It had been almost three years to the day since Naomi’s departure.

Fortunately, the time had passed without incident. In the peace of those years, Shereen had continued to train Sisters Helena, Irene, and Rachel. As each cure, value, and philosophy of The Way was passed down to the next generation of Awakeners, Susana’s mood had lightened and her faith in the future blossomed. Once again, she dared hope that the survival of their foremothers’ wisdom would ensure a future for all living things.

Looking up into the great tree’s canopy, into the patterns woven by its leaves and branches, she further sensed that the time for Shereen’s departure was upon them.

The lamp next to Anna’s hand began to sizzle. As her gaze lifted from the parchment she found that the lamp had nearly burned out of oil.

How easily she had lost track of time!

She wanted to keep working, to keep proofreading the parchment that Ruth had given her, but it was late. And her eyes were heavy.

Leaning over the table, she lifted Ruth’s quill from the inkwell. With it, she made a small mark in the margin to show where she had stopped. Through the dimming light, she looked down at the passage and reread the last part. It described some of the healing powers and cures that could be rendered from the sycamore—a tea that could be distilled from the bark to relieve chest pains and lung troubles, and an ointment from the sap that removed warts and soothed ringworm. Anna nodded at the text’s accuracy, for she herself had witnessed such cures being mixed and utilized by Shereen and the other Sisters.

When Ruth had offered to teach her how to read in exchange for her proofreading efforts, Anna had eagerly accepted. However, having read hundreds of texts, and having never once discovered even the slightest mistake, Anna wondered why Ruth had asked for her help.

Careful to use only her fingertips, Anna rolled the parchment into a tube and replaced it inside the correct jar. Standing among the vessels, she double-checked that each was properly filled and sealed. Satisfied that all was in order, she extinguished the torches and headed into the maze.

Outside, she found the air drenched with moonlight, a silver piping glazing every edge. On the way back to her cave, she climbed on top of the ridge to survey the valley. Midnight was, she thought, the most magical of hours. Facing the moon, she inhaled a slow, deep breath. She then closed her eyes—and listened.

Below, she could hear the scurry and scamper of nighttime creatures embattled in nocturnal skirmishes—the drama of hunters and hunted. When she was younger, she would have perceived these sounds, as she had always possessed keen senses, but would have only sifted through them for signs of danger.

Was a predator afoot? A storm approaching? Were any of the sheep in distress?