In the center of the clearing stood a tall woman, her skin the color of sage. Her eyes seeped golden light that lingered around her in a fragrant cloud. Moss hung in sheets from her angled shoulders, cloaking her in velvet. She smiled at Heather.

“You want her back, do you? But you never had her. She was never yours, not really.”

“She was. She is.” Heather placed her vine-arm across her scarred abdomen, tracing the rippled flesh. Purple flowers bloomed along her wooded skin. “She belongs here.”

“Ah. I see. You don’t just want her back—you wish to undo what was done—uncut the cord. Well. My little nightingale is your. Little. Rosebud.” The tall lady pulled a wet lily from her mouth, the petals uncurling in the light from her eyes. She dipped a finger in the center, trailing it in circles through the sticky dew. “Which would you rather be? A nightingale or a rosebud? Make flight and music? Or wither, tethered?”

Heather felt her lips grow dry and rough. “Don’t forget bloom.”

“Oh yes, there is bloom. Such a magnificent . . . few hours.”

Heather’s throat grew stiff and fibrous. “I am here. I made it to your grove. It is no longer your decision.” Her vocal cords twined together, sprouting offshoots that curled her voice away into hidden parts of her mouth.

“It never was my decision—it was always yours, and you made it for me. You betray yourself. Usually one so uncertain does not make it this far. It’s been so long since this old growth has seen a sapling.”

Heather’s fingertips sank and spiraled into the earth, roots plunging in search of water. “Put her back!” she screamed. Loam shot from her tongue.

“She cannot live in you. You know this. You knew it from the beginning. If I put her back, you will both die, as you would have done before Shadow sharpened his knife.”

“She is mine.”

“She never should have been.” The dark woman crossed the clearing and spread the sticky flower sap across Heather’s eyes and lips.

Heather felt it burn through the folds of bark that coated her face, felt them slough away, and her raw skin stung against the cool air. Small flowers tumbled from her hair, blanketing the grass around her.

The dark lady turned back to the trees. “Come, sweet child. Your mother is here.”

A breeze stirred the blossoms in the grass. Estella stepped out from between two pillars of vine. Bright wings bristled from her half-formed back that twisted like the tree roots.

“Shall I fold her into a fist of bone? Punch her into the small spaces of your insides till you bleed and your heart fades, and carries her away with its silence?”

Heather clenched her hands and felt the soft, empty fingertips crush against her palm. “We’re meant to be together. We were meant to go together.”

“Shadow didn’t think so.”