hands and my voice when I commanded the trees to attack your people. I’m responsible for my actions, too. And so I save those I can, where I can, and will continue to do so as long as I draw breath. Can Tara say as much?”
“Mom’s saved people, too. In my town.” How many more would have fallen to magic, like Jayce’s granddaughter, if not for Mom?
“I know. Kaylen told me.” There was no forgiveness in Karin’s tone. She brushed her hand over the vine, and it retreated to wrap back around her wrist.
I wasn’t sure I forgave Mom, either. She hadn’t saved me, after all. Why was it so much easier to hate Mom for her failures, when Mom had never wanted the War to happen, than to hate Karin, who had attacked my people of her own will once it had? “Karin, why did you fight in the War?”
Karin was silent so long I thought she’d decided not to answer. Kyle stirred in his sleep, throwing off the blanket. I got up to wrap it back around him. He muttered something about mean ants and fell back asleep. I put my hand to his forehead. His skin was cool. Which mattered more—the people we saved or those we failed to save? I thought of Ethan, surely dead or near to it by now. I thought of Johnny, still with the Lady. I rubbed my wrist. The skin beneath Matthew’s hair tie was red where my sweater had tightened around it.
“I fought in the War because I believed it necessary to protect my people.” So quiet, Karin’s voice behind me. “And I fought because I wanted to please my mother.”
Kyle had flung his frog from the couch. I picked it up. How could anyone fight a war to please someone else? I squeezed the soft plastic in my hand. Once I might have killed for my father if he’d asked it, too. I tucked the frog in beside Kyle and returned to Karin’s side, drawing my arms around my knees. “Were things simpler Before?”
Karin laid a hand on my shoulder, and this time, I let her. “Few things were ever simple, in your world or in mine.”
Kyle sighed in his sleep. Karin shut her eyes, though her posture remained watchful. “My mother alone would not have acted differently had the seers told her what was to come. The Lady was known for many things, but forgiveness was not among them. The memories of my people run long. My mother will not rest until she finishes the work the War began.”
“I will do all I can to stop her.” Karin’s voice was grim. “Do not doubt it.”
I looked right at her. “So will I.” The words sounded foolish as I spoke them. What could I possibly do against glamour? Even if I held Caleb’s leaf close, that wouldn’t protect anyone but me.
“There remains a part of me that wishes you would return to my town and be safe.” Karin pressed an ivy leaf between her fingers. “And there is the part of me that knows too much is at stake to refuse your help. Even so, I’ll not have you face the Lady again without your consent. This began long before you were born. It is not your battle.”
She was wrong about that. “The Lady has threatened my town, and my mother, and my—and Matthew. She has threatened all that I hold dear.” I was proud of how my voice held steady. “It doesn’t matter how this began. It is my battle, and I will not run from it.”
Karin looked away from my gaze. “It is hard, sometimes, to believe you are Tara’s daughter.” She shook her head, as if regretting the words. “I welcome your help on this journey.”
“I’ll save who I can, as I can, too. I promise, Karin, no matter how—”
“Careful, Liza. Words have power, for faerie folk and humans with magic alike. Even words spoken lightly may shape your actions later.”
There was nothing light about the words I spoke. “I will do all I can to protect my people and my town.”
Karin gave me a measuring look. Father had looked at me that way sometimes, and had always found me wanting. Karin smiled, though. “Very well. I’ll give you what tools I can before we leave this place. Tell me what you’ve learned of magic since we last met.”
I started with the shadows I’d learned to lay to rest this winter, but she had me go back further, to the first shadow I’d called, before I knew my power for what it was. The ice grew quieter. I huddled down in my jacket as I told Karin of my other callings as well, those that had succeeded and those that had failed. I told her of my struggles to control my visions.
“That much is no failure on your part, though it may feel like one,” Karin said. “Visions always begin untamed and unpredictable, and trying to fight them only makes it worse. As useful as a seer who could look willfully into the future might be right now, it will be some time before you have such power.”
“Mom said I needed to learn to control my visions.” I’d struggled with that.
Karin shook her head. “For a seer, control comes only with time. In the meanwhile, it is best to focus on your summoning. Indeed, it is your summoning that would have led me to seek you out even had you not called for my help. Tell me about how you called the quia tree again, Liza.”
I told her all I could remember about calling the tree—how I’d brought a seed home from the same gray land I’d called Caleb back from after he’d nearly died saving Mom; how the green within that seed had given me the strength to leave that lifeless place; how I’d tried to call the green from the seed into my world in turn, and how I’d called the reds and oranges of autumn into it instead. “Was I wrong to call the quia tree? Or is this just the way winter was Before?”
My hands were trembling. Karin took them in hers, stilling them. “I don’t know. I have spent many hours trying to make sense of the pathways by which your people say leaves fell from the trees Before. Their understanding differs from mine. I was taught that human plants have always looked to the Realm to remind them, in spring, how to grow, and so are but a faint echo of that which is real. Who can say which understanding runs closer to the truth? What I do know is this: what thread of life remains in the Realm is thin. There is little for human plants to look to, if they have lost their memory of greenness and of life.”
Wind tapped at the trailer door, as if trying to get in. “So it may be my fault the world is winding down after all.”
“I would not go so far as to say this world winds down.” Karin drew a winged maple seed from her pocket. “Take it.”
I held it by the stem, wary of the fire maple seeds held, but it was cold, as all seeds were this winter. “It’s dead.”
“Is it?” Karin smiled, a little sadly. “Look closer.”
I stared at the seed as hard as I could, but I saw only brown. I closed my eyes and reached for it with my magic, just as I had with so many seeds this winter, but nothing reached back. “They’re all dead.” I fought to keep the despair from my voice.
Karin took the glowing orange stone in her hand. It cast its light onto the seed, giving it a faint tint that reminded me of autumn. The color wasn’t real, though. Only the brown within the seed was real.
“Look at the shadow,” Karin said.
The orange light cast a faint maple seed shadow onto the floor. I stared at that, but it was an ordinary shadow, no more alive than the shadows cast by sun and candles. Karin moved the light directly overhead, and the shadow disappeared.
I looked at her, not understanding, not wanting to admit I didn’t understand.
Karin nodded, as if I’d done nothing unexpected. “Keep trying.” She moved the light about. I watched as the shadow shifted on the floor, as it disappeared, reappeared, and disappeared again. Outside, trees creaked as the wind blew through them, but I didn’t look away from that moving patch of darkness, seeing again and again the moment when it disappeared entirely.
My eyes grew weary. I blinked, trying to keep my focus. For just a moment, the shadow seemed to cling to the seed before it disappeared. I forced my eyes to stay firmly open the next time, but I didn’t see it again.
I softened my focus instead. There—a hint of inky darkness, clinging to the seed. The shadow cast by Karin’s light shifted about, but the darker shadow held fast to the seed, so close—so much a part of the seed—that I wasn’t sure how I saw it at all. I drew the seed nearer to my face. I wasn’t imagining it.
Karin set her stone down beside her. I squinted to see in the dimness. The seed’s shadow held even without light.
“So you see,” Karin said. “All things that live and grow have shadows, from the smallest seed to your people and mine.”
