Chapter 24

With a body and mind feeling ruined, Edmund rested only in the loosest sense of the word.

Agnes had insisted he lie down on the narrow bed in the back room, a thin mattress laid over creaking wood and covered with a quilt that smelled faintly of lavender. It wasn’t comfortable enough to sleep on, but it would do when exhaustion was threatening.

Every moment was infused with tension, keeping true rest just out of reach. His thoughts moved in slow, uneven loops, never quite settling. Beneath that, the forest remained watchful, quieter now. It was held in check rather than silenced, like a creature forced into hiding but peering out through a narrow gap, awaiting its chance.

He stared at the ceiling beams. They were dark with age, carved with shallow grooves that looked almost like claw marks but were probably nothing more than time and wear. The cottage felt old, but not fragile. Everything in it carried the sense of having endured something beyond weather, and being sturdier for it.

A soft knock at the doorframe startled him.

Malcolm stood there, arms folded, his face marked with concern.

“How’s the pain?”

Edmund considered the question. It was verging on rhetorical in the answer’s obviousness. He thought about simply shrugging, a universal response.

“Manageable,” he said. It was a verbal shrug.

It wasn’t quite a lie. The constant ache had dulled to a low burn, though now and again a reminder cut through, as if the forest were testing the limits Agnes had forced upon it.

“You should eat,” Malcolm said, lifting a small tray containing a sandwich and glass of water. “Agnes says you’ll need your strength. I agree.”

Edmund pushed himself upright. His limbs felt heavy, the air seeming to carry more weight here.

“Thank you. I will.”

Malcolm set the tray down and pulled a chair closer. He leaned forwards with his elbows on his knees and his hands mimicking the polishing action he favoured.

“She doesn’t say it, but she’s worried.”

“About me?”

“Aye.” Malcolm studied him. “This first thread, she usually works that rite in stages. She went in hard. Harder than I’ve seen. The Binding’s deeper than she expected.”

Edmund nodded slowly. He wondered how many had gone before him. He realised he wouldn’t be the last.

So.

“And tonight?”

“She’ll go deeper still.”

Edmund’s mouth suddenly felt too dry to swallow the bite he’d just taken of the sandwich. He forced the food down and drank from the glass.

“Will it get worse?”

“She wouldn’t risk you unless she thought the forest was gaining ground. Unless there was a chance, however small.”

“Right. Comforting.”

“This is reality, lad. There’s no comfort in that.”

Silence settled between them, heavier this time, burdened with what neither wanted to say. Will appeared in the doorway, turning a length of twine through his fingers.

“He up?”

“Clearly,” Edmund said.

“Good. We need to talk,” Will replied. “Before tonight.”

“About what?”

Will glanced at Malcolm. A brief exchange passed unspoken. He crouched to Edmund’s level.

“Once Agnes starts the second thread, it won’t just push back. It’ll fight. It’ll dig into every weak place you’ve got.”

“What does that mean?”

Will tapped two fingers against Edmund’s sternum.

“There. Where you’re most exposed. That’s where it’ll go.”

A sharp internal reaction followed. Offended. Alert. Edmund hissed softly through his teeth.

Malcolm leaned forward.

“It might sound like him,” he said. “It might look like him. It might feel like him. That’s how the Binding works. It travels through your memories because that’s the softest ground. Less digging to do.”

Edmund lowered his gaze.

“I know.”

“No,” Will said quietly. “You don’t. Not yet. Before, it gave you a corridor and a shadow. That was restraint. Tonight, it won’t bother pretending.”

Edmund rubbed his temples. He could still feel Agnes’s hands there, pressing.

“So, what happens when it pushes back?”

“It tries to make you answer,” Malcolm said. “One word. One look. One moment of wanting what it offers. That’s all it takes.”

“I won’t answer.”

“That’s intention,” Malcolm said gently. “Not outcome.”

Will straightened.

“There’ll be another circle, and we’ll be right outside it. Agnes won’t have us inside. But, if she gives the word, we pull you out.”

“Pull me out?”

“If the Binding turns. If the forest starts winning.”

Edmund looked away, the wooden wall blurring from the tears in his eyes. The forest remained attentive, registering every word. He wished he could switch it off. It was a spy, noting their plans, using them.

“You think that’s likely?”

Malcolm hesitated. It was his turn to shrug.

“We’d be foolish not to prepare for it.”

Will moved toward the door.

“Try and rest,” he said as he left.

Malcolm lingered. He watched Edmund closely, as though committing his face to memory.

“Malcolm?” Edmund said.

“You remind me of Terry,” Malcolm replied.

Edmund stiffened at the unexpected comment.

“How?”

“You both carried things quiet. The forest mistakes that for an invitation.”

Edmund’s voice dropped.

“You think I’ll lose, don’t you?”

Malcolm shook his head. It seemed genuine.

“No. I think you’re the first one in a long time who might not.”

With that, he left, too.

###

The hours dragged, oozing through the day as if afraid to see the night.

Edmund slipped in and out of shallow, unsettled dozes. Dreams dissolved the moment he reached for them, lest he manage to gain purchase and, so, finally discover the elusive sleep. Each time he stirred, the forest answered with its own faint adjustment, mirroring his unease.

By the time Agnes returned, dusk had steeped the windows in bruised light.

She carried a bowl filled with dark liquid.

“Edmund,” she said quietly. “It’s time.”

The word fell between them like a guillotine, splitting the moment in two.

He stood, then followed her into the main room. Malcolm and Will waited there. The fire burned high, its flames sharp and restless. The air smelled of herbs and iron. Edmund noted there was never a point since their arrival where odours did not pervade the air. He wondered if they were some kind of defence in themselves.

Agnes placed the bowl at the centre of a chalk‑drawn circle and gestured for Edmund to sit on the chair in the centre.

“This will hurt more,” she said.

There was no inflection in her tone. She was simply stating fact. Emotions had to be internalised by each of them.

“I’m ready,” Edmund told her – and himself.

“You’re not,” she said. “But you’re willing. That’s enough.”

She cracked her knuckles loudly, then placed her hands on either side of his head. The forest in Edmund reacted immediately, drawing tight, bristling like thorns beneath the skin.

Agnes whispered the first word of the rite.

Edmund screamed. This time the forest did not give him a hospital corridor. It gave him his home and a voice he had begged never to hear again.

“Dad?”

Everything in him fractured.

Malcolm stepped forward without thinking.

“Do not cross the circle,” Agnes snapped.

The landlord stopped instantly and retreated. He glanced at Will, who shook his head.

Edmund convulsed. Tears streaking down his face. The room splintering around him as memory forced itself forward. And, as the second thread pulled tight, the forest spoke through the familiar voice.

You don’t have to hurt anymore.

Edmund, breaking apart at the seams, whispered back:

“I know.”