“I wove it before the sun this morning, and drank the dew.”

“Have you built here before?”

“Always. I love the taste of wasp, and honey. Of mothers.” The spider inched forward.

“What of daughters?” Heather turned her head and sawed at the web with the stinger. Threads tightened as the spider grew near.

“A delicacy, and only for the queen. I will have my own daughters soon. If you would seek daughters, mother, I would give you mine. Nest them in you till they grow strong enough to feed from you. Would you nurse my daughters well?”

Heather wrenched at the trimmed web and fell free, rolling to the grass. She sprang to her feet and pulled the stinger from her cheek. She forced it through the palm of her hand, sliding it between her narrow bones, and waved it in front of her. “My daughter came through here. Did you see her?”

The spider lifted its front legs, rearing up large, mandibles grasping at the air. “I will trade you an answer for just a small taste.”

Heather breathed. She held out her arm, the stinger protruding from the end. “Tell me which way my daughter flew.”

The spider lunged and gripped her arm, driving its fangs into the stinger.

Heather dodged the crimping legs, and fell to the side, the stinger slipping free into the spider’s crushing jaw. The spider hissed.

“Empty. Are you a dead thing, then, or a liar?”

“Both.” Heather crouched, ready for the spider’s advance.

The spider studied her, jaws clacking. “Such a sweet mother, with such sweet breath, and such a foul flavor. A shame about your daughter. East. She flew east, into the shadow of the sunset past.”

***

Roots roped over the dew-soaked grass and climbed up into a dark canopy. Vines hung from the shadows, twining around the knots of wood jutting from the earth and forming thick, sinewy columns.

Heather climbed through them, chasing the high note of music—the tiny voice lost in the trees. She tore through the thick blue grass that grabbed at the rough skin of her knees and elbows, rubbing them raw. Slats of bark ripped at her hair, pulling it free and wrapping it into the tall columns.

She sucked juice from the sockets around her loose teeth and spat against the pale wood, marking her path in blood. Damp thorns littered the ground behind her.

For the way home, she thought. If not for me, then for her.

The root columns grew dense. Heather pressed through them, leaving pieces of herself in the gnarled burls that dotted the wood.

The columns ended abruptly, forming a near-solid wall around an open clearing. The grass stretched across into darkness, filled with more trees and hanging vines.