Charlie’s eyes widened as the first prongs breached the clearing. “Holy shit, that’s pointy!” Horns were an accessory Gale boys sported. She’d seen the scars they left behind all her life, had acknowledged the aunties who’d died during the Hunt for Allie’s grandfather, but had never internalized the danger.

She couldn’t stop David with her voice, not here, not now and she couldn’t step backward into the barrier.

Right hand keeping her strings from sounding, fingers on the left crossed, she stepped forward between the sound of hoofbeats as the full and deadly spread of David’s rack thrust into the clearing, the massive bulk of his shoulders fading to insubstantial even as the weight of his presence tried to drag her back as she slipped into the Wood.

“Too close.” She should’ve known David would charge to protect the family. Next time, she’d be prepared. Relaxing into the familiar sounds of the Wood, she . . .

“Crap on a cracker.”

More than familiar, the songs were the songs of her time. The aunties, Allie and Graham, the twins; nothing had changed. The whole mess was even more like opera than she’d realized. She half expected to hear the Rhinemaidens singing.

“And here we are,” she sighed, pushing her hair back off her face, “fifteen hours later, right back where we started from.”

Anna Russell aside, the trip hadn’t been a total disaster. She’d proven she could move forward in time, following the path of a Song during its creation. She hadn’t yet crossed the impact point, but as long as she kept her attention on the park, on the family, the impact shouldn’t matter.

Charlie snorted, snickered, and teetered on the edge of hysteria. The impact was all that mattered. Stop the impact, save Jack.

“And the world,” she reminded herself. Again. “All right.” Right hand. Left hand. She flexed her fingers then rested them back against the strings. Finger picks might’ve been a good idea, she hadn’t been taking the best care of her nails, but, as she’d already played for seven months, it was way, way too late to think of that. “Repeat the Song to the flare of power that marked the birth of three and four, then keep going to the conception of five and six. Doubt I’ll be able to miss that. Piece of Auntie Mary’s blueberry pie with ice cream.”

She had to force herself past the birth of the twins, force herself beyond the draw of an exit she’d already created, the emphasis of rituals flickering past as she headed for . . .

Power!

Charlie threw in a Hallelujah chorus and stepped out of the wood . . .

...into knee-deep snow.