Linny Marsh's Arc

Chapter 18 of 22

Past the ridge, Linny walked south under a lowering sky. Her feet were wooden in her boots. The four folded pages sat in her inside pocket. Home was still a day off, maybe less if she pushed. She pushed. She had cut wide of the wood-and-ice creature and crossed out of its country. She meant to sleep in her own bed. The light went fast. One moment the snow held a gray shine, the next it did not. She stopped in a small clearing rimmed by frost-laden trees, their icy branches laced tight overhead. No cave. No overhang. No hollow she could dig in the time she had left. She would have to make her own shelter. She broke dead branches from the lower boughs. She scraped snow into a low wall on the windward side. She laid her fire in the center of the clearing and struck it with the last of her flint. The tinder caught. The flame took a branch, then another. She fed it until it stood as tall as her knee. She sat close and pulled her coat around her. She meant to keep watch. She had meant to keep watch every night. Her head dropped once. She jerked it up. It dropped again. The fire was warm. Her feet were finally warm. She slept. She woke because the fire had gone quiet. Not out. Quiet. The pop and hiss were gone, as if something stood between her and the sound. She opened her eyes without moving her head. They stood in the ring of trees. Six of them, maybe more behind. Tall and thin. Long fingers. Faces that were almost faces. Their eyes caught the firelight and gave it back wrong. One held a length of dark vine looped in its hand. Another tilted its head at her the way a bird studies a beetle. She knew what they were. Lena had told her. Nell had told her. The fae had her scent. If she crossed the tree line without Nell, they would take her. She had crossed. She had not thought they would come this near the ridge. She reached for her knife. The one with the vine crouched. She stopped reaching. The tallest stepped forward, over the outer stones of her fire. The flame did not touch it. It bent down and picked up her bundle in one hand. It picked up her hat in the other. It set the hat on its own head. Hands closed on her arms. They were cold and strong and did not bruise. They lifted her upright. The vine went around her wrists in one quick loop. They did not speak. They turned her north, away from the ridge, away from home. The fire burned behind her in the empty clearing. Her four folded pages were still in her pocket. They walked her back into the woods.