The next morning, I wake up early. I lie there until the first crescent of sunlight appears on the floor of my bedroom, like a seashell washed in on the tide.

I can’t go back to sleep, so I make myself get dressed and brush my teeth without looking at my reflection once. Then I grab the leather journal and slip out the door, Boomer tip-tapping close behind me.

We walk down High Street, passing the silent church. The first birds are starting to twitter sleepily in the branches above us, and the only color so early is the first bits of scarlet dappling the trees.

For the first time this year, I feel autumn in the air, hanging just out of reach. A chill crawls up my arms. Of course I didn’t think to bring Gram’s sweater.

I break into a run as we pass the orchard, like if I pump my legs fast enough, I can outrun this thing that’s happening to me. We fly down to the meadows, and by the time we reach the Spinney, I’m not cold anymore, and Boomer is panting happily.

The moss under my scuffed boots glitters with dew, and there is a threadbare carpet of golden leaves beneath the sycamore tree. A raven caws from its branches.

I creep up to sit on Throne Rock, flipping through the journal to the new chapter and rereading it once again. Ivy in the moonless forest, keeping watch for the witch. The woman in the white cloak appearing below her.

I still don’t know what to write next. I only know that I want to disappear into the pages of the journal, to escape the pit in my stomach that’s been there since Mom took me back-to-school shopping but that has become much heavier since yesterday.

So I turn to the first blank page and pick up the pencil again. I tap the eraser against the page for a few minutes, thinking.

Slowly, I write down a few words.

Then a few more.

And then the pencil races along the page, the Spinney flickers out of sight, and I find myself back in the story.

For many weeks, Ivy refused to set foot in the forest. Though it hurt her to be away so long, she was too frightened to return. For though her gran insisted that the woman in the white cloak had only been a figment of Ivy’s imagination, Ivy knew what she had seen.

After the winter’s snows had melted away, Ivy awoke one morning to find a weight on her feet. She looked down to see a bundle of fur.

“I came across him begging for scraps in the village,” said her grandmother.

Gran insisted the creature was a dog, but Ivy thought he looked more like the pictures of wolves she had seen in fairy books.