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might warm his heart.
    What happened to you? she longed to ask. Who stole your voice?
    “I’ll take care of you,” she whispered.
    She was starting to believe she could.
    As the day wore on, and her worries began little by little to subside, Shallah took notice of her surroundings. It was a good day to begin a journey. The air was warm and full of the musty smell of the conifers. She could picture the fog wafting moodily among the branches of the canopy, filtering the light and filling the air with moisture. The mossy trunks would be thicker here than in the village, and the path they trod would rise and fall among them, twisting its way through their territory.
    After so many days of grim anticipation, she found the ease with which they traveled somewhat amusing. The hours passed uneventfully. The path was even and smooth, without so much as a puddle to vex them. Were it not for their absolute isolation, the two might have been out for a pleasant stroll through the trees. She hadn’t yet broken a sweat.
    In her mind Shallah could picture the path before them. She knew already where they would stop for their midday meal, and how the trail would bend when they took it up again, before straightening out and slopping downwards. If she pressed herself, she could see the forest all around in her mind’s eye, could envision all the paths and how they intersected. This wood, her wood, was like a grid of roads and paths, the walkways illuminated in white, the woodland in black. She could walk those white trails forever without getting lost.
    She remembered being asked once by Gemma Blighton how she knew the wood so well. The two had been friends briefly, during that short summer after Gemma had declared herself sick of her sisters and before she’d caught the eye of Leland Goss and dissolved into his arms. Fifteen years old and willful, Gemma had convinced Shallah to sneak out in the night and help her find the hideout her brothers had built without permission in the woods. She’d been surprised at how readily Shallah had agreed, and absolutely stunned at the ease with which she’d moved through the trees.
    “Aren’t you afraid you’ll fall?” Gemma had asked as she’d struggled to keep up with her friend.
    “Not half as much as you,” Shallah had replied. “You’re afraid because it’s dark and you can’t see your way. It’s always dark for me.”
    “But everyone’s afraid of the forest,” Gemma had said. “It’s said to be frightfully dangerous.”
    Shallah had been in a phase of extreme boastfulness then, always looking for the chance to show her courage, to prove that she knew better. “You don’t believe all that nonsense, do you?” she’d replied. “I know I don’t.” Not precisely the truth, but not exactly a lie either.
    Shallah would never completely give up her fear of the forest, for childhood lessons, once learned, are not easily unlearned. But at fifteen, she’d already begun to question the truth of those tales she’d heard so many times, and to wonder …Where were these dangers that laid in wait amongst the trees? Why had she never encountered them? What would it mean if they didn’t exist at all? What would it mean for her father?
    She’d only just begun her nighttime wanderings the summer she’d been friends with Gemma. It had begun as a test of bravery. She’d dared herself one night to step into the wood and walk twenty paces without extending her arms before her. She’d done it, though she’d scared herself out of her wits and badly banged her temple when she’d walked into a spruce tree. She’d never forgotten the position of that tree again.
    The game had soon extended to the forest all around her toft, then to all around the village and beyond. Some nights she’d count her steps up to a hundred, purposely turning herself about, then try to find her way back home in half the steps. Some nights she’d examine the landscape, trying to remember where the largest trunks