“That’s none of your business.”

“I’m only trying to help you. You don’t need to be so rude.”

“I don’t want a Lore Keeper’s help. Especially not yours.”

She smirked. “I’m pretty sure your Mark makes you a Lore Keeper too.”

“It doesn’t. Because I’m going to find a way to remove it, and I’m going to come back.”

As soon as he said the words, he knew that they were the right ones. It didn’t matter what Master Pilzmann had said. This was his path. Maybe he would go on a journey to a city or across the world. But he would come back home, and everything would return to the way it was supposed to be.

She stole the map that he’d drawn out of his hands and gave him a pitying look. “Where are you going to learn how to fix it? Here?” She pointed at the Humdrum capital. “No one there can help you. No one will want to. If you need answers, you’re only going to find them in a Lore town. There’s one only four days from here, deeper in the Woods.”

“I’m not going to a town full of Lore Keepers,” Barclay hissed.

“If Lore is your problem, then you need Lore to fix it. Besides, I’m going back there myself. I still need to trap Gravaldor, but I used up the last of my ingredients. You can come with me.”

“I’m not—”

“Or you can get run out of every place you visit. That’s what’s ahead of you. Pitchforks and locked doors. Not answers.” She handed him his map back. “The choice is yours.”

Barclay hesitated. He didn’t know if what she said was true, but the prospect of more pitchforks frightened him… almost as much as being entirely on his own.

“Fine,” he agreed bitterly. “I’ll go with you.”

“Good, because it’s dangerous to travel these Woods alone, even with a Beast.” She held out her hand to help him to his feet, but he refused it and stood up on his own. “My name is Viola Dumont. You already know Mitzi.”

Mitzi squawked.

“Assuming we don’t get eaten along the way,” Viola continued, “we’re going to make it to the closest Lore town, and you can get back to your miserable mushrooms before Spring comes.”

SEVEN

The deeper the pair journeyed into the Woods, the more fearsome the Woods became.

The twisted gray trees gave way to new kinds: trees with thorns like daggers growing up their trunks, trees with knots in their bark that looked like faces. The first snow was falling, and the gnarled roots that snaked across the white ground reminded Barclay of decayed hands reaching out of a grave. Crows cawed overhead, as though urging him to turn back, to run.

As they set up camp for the night, he shivered and clutched his charm while Viola collected sticks for a fire.

When she finished, Barclay expected her to rub the twigs together to ignite them. Instead, she stared intently at the wood, her fingers white-knuckled around it. Then a red light appeared from her hands. Several sparks burst out, followed by flames, catching like a torch.