Róża’s legs give out at the northern edge of the woods, where, still, she knows she could be spotted. She needs a place to hide.

At the forest’s perimeter, Róża finds a large fallen tree limb, its branches thick with pine needles. If she can build up its sides, it can serve, just temporarily until she can find something better. She gulps water, unpacks Krystyna’s package, and takes two greedy bites of onion bread, then sets to work creating a burrow packed tight with pine needles. She pulls branches over it in all but one corner that she keeps open for the firepot. Finally she climbs in, breathing heavily, staring up through the branches at the blue-black sky.

Sometime in the night she wakes. Icy bits of leaf and bark have blown in through the gaps of pine branches and pebbled between her teeth. She grinds and swallows. The ground is hard beneath her shoulders and buttocks, and every part of her aches with stiffness and cold. Except her toes: Róża cannot feel them at all. She transfers the address card to her pocket and heaves off her boots, pulling on Henryk’s socks, tucking her numbed feet, one at a time, into the crook of her bent knees.

She wakes again because of a sound—an animal call. She shifts her weight, sweeps the top branches away, and sits upright. She wonders what might be near: bats, boars, a wolf? She listens intently to hear beyond the gusting wind. A bird?

She lies back down in her shelter and tries again to sleep, but her mind floods with memories of Shira. The timbre of her voice. The oily smell of her hair, the warm dough of her cheek. The weight of her arms, her legs, draped in sleep.

Despite her longing, there is a flash of relief—she doesn’t have to feed Shira or warm her or concoct tales of magical flowers or musical birds—before a punishing guilt, as her head swirls with all that might have gone wrong with Shira’s transport to the nuns. She hauls the mass of branches over her like a door closing shut. Inside her burrow, she curls herself in a tight ball and averts her eyes from the accusing stars.

Part 2

The little girl does not dare cry out. If there are giants in this new garden, she doesn’t want them to hear her. The yellow bird sings her music, and the enchanted flowers grow. Still, the girl remains silent. Her mother told her that an invisible daisy chain would connect them always, and she tries to feel its gentle tug. But deep down the girl knows: Until she is with her mother, wrapped in her arms, she will remain lost.

Chapter 23