, bowing before Emmeline.

“Your Highness.” Her voice was the sound of a thousand tempests ransacking a thousand forests, hard and enchanting. “We have been waiting for you.”

Ainsley loosened her arms from around Emmeline and stepped forward, her chest puffed out toward the sky. “My sister and I are honored to make your acquaintance.”

There was a pause before the knight said, “It is your sister, lady, of whom we speak. Your presence was not foretold here.”

And, like that, the stories have come back to me. They are sitting in my throat, working their way into my bones, my blood, the tips of my hair. They are altered, like me. Parts I skimmed before now seem desperately important, and parts I thought were vital, less so.

I am different, but like the stories, I will hold up to more readings, even if those readings are drastically changed in my after.

I reach over to touch Nolan’s arm.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

He pauses. I watch as indecision flickers across his features before he drops a hand to my hair, gently smoothing it away from my face in a touch so tender I feel like everything inside me might break. His hand shakes as he pushes hair behind my ear, and I reach up to hold it against my face and still his tremors.

Being here with Nolan is like listening to every good and bad part of music at once, ingesting all the happiest of endings with the most grueling of in-betweens.

He returns to his reading, and I lose myself in his voice.

chapter eleven

When I wake, before I remember who I am and what pinky promises I have made, I am a photographer. I can feel the weight of the camera between my hands, see the frame my lens makes, without looking through the viewer. It doesn’t matter what I am photographing. It just matters that I am.