Mira Felweave's Arc

Chapter 4 of 4

The rose tunnel ran farther than Mira expected. Mother Nature's shrine fell behind. The canes closed at their heels and opened ahead, a slow green throat pulling them west. The fox limped at Mira's side, awake now, ears low. Then the tunnel narrowed. The thorns pressed in. Mira tried to fold her claws under her palms. She could not. Fear kept them out. A thorn caught her wrist and dragged a long red line. Another snagged the pad of her thumb. She hissed and jerked back, and three canes hooked her at once. Blood dripped onto the moss. "Stop," the fox said. "You're marking the floor." "I know." Mira looked back. Dark drops behind them, bright drops ahead. A trail a child could follow. The hunters had gone west on the tower road. This tunnel was pointing them the same way. "We can't keep going," Mira said. "I'll bring them right to us." The fox's ears twitched. "There's a witch near here. Plants. She owes the shrine a favor." "Will she run?" "Probably. Try anyway." The tunnel bent. A round opening let them out into a small hollow ringed with ferns. A girl knelt in the dirt there, sleeves pushed up, sorting cut stems into two piles. Small. Freckled. Flowers stuck in her red hair like she'd forgotten they were there. A belt of glass bottles clinked when she moved. She looked up at Mira, and her hand went to a bottle, but she did not stand and she did not run. Mira froze. She waited for the scream. It did not come. "You're bleeding," the girl said. "A lot. Sit down." "I'll cut you." "Then don't." The girl pointed to a flat stone. "Sit." Mira sat. The fox curled against her leg. The witch — Hazel, she said, once, and did not repeat it — took Mira's wrist between two fingers and turned it. She did not flinch at the claws. She smelled like crushed leaves. "Hunters are tracking the blood," Mira said. "I heard boots earlier." Hazel uncorked a brown bottle. "This closes small cuts. Won't help if you keep tearing yourself open." She looked at Mira's hands. "Your claws are the problem. Not the thorns." "I can't put them away." "I know a plant that quiets grip. Shadowmoss. I've hunted it three years." Hazel's mouth twisted. "Never found a strand." "Then what do we do now?" Hazel dabbed the salve along Mira's wrist. The bleeding slowed. She pulled a folded cloth from her apron and wound it tight around Mira's hand, binding the claws flat against the palm. She did the other hand the same way. "Walk soft," Hazel said. "The wraps will hold a day. After that you need the moss, or you'll be bleeding again by the next tunnel." Mira flexed her bound fists. The claws did not tear through. For the first time in days, she left no red print on the stone. "Where do I find it?" Hazel looked west. "A manor. Glass gardens. I'll take you as far as the gate."