They move through the silence like spirits in their white robes.

Carefully, we all pull out slips of paper from our pockets. Earlier, we wrote down our sorrows, all the awful things from the past year we want to get rid of so we can make room for the good stuff coming in the next year.

My paper is pretty full. So is Morgan’s, his spidery handwriting scrawled across the back and front. He folds it up before I can read anything and places his paper along with mine in the baskets the twelfth graders are using to collect all the sadness. They take several minutes to place our notes into the twigs, making the buck look as if it’s wearing a garland of white flowers.

After, the twelfth graders stand like a rank of ghosts at the water’s edge. Mom lights a taper and approaches the Kekri buck. She closes her eyes, uttering words not meant for the crowd’s ears. I offer up my own silent words to the dead, knowing the forest is listening.

I’m sorry we didn’t help you sooner. I’m sorry you died. I wish I could’ve done more. And to Mervi, my great-great-great—something—grandmother, despite what Emmi said, I hope I can make you proud of me one day.

You will, a voice definitely not my own whispers at the back of my mind. You already have.

Mom lowers the taper and the kindling catches fire, quickly devouring the numerous bundles of sticks so meticulously tied and placed on the buck’s frame. We watch our sorrows go up in flames. We watch until there’s nothing but ash, ash the wind blows gently into the dark waters of the lake.

“I can’t believe they’re making us go to class tomorrow,” Katya says as the crowd begins to disperse, celebration over. “I thought they’d close the school for at least a couple of weeks. Not to mention the thaumaturgy teacher got eaten by a magical forest.”

“We have to get those shards back,” Toivo says. “I owe Risto that much.”

No one argues.

“At least the Order of Louhi can’t release Tumultua unless they have all the shards,” Toivo says. “Which means they’ll keep trying to get the rest of them.”

I listen without saying anything. I don’t want the most powerful chaos mage being released, but I need to know more about what Emmi said. I have to consider both sides of the story—it’s what good journalists do.

“This time we’ll be ready,” Aoife says, her words ominous.