“You’re going to piss off the trees,” I continue, louder this time. In winter, a fire is less dangerous, the limbs and underbrush less flammable. But I can still hear the restlessness in the trees. The murmur of creaking branches. Fury roiling in the roots beneath our feet. I draw my shoulders back as if I might be able to make myself bigger, a beast from the forest—like the darkling crows rumored to roost at the farthest edge of the Wicker Woods—someone to fear.

But two of the boys laugh. Deep, obnoxious belly laughs, cheeks bright red like smeared thimbleberries.

I shake my head, irritated. They don’t believe me. “Trees have a long memory,” I warn, my voice like gravel. The forest remembers who carved names into their trunks, with little hearts dug in the wood; who dropped a cigarette into a clump of dry leaves and scorched their raw bark. They know who broke a limb and tore off leaves and pine needles by the handful just to start a bonfire.

They remember. And they hold grudges. Sharp branches can draw blood. Briars can snag a foot, causing a person to tumble forward and crack their head wide open.

“You a Girl Scout or something?” one of the boys asks, eyebrows raised severely, mockingly. I can tell he’s holding in another burst of laughter. Reddish-blond hair crowns his head, and a slight gap between his two front teeth stares back at me. He’s not even wearing a coat—only an ugly sweater with a giant reindeer’s face stitched onto the front. Although I suspect the bottle of dark booze he’s holding in his hand—the liquid nearly gone—is keeping him warm.

“She’s Nora Walker,” a voice answers behind me, and Suzy saunters into the circle of light cast by the bonfire.

Her cheeks are rosy from the cold. Her mouth curled up at one side, as if she’s just revealed a perfectly timed secret.

The boys’ faces turn sallow, mouths open, cheekbones slack. But they aren’t staring at Suzy. They’re looking at me.

I am a Walker.

A winter witch, a forest witch, a girl with madness in her veins who belongs in an institution, and all the other things the boys from camp have called me. Names that sting and hurt, but only a little.

“You’re the moon girl,” the boy wearing the ear-flap hat finally says.

But Suzy shoots him a look. “Don’t be an idiot, Rhett.”