“Emma, sweetheart,” she says. “Stop by for some tea soon, will you? I’ve barely seen you since, well, the funeral. What is it, six weeks now? Hard to believe it. It feels like yesterday.”

I glance up toward the graveyard, where the Apple Lady is just emerging from the church, head down and headphones on. It is hard to believe it’s been six weeks since the funeral, but whether it’s because the time has gone by slow or fast, I’m not sure. It just feels weird that I’ve gone six whole weeks without Gram. And that I’m only ever going to get further away from her.

A knot rises in my throat.

“Sure, Gloria,” I reply. “I’ll come soon.”

When Boomer and I slip under the barbed wire a few minutes later, it’s to find squirrels scurrying back and forth, gathering up the acorns that have fallen everywhere. Boomer goes barreling after them. I walk behind, leaves crunching beneath my feet. Leafmeal, Gram said the charmed folk called it, when the autumn leaves started to shatter into dust.

Before today, I wasn’t sure if I even wanted to keep writing Ivy’s story. But when I woke up this morning, I found myself thinking about what Ms. Singh said when I asked her for advice about writing. Write about what’s in your heart. About something that’s important to you.

And maybe she’s right. Maybe instead of trying to escape from the darkness I feel inside me, I can write about it. Maybe I can write it out of me.

Together, Ivy and Shilling made a place for Gran to lie in her favorite glade, where the ground was soft and covered in clover, and nearby ran a gentle river. Ivy marked the spot with a pile of river rocks, smooth and gray and solemn looking.

Then they returned to the cottage, and Ivy tucked herself into bed. For many days, she did not move.

Not when hunger rumbled her belly or when cold crept in through the dark chimney or when the villagers who had come to seek Gran’s remedies knocked upon the door.

She only slept and wept and thought of Gran. Of how she had once believed that they would be together always. And of how she had often wondered if Gran had magic running through her veins.

Now, she knew, there was magic in the world. A magic that was frightening and cruel.

For Ivy was sure of one thing: the woman in the white cloak was a witch after all. A witch who had killed Gran.

And then one gray morning, Ivy woke up thinking of revenge.

She flung the sheets from the bed and dressed herself. Then she set off into the forest.