As she made her way back through the snowy lanes to Poppy Cottage, clutching the warm bread to her chest, Ivy wondered at what she had heard. Was it true? Could there be a witch in her forest? She had the feeling that the boy was only teasing the girl, but she had to know for sure.

So that night, Ivy crept from the cottage and into the heart of the forest. She climbed into the crook of her favorite cottonwood tree and pulled her blanket tight around her shoulders. Then she waited, watching the shadowed forest below for any sign of the witch.

But the night was long and the blanket warm, and soon Ivy found herself drifting off to sleep.

When she awoke, it was still night and, though she couldn’t say why, her heart was racing. Blearily, she looked around until she saw something that made her blood run cold as snow.

Not a stone’s throw away, there was a silent figure gliding across the forest floor. She wore a white cloak that fell to her feet, with a hood that was lined in fur. She carried in one hand a large wooden staff. The way she moved was unnatural, as if she floated rather than walked. Suddenly, the figure stopped and then, as if she could sense Ivy’s gaze, slowly turned her head toward the cottonwood tree.

“No!” cried Ivy, remembering what the boy had said about the witch’s gaze entrancing children. She jumped from her tree and ran, faster and faster, all the while feeling the witch’s breath like a cold wind on the back of her neck. Just as she was sure the witch would catch her, she broke free of the forest and into the clearing where Poppy Cottage stood.

Her gran waited in front of the cottage, and Ivy threw herself straight into her arms.

“Where were you, my girl?” her grandmother asked. “I’ve been ever so worried.”

Ivy told her about the witch. When she was done, her grandmother shook her head.

“That was no witch, Ivy,” she said.

“Then who was it?” Ivy asked.

“A dream, I should think,” Gran said. “Come, let’s go in and get you warmed up. I’ve a pot of stew on the fire.”

They spoke no more about the strange woman that night, but long after Ivy was asleep, her grandmother sat awake, staring into the fire. Trying to read the shape of the future in its dying flames.

11

When Ms. Singh’s class lets out the next day, I head for the library again. My journal is tucked safely into Gram’s satchel, and all day, I’ve been itching to pull it out and examine the new chapter. I walk faster, until I round the corner and get stuck behind Edie and Fina, the nice girl from California.

“Are you from LA?” Edie’s asking. “My dad goes there sometimes.”