Ilyra Fen had carved eleven masks and could not feel the thing that made her carve them. She sat at her workbench at the edge of Knotgrove, the first mask propped against the lamp where she could see it while she worked. Seven years old. She had cut that one before she knew the girl was gone, her hands moving before the news reached her door. Ten more children had followed, and ten more faces had come out of her wood. Something walked through Knotgrove and took them, and it left a trail. She was sure of the trail. She had walked the lanes after each disappearance, pressed her palms to doorframes, knelt in the grass under bedroom windows. She found nothing she could name. Whatever marked the air after a child vanished, she could not read it. Tonight she meant to try again. She laid out ash shavings in a ring on the bench, the way the old bindfolk did to catch a draft that was not wind, and she waited. The shavings did not move. They lay in their ring for an hour while the lamp guttered and her back stiffened. Then the spider came down from the rafter. It was the size of her fist, dark brindled fur, silver points at its ears like small blades. She had let it live in the beams since spring because it ate the moths. Now it dropped onto the bench and walked a clean circle around the ash, and every hair on its back stood up. It stopped facing the door. It did not move again. Ilyra held her breath and watched the ash. One shaving lifted. It rose a finger's width off the wood, hung there, and settled. The spider's forelegs tapped the bench twice. Ilyra understood then that she had been looking with the wrong eyes for a year. The creature in her rafters had felt the thing every time it passed. She reached for a fresh block of wood and set it beside the spider. Somewhere in Knotgrove a child was still in bed. She meant to keep it that way. She would carry the spider with her now, and she would learn to read what its body told her, and the next mask she carved would be for a child who came home.