Grief and rage combine and swell in my throat. My fist clenches tightly around the knife in my hand. I tilt my head toward the sky, and a single crimson leaf drifts onto my shoulder.

Autumn used to be my favorite time of year. I found it poetic—the fierce, bold colors of leaves just before they tremble from their branches and die. As if the last moments of life were the most powerful of all.

But now I prefer the tender, gentle colors of spring.

I shift my body so the leaf floats to the forest floor. The air is heavy with the scent of rot. A few rows away, a burlap sack hangs from a sturdy branch. Inside is the body of Eli Higgins, who took his last breath two weeks ago. And in another tree nearby is Hester Ollif, whose heart stopped beating just yesterday. Both trees are draped in colorful blossoms, the names of the deceased freshly carved into the trunks below other family members who have gone before. At least a dozen trees across the forest are burdened with the bones of the dead.

But our tree is empty. There’s no place to hold my sorrow.

I stand and brush the dust from my skirt. A sudden awareness prickles at the base of my skull and I freeze. Gooseflesh races up my arms. It’s a sensation I’ve experienced multiple times in the last few weeks. It feels like a pair of eyes are focused on my back. Like a breath at my collar. Like someone is watching me.

I spin around, but no one is there. It’s just my imagination. Just the fear of Latham’s last threat: I’ll see you soon, Saskia. You can count on it.

Each night since my mother’s death I’ve had the same nightmare. Just as I drift off, my mind replays each detail of her murder. Latham thrusting a knife through her back. Her eyes going wide with shock before she falls into my arms. Her blood thick on my fingers.

Then the dream shifts to a place I’ve never seen before: a room full of spell books and bones, incense and strange weapons. Latham strides toward me—a Mason-crafted sword in his hand—a look of such dark delight in his eyes that it makes my blood run cold. Each time, I know I’m about to die, but I wake just before the blade falls.

Latham is coming for me. Even when I try to forget, my mind reminds me in my sleep.

And now I’m imagining things that aren’t there while I’m awake, too.