The lake snaps and creaks like old wood, like ice not as thick as it once was. The heat from the fire is melting it, turning it back to water. I shuffle and slip, but I keep moving forward until I reach the center—where the shore is nearly the same distance away on all sides. I press my hands to my knees and try to breathe, but the smoke is too thick. My eyes burn, my lungs rasp with each inhale. And I feel a sudden certainty that I’m going to die out here. That this is really the end.

This is how I will be remembered inside the spellbook: Nora Walker died on the lake, her body never recovered. The long line of Walkers ended with her.

I cover a hand over my mouth to keep out the smoke and I lift my head, standing up straight. The view across Jackjaw Lake is of a forest in flames. A forest burning. Started by a boy named Jasper who is now buried in the ground. Swallowed whole.

At the boys’ camp, several structures are already gone—torched to their bones. And I can’t tell if anyone is still there, trapped in their cabins. The wilderness is on fire and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

I look to the sky, the shade of gunpowder, and I remember the feeling when I fell into the lake, when my skin felt like it was peeling open, when my grandmother’s ring slipped free from my finger—sinking down into the dark. To the bottom of a lake without an end.

But Jasper found it inside the Wicker Woods. The ring returned.

Just like when I found Oliver.

Both sank into the lake.

I breathe, chasing down the memories as quickly as they skitter away.

Mr. Perkins said that miners used to drop things into the lake—they were offerings to the forest, to calm the Wicker Woods. Because they believed the lake was the beating heart of this place.

The pieces begin to settle in the back of my mind. Dust falling through rays of sunlight—finally visible.

I never knew why things appeared inside the Wicker Woods. What foul form of witchery or mischief was at work. But now I see: If it falls into the lake, it will return again inside the Wicker Woods.

A notation I will make inside the spellbook, if I ever get the chance.

And on one fateful night, during a bad winter storm, a boy fell into the lake—he sank to the bottom and was spit back out inside the Wicker Woods. An offering made the night of the storm.

And then I found him under a full moon. Mine to keep. Finders keepers.

Now I understand, now I see. But it doesn’t change a thing. He’s still dead. The forest brought him back, but it didn’t bring him back whole.