A red light burst out of the Beast’s stomach and beamed into the sky. As Barclay climbed his way up the hill, he watched in horror as its flesh broke apart and a bloodied hand appeared out of it, reaching for freedom. The slice grew bigger and bigger until it was human-sized. First Mitzi fell out, then Viola after her. Barclay caught them both before they took the same tumble down the slope.

The Beast, in a considerable amount of pain, let out a moan and turned around. It slithered away, and far in the distance, Barclay saw it once again bury its head in the earth.

“Yuck,” Barclay said. Viola and Mitzi were covered, every inch of them, in stomach juice. He held one hand to his mouth and used the other to wipe the filth off his clothes.

Viola’s curly buns were soaked, and the wispy hairs around her temples were plastered to her face. She wiped the pink gunk off her forehead, only for Mitzi—perched on her shoulder—to shake herself off and fling bile everywhere.

Viola glared at Barclay. “This is your fault!”

“My fault?” he echoed angrily. “You’re the one who got yourself eaten.”

“Because you leaned on that tree that wasn’t a tree!”

“Because you were being so touchy!”

Viola’s nostrils flared, and she jabbed her finger into Barclay’s chest.

“You’re lucky I thought of something, or I’d be dead, no thanks to you. I don’t care if you’re getting your Mark removed. You’re a Lore Keeper, and you could have saved me. Just like I saved you.”

Barclay swallowed. She had saved him. Even though Barclay didn’t want to be a hero on an adventure, if this were an epic story, she would be the hero, and he would be the world’s absolute worst sidekick.

NINE

After three more days of traveling, the pair had only gotten grumpier. Barclay was exhausted from lying awake every night, terrified they would encounter another humongous, hungry Beast. Viola was irritated from eating almost nothing other than the mushrooms Barclay foraged. And Mitzi was worn out from using her light Lore so much to keep them warm. They’d rarely spoken except to complain about the cold or their sore feet, and so Barclay jolted in surprise when Viola suddenly announced, “We’re here!”

At first, Barclay didn’t know what she meant. There was no wall, no road, no point where the forest ended and civilization began. But then he saw that the grass and weeds below them grew from the cracks between cobblestones. Trees sprouted up in the middle of streets, lanterns dangling off their branches with fireflies glowing within the glass. The stumpy, ramshackle cottages clustered together like toadstools, decorative wreaths of moss and thorns hanging on their doors. Ivy crept along each building as if the earth was trying to swallow the town whole.

If Sycomore was a bit strange, the people were outrageous. Even Viola, covered head-to-toe in gold pins, didn’t stand out much. They wore long cloaks of fur or tweed. Feathered hats, pointy hats, flat hats. Shoes ranging from thigh-high boots to delicate glass slippers. Their features, too, varied widely, with skin in a range of shades different from Barclay’s ruddy pale or Viola’s light brown. Though most were bundled up for Winter, golden tattoos still peeked out from people’s skin, writhing and moving much like Barclay’s own.