A baby and two ugly bears. The future had been Seen. It existed. Or it would exist, at least. It was real. She’d been counting on the bears.

If you go into the Woods today . . .

The seventh son of a seventh son of a seventh son of a Gale. Important, impossible . . .

Gales were adults at fifteen, admitted into ritual. Whatever Seven-seven-seven-Gale could do by virtue of what he was, he’d be able to do it then. So if Allie was eight weeks along now, it’d be thirty-two weeks to the birth of the next set of twins. Two years to the birth of the set after that if the universe continued interfering on the same schedule. Add two years more before number seven shows up. Add fifteen years for him to grow up. Charlie had a calculator on her phone but she used her fingers. Thirty-two, two, two, fifteen . . . twenty years, give or take.

The furthest she’d ever gone into the past was ten days.

The rock underfoot vibrated as David’s hooves drummed out an approaching rhythm; percussion she could feel through the soles of her boots. He couldn’t know what she had planned because she didn’t know what she had planned, exactly, but he had to know she was going to try . . . something, and he wasn’t happy about it.

In fairness, she wasn’t overjoyed either. She took a step forward but stayed in the park. Stepping into the Wood would mean she’d committed. Which she was. Committed. Just not . . . Anyway, he was closing fast, but she still had time.

Rim shot.

“Okay. Don’t think of it like twenty years. You didn’t leap out of the Woods ten days in the past, you exited, stage left, during a rousing chorus.” A rousing chorus was a rousing chorus. If it was rousing enough, that should be all that mattered.

As long as she didn’t turn around and look at the world outside the park, as long as she didn’t know for sure that she’d succeeded or failed, there was a chance.

You’re in for a big surprise . . .

Schrödinger’s future.

She’d be making it up as she went along.

With David a single stride away from the clearing, Charlie stepped into the Wood.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

THE WOOD HADN’T CHANGED. The Wood never changed.