“Nope. Don’t think so.”
“So…”
“I don’t get it either.” Poppy frowned. “Things outside the fog are different from in the Hollows. It could mean anything.”
The buzzing in her ears from the warding was starting to hurt. She squeezed her fists—open, closed, open, closed.
Mack caught sight of her hands and his expression turned stern. “You know what I don’t get, Poppy? I don’t get why we’re hunting Mogwen.”
She sighed, and looked back toward the thorn tree. A flash of red caught her eye. “No way,” she said under her breath, then gave a little hop. “No! Way!”
“What?”
Poppy didn’t answer.
Now was the time for action.
A single Mogwen feather lay at the base of the thorn tree. She’d have to cross the boundary of her ward, but she could do it. “Mack, take my pack.” Poppy shrugged out of her backpack and pulled her knife again.
“Poppy … what are you…” He followed her gaze to the feather. “No way. Don’t do it.”
“I’m doing it.”
“Poppy, that’s a thorn tree. Seriously.”
“It’s already done.” She launched herself forward. Two steps. Three.
She dived, grabbing the feather from the ground as she rolled back up to her feet, running. The whip cut the air behind her.
She dodged left, out of the tree’s range as the pins and needles turned to burning. Pain lanced through her and she threw herself back across the boundary with a scream that was half anguish and half victory.
She lay on her back panting, the feather in her hand, as sweat rolled down her neck. A harsh laugh bubbled out of her. “See? No problem.”
He crossed his arms. “I can’t believe you just did that. That was really dangerous.”
Poppy shot a smirk at him from the ground. Mack had never been a take-chances kind of guy. She understood that.
He scowled down at her. “It’s just a feather, Poppy.”
She couldn’t stop her smile. “It’s not just a feather. When my parents see this, it will change everything.”
Poppy rose to her feet and gave him a friendly pat on the back as she shuffled past him. “Come on. Let’s go see what Jute’s got cooking.”
CHAPTER TWO
They moved toward the edge of the forest, where the afternoon sunlight was beginning to turn gold. As they walked, Poppy told Mack about her plan to finally get her parents to listen to her. She knew Mack was mulling things over from the way his eyebrows knit together. Her best friend could be stodgy, and a worrywart, but she still didn’t like to upset him.
She cast an uncertain look at him as she rubbed at a scratch on the side of her neck. The thorn tree had been faster than she expected—almost wily, like it knew she couldn’t resist the feather. Poppy stepped out of the trees and exhaled as the ward her parents placed on her fell away. She gave her body a shake, like a dog coming out of a cold river.
As they moved into the bright meadow that surrounded Poppy’s house where it looked down over the village of Strange Hollow, Mack finally said what was on his mind.
He tugged her to a stop. “Just … if things don’t go your way with your parents … promise me you won’t do anything reckless. Think first. And promise you’ll listen, especially if I tell you something’s dangerous. Promise me that, and whatever happens—as long as it doesn’t put other people in danger, you can count me in.”
She looked up into his guileless face and knew her relief showed. “Of course! I absolutely promise.” The breeze shivered over her skin, and she tipped her chin up, sniffing the air.
“Because you’re not always the best at—”
“Do you smell food?”
He scowled.
“Don’t worry.” She smiled. “This feather is going to work.” She tried not to think too hard about what would happen if her parents didn’t react the way she hoped. She had read in an older journal that blood wards could be broken, but that it would hurt. A lot. She pushed the thought away.
Her house stood waiting in all its contorted, twisted glory, confident of their return, and as proud of its odd beauty as a cat in the afternoon sun. The front of Poppy’s home was the small cob cottage that her parents had built before she was born. It held the front door, and a small window of colored glass to either side. But above the door and around the cottage, stretching behind and three stories up, were all the rooms that the forest had grown for them. All of it—from the first floor up to the turret that was Poppy’s bedroom, was made from thick tendrils of roots. It was as if the forest grew arms and hugged their home against its branches, clinging there like a dear friend.
The way her mother told it, as soon as her parents made the choice to enter the Grimwood and begin hunting the cursed objects that grew in the forest, the Grimwood had grown them a new house.
Understandably, her parents and Jute had slept in the meadow for a week before they decided to move back in and see what would come of it. They still had no idea, really, why it had happened, or who was responsible, but they had decided it was a thank-you, and moved in.
Not for the first time, Poppy wondered if the Holly Oak had something to do with making their house of roots. The Holly Oak was the oldest creature in the woods, and according to her parents’ journals, revered by all the creatures of the wood.
Of course, after the house grew, everyone in the Hollows began avoiding her parents. They found it suspicious and strange. And when she was born, their fear stretched to include Poppy.
The smell of Jute’s dinner made her stomach growl, and she was eager to show her parents the feather. She was just about to hurry Mack along when he caught a glimpse
