Eventually, I judged neither of us would ever forget and I turned to go. That was when I saw her heart.

It came to the surface and bobbed there, like an apple in a barrel. Such a mocking motion for something so huge, so vital, it was enough to make me cry out.

I felt a stab in my own chest. I clasped a hand there and bent double against the pain. Everything tightened and I couldn’t breathe. I staggered, hitting a tree, and forced my eyes open. I gulped at the air but could do nothing with it. There was something else, pressing against the palm of my hand. Something in my shirt pocket. A hard lump. As soon as I registered it, the pain was gone. Tentatively I lifted the object out.

My own heart.

Such a dark and withered thing, how had I let it become so?

Then I saw the pins, and the tattered ribbons, and the clumps of hair. And that sight reminded me I still lived and breathed, albeit barely, and that my heart was right where it should be. Three hearts, two to be seen. How many lost beyond saving?

If it weren’t for Christophor I would have thrown that pierced monstrosity into the other nastiness and been done with it. But then, if it weren’t for Christophor I would have done a lot of things. As it was I put it in his heavy coat, which was as far away as I could get it while still being about my person.

I didn’t feel right about leaving the remains of Tabitha like that, but I couldn’t stay and there was little I could do about it. The smell would have driven me off eventually. With no better idea of where I was, or which direction to take, I followed the trail of Tabitha’s destruction hoping to find a way back to the track, and the village beyond. Though the sheer amount of animal was undeniable it was soon behind me and I was surrounded by featureless forest. I became aware of the calls of birds as if I’d passed through some sort of barrier or border into a new part of forest, one that was home to more than tragedy. I was soon lost there.

I couldn’t recall ever being in such a vast, pathless place. Esteberg was a sizable city but everywhere you went there were roads and pavements, alleys and lanes. Ways directed to you by convenience or necessity. Even on the ride south there was never any doubt where the track was, whether it crossed hills or forest or field alike. We took paths for granted, I thought, or at least my night-brother and I did.

My only idea was to keep the sun on my right as best I could, so I had the hope of travelling north. At least I knew the forest was finite in that direction. To the south, who could say? I had to stop and check the sun often, which also served as an excuse to rest. My thirst soon became all I could think about. It throbbed through me, sometimes soft, sometimes strong enough to cause me to stumble. And always, everywhere, were the pine needles. On my hands when I picked myself up. Finding the gaps in my shoes. Tickling my ears as they fell from… where? The branches, you fool, but then why did they feel as if they fell from my own head? My unbrushed thatch.