Chapter 30

The knock at the door left a bruise on the room’s silence. Even after the final echo faded, Edmund felt it reverberating within him, as if the sound had been seized and wasn’t about to be released.

No one spoke.

Will stood rigid with his back to the door, his jaw clenched so tightly it trembled. Malcolm hovered by the hearth, poker raised, eyes fixed on the door handle as if it might turn of its own accord. Agnes stood nearest Edmund, her posture composed, her hands poised not in fear but readiness.

The voice outside did not return. That, Edmund realised, was worse.

After a long stretch of stillness, Agnes lifted a hand, signalling Will to move aside.

“It won’t come through the door,” she said. “Not while morning light still touches the threshold.”

Will did not look convinced.

“It knows he’s here.”

“Of course it does.”

“It said I don’t have much time,” Edmund said.

“That wasn’t a threat,” Agnes replied, affirming his own suspicion. “It was a statement.”

Her voice remained calm, but her gaze never left the door. After another moment, she turned to Edmund.

“Sit by the hearth. Stay close to the fire. It will resist the heat.”

Edmund did as instructed, lowering himself onto the small chair nearest the flames. Malcolm shifted to give him room, though his attention flicked constantly back to the door. The cottage settled into uneasy quiet once more. Outside, the wind had died entirely.

It was a stillness Edmund recognised now. The forest held itself motionless in order to listen.

Agnes moved to the worktable and laid out small bundles of dried herbs, bowls of crushed stone, and jars filled with a dark, soil-rich liquid. Her hands separated the materials into three precise groupings. Will watched her.

“You’re preparing already.”

“I don’t like how early it’ll be moving,” she said, not looking up. “The fourth thread must be cut before midnight. If we begin too late, the rhythm is lost.”

Edmund looked up sharply.

“The rhythm of what?”

Agnes paused, then lifted her eyes to his.

“Your mind.”

He began to speak, but her stern expression stopped him.

“It isn’t enough to sever the forest’s hold,” she said. “Your mind must be steady when we do it. Midnight is when the self thins. The point where we can reach deepest. And it. For you…” She hesitated. “It will be dangerous.”

Will gave a brief, humourless grunt.

“Everything has been dangerous.”

Malcolm stepped closer to Edmund.

“You feeling anything? Pain? Pressure?”

Edmund rested his palm against his chest. The hollow answered faintly, just an indication of still being present.

“Not really. It’s waiting.”

“It’s conserving itself until the light fades,” Agnes said, inclining her head. “Tonight it will be bolder. Louder. Also weaker, in its way. What you’ve cut has unsettled it.”

“It doesn’t feel unsettled,” Edmund said.

“That’s because it doesn’t display fear. Doesn’t know it, in our sense,” Agnes replied. “It adapts. If it cannot seduce, it threatens. If it can’t reuse memory, it will present truth, or its version. Whatever shape it believes you’ll answer.”

A cloud crossed the sun. The room dimmed.

Will stiffened.

“That’s it starting again.”

But nothing touched the walls. Nothing whispered. The rafters remained still. And, somehow, the waiting pressed harder.

Malcolm moved to the window and opened a shutter a fraction.

“The trees are still.”

“They will be,” Agnes said. “Until it decides how much effort he’s worth.”

Edmund closed his eyes briefly.

“I’m not weak,” he said.

“No,” Agnes agreed. “You’re wounded. Those are not the same thing.”

“Then everyone rests,” said Will. “We’ve a long night ahead.”

“No sleeping, though,” Agnes cautioned. “Not him. If he dreams, it’ll use the dream to take him before we begin.”

Edmund grimaced. He was exhausted, and sleep would have been a blessing, stealing the hours where anticipation and dread could mount. Malcolm squeezed his arm.

“Then you stay awake. I’ll stay with you.”

The hours crept forward. Agnes ground herbs. Will checked the shutters repeatedly. Malcolm brewed tea none of them touched. The quiet thickened as the day dragged on.

At intervals, Edmund felt a gentle nudging within him. A wordless summons. A presence on the other side of a door with no handle. Each time, he pressed a fist to his sternum and breathed until the sensation eased.

As the light outside thinned into the amber dullness of late afternoon, Agnes gathered the ingredients and exhaled.

“It’s time to prepare the circle.”

Will rose. Malcolm straightened. Edmund’s focus sharpened. The hollow stirred, attentive. Agnes lifted the bowl of dark water.

“We begin at dusk, when the forest reaches closest to the eaves. When what daylight remains can no longer shield you.”

She studied Edmund, not unkindly, but with the gravity of someone about to guide another across something narrow and unsteady.

“Tonight we cut the final thread.”

Edmund nodded. He did not feel ready, but he felt willing.

Beyond the small cottage, as the sun slid lower, the forest began to lean.