At the end of the yard, there’s a crumbling stone wall with a red door in it that leads to a little passageway between two rows of houses so ancient I’m sure I can hear them creaking sometimes. Ruth’s not the only one around here with old bones.

We run down the passage and turn onto High Street across from the church, then veer left. We gallop past the apple orchard and run down the gravel road that spits us out onto the wide meadow along the riverbank.

Once we reach the meadow, I let Boomer off the leash and he goes charging toward a line of unsuspecting ducks. I love the feeling of the long grass skimming my ankles as we speed past groups of picnickers.

Soon we reach the end of the meadow.

Lots of people come here to picnic and walk by the river. They all stop when they get to the line of elm trees with the single strand of barbed wire stretching between them.

But like I said, I know every corner of Lanternwood.

Boomer and I duck beneath the wire and weave between the trunks, keeping clear of the patches of poison oak. The leaves rustle their usual greetings as we pass.

We run deeper into the wood, until the ground rolls like a gentle wave down into a little valley, where there’s a green glade cut cleanly in half by a diamond-bright stream. The water forms a small pool at the center of the valley, like it’s stopping to take a breath before rushing on to meet the river.

This time of year, the valley shimmers with clumps of orange jewelweed and sapphire bellflowers that shoot up from a blanket of moss so soft you could lie down and sleep for a thousand years. Or at least an hour or two.

Wild rose vines climb the trees, their blooms turning the air to honey. An enormous sycamore tree stands higher than all the rest, dappling the valley floor with the shade of its leaves and making the whole glade feel like a secret, round room.

We fly down the hill, and I flop onto the moss, not caring that the damp of it will soak through my new dress. Boomer settles beside me, and I stroke his soft fur as I listen to the stream rippling slowly past.

I think about a day before I’d ever seen this place, when Gram and I had been sitting by the river. She was telling me the story of Rapunzel again. She told that one a lot, but I never minded hearing it.

That day, though, I interrupted her. I was only in second grade, but already the kids in my class didn’t like fairy tales much anymore. They had started to say that magic was for babies.

I didn’t want to be a baby. But not believing in magic? The idea filled me with dread.