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.