Chapter 26

The new dawn in Black Thickett came without the threatening cover of branches. However, it felt thinner than any morning Edmund had known. It was fragile, the light having been stretched too tightly over darkness, to the point it might tear at any moment to reveal the nightmares prowling beneath.

Agnes insisted he rest before they attempted the third thread, but rest remained elusive. He lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling beams, wondering if they might be punctured in the same way the pub had been. What remained within him stirred faintly, constrained rather than subdued, like a wounded beast lying low, giving itself time to recover.

Agnes had driven it back. Edmund had refused.

But the Binding hadn’t broken. Not yet.

There was a knock at the door and Malcolm eased it open.

“You need food,” he said, though his tone carried little belief Edmund had the strength for it.

“I’m not hungry.”

Malcolm stepped inside anyway, his rough hands carrying a bowl of porridge and a chipped mug of tea.

“Eat it, or Agnes’ll force it down you herself.”

Edmund managed the ghost of a smile. It faded quickly, and was hardly worth the effort. Both men knew it wasn’t real.

“Is she all right?”

“Shaken,” Malcolm admitted. “She pushed too deep, too fast. Third thread can’t happen until nightfall, at the earliest.”

Nightfall. The word lodged coldly in Edmund’s spine, and crawled down it with spider’s legs, reminding him he was caught in a web he may not escape.

“I won’t survive another night like that,” he said.

Malcolm sat heavily on the edge of the bed. He sighed.

“We won’t let it come to that.”

“You can’t stop it.”

“Maybe not,” Malcolm replied. “But we can hold it off until the rites are done. Until the Binding breaks.”

Edmund said nothing. He wasn’t so sure.

By midmorning Agnes emerged from the front room, pale but steady. Will hovered behind her, watchful and wound tight. She called Edmund through.

“Come sit.”

He did, lowering himself into the same chair they’d used before. The chalk circle had been redrawn, the markings refreshed. The water bowl was refilled. The air carried the familiar blend of herbs and metal.

Will closed the shutters carefully.

“Forest’s restless,” he said. “Branches shifting where there’s no wind. Ground humming at times.”

Malcolm nodded.

“It knows we’re preparing again.”

Agnes settled opposite Edmund and leaned forwards.

“Before we attempt the third thread, you need to understand what’s coming.”

“Worse than the second.”

“Yes.”

Will made a quiet sound of agreement.

“The third thread sits deeper,” Agnes continued. “It’s not in memory or in grief, now. It’s in desire.”

“Desire?”

Agnes leaned back and folded her arms.

“The part of you that accepts what the forest offers. The part that wants the stillness. The silence.”

“I don’t want it,” Edmund insisted.

“But part of you does.” Malcolm’s voice was gentle. “Or it wouldn’t have reached this far.”

The restrained presence within Edmund responded faintly, defensive.

“Tonight it won’t show you memories. It will show you futures,” Agnes said.

“Futures? How can it know what’s to come?”

“They’re false ones,” she said. “Paths where your pain ends. Where your boy lives. They’ll be convincing enough to tempt, but not real enough to last.”

“I won’t listen.”

“You must listen,” Agnes said sharply. “You must not answer.”

Edmund frowned at the distinction. Will cleared his throat.

“Before tonight, there’s a way to slow it. Dampen its hold.”

Agnes nodded.

“A draught. It’s not a cure or protection. It’ll just delay things.”

“I’ll take it,” Edmund said.

She hesitated.

“It will hurt.”

“More than everything else?”

Agnes shook her head.

“Well then.”

Agnes went to the pantry and returned with a small clay cup filled with dark, resin-thick liquid. It smelled bitter. Wild and untamed.

“What’s in it?” Edmund asked.

“Elder sap. Rowan bark. Distilled ash. And things better left unnamed.”

“First time I took it, I thought my mouth was coming apart,” Will muttered.

“Your cooking already does that,” Malcolm snorted.

Will shot him a look.

“Not the time.”

Edmund took the cup. The forest resisted sharply, trying to pull his hand back. He drank.

The pain was immediate. It should have stung or burned, or that’s what he expected. It was neither. It was emptying.

A hollow tore open inside his chest, like the instant after breath is stripped away before the body remembers how to draw it again. Edmund folded forward, clutching at his ribs as though something were being dragged free.

Agnes seized his shoulders.

“Stay upright.”

Will braced the chair. Malcolm steadied Edmund’s legs. Cold spread through him like frost crawling across glass. His vision fogged. His fingers jerked. What had been held back fought violently for release.

The room dimmed. The air thickened, then everything went still. The forest fell quiet. It had, temporarily, been contained.

Edmund sagged forward. Malcolm caught him before he slid from the chair.

“It worked,” Agnes said.

“He looks half-dead,” Will said quietly.

“Better half than whole.”

Edmund managed a hoarse sound.

“I’m still here. How long does it last?”

“Until sunset,” Agnes said.

“Then what?”

“Then the forest comes,” she said. “And it will be angry.”

###

The remainder of the day passed in a state that felt borrowed. Edmund’s thoughts moved under a veil, dulled and distant, but they were his own. It should have felt like release. Instead, it felt like the centre of a storm, paused only to gather strength.

As the sun sank lower, the wind stilled. Birds fell silent. Even insects ceased their noise.

Agnes entered carrying the ritual bowl once more. Will followed with a lantern, and Malcolm carried another poker.

Edmund stood, unsteady but upright.

“It’s time,” he said.

“The Hollow Hour approaches.” Agnes nodded. “When the sun drops, the forest reaches furthest.”

“And deepest,” Will added.

Malcolm rested a hand on Edmund’s shoulder.

“You’re not alone.”

Agnes redrew the circle, even though it was a bold line of chalk. She lit the lantern and set the bowl in place. Outside, a low groan rolled from the treeline. The forest was preparing.

Agnes met Edmund’s gaze.

“Whatever you’re shown tonight, do not mistake it for mercy.”

“I know.”

She placed her hands at his temples.

Will braced the door. Malcolm raised the poker. It looked small and ineffectual in his hands.

The light dimmed. Somewhere beyond the hills, the sun vanished.

The Hollow Hour began.

Far beneath Edmund’s awareness, the forest gathered again. It smiled in the dark.

It whispered:

Now we begin.