And besides, when Gram told her stories, they felt so real to me that it often seemed that she must have been there to see them somehow. That perhaps brave knights had once roamed along our very river, and Lanternwood had been inhabited by secret princesses.

Still. I wanted the truth, and I knew Gram would give it to me. “Gram,” I said, “do you really believe these stories? I mean, princesses trapped in towers and things like that?”

Gram lifted her chin. For a long minute, she just stared at the river, and her eyes had this sad, faraway look she sometimes got. I wondered what she was thinking about.

Then she turned to stare at me with her sharp green eyes and twisted the parasol she always carried to protect her daisy-petal skin. “Did you know, Emma,” she said, “that the Greeks have their own version of Cinderella, much older than the one we tell today? And the Egyptians and the Chinese, too?”

“No,” I said, puzzled.

“It’s true. And the same can be said for many fairy tales. People living in different places and different times all came up with the same stories. Now, how could that happen if there wasn’t some truth to them?”

I looked at her blankly.

“What I mean is, I think there’s some truth in every story—every story worth telling, at least—but especially in fairy tales.”

“Okay,” I said slowly. “But what about the fairy part? Like magic, I mean? Is that real?”

She looked at me for another long moment, her gaze firm. “Let me tell you something, Emma Talbot. If there is one thing I believe about this world, it’s that there is magic in it for those who care to see. Now, would you like to see some?”

My eyes widened as I nodded.

And the next morning, she brought me here. To the Spinney.

I still remember the first time I saw it. The way the light in the trees flashed mischievously, from green to gold and back to green again. And the wild roses seemed to twist just slightly on their vines to get a better look at me. How every corner of the place seemed touched by some unseen enchantment, shimmering just out of sight.

How it felt like my heart had been charmed into a bird that soared inside my chest.

“You mustn’t ever tell anyone about the Spinney,” Gram had whispered, taking my hand and leading me down the sloping hill to the glade. She was the sternest I’d ever seen her. “It must always be our secret.”

“Why, Gram?” I asked.

She leaned in closer, as if someone might be hiding nearby, listening to our every word.