Lumen Silverglade knelt in the sick grove every morning to count the dying trees. The oldest oaks bled black sap. Their leaves curled brown in summer. Someone was poisoning the roots of Balsam Meadows, and Lumen meant to find out who before the sickness reached every tree she loved. This morning she walked the forest path barefoot, as always, the dirt cool under her soles. Her cat trotted at her right, white fur with flame-colored points. A blue-eyed crow rode her shoulder. She rounded the bend and stopped. A wooden fence blocked the path. Rough posts stood driven deep into the ground. Rails ran across, tied with fresh rope. The fence had not been here yesterday. Beyond it lay the sickest grove, the one she needed to examine. Lumen pressed a hand to the nearest post. The wood was raw, the cuts new. Whoever built this worked in the dark, fast and quiet. They wanted her out. That told her she was close. "They fenced the truth away," she said. The crow shifted on her shoulder. The cat sniffed the base of a post and hissed. She gripped the top rail and pulled. It held. She kicked the post. Her bare foot ached, and the wood did not move. The builders had dug too deep. Climbing would take too long, and the rails ran wide in both directions, vanishing into thick brush. Then she saw the tracks. Deep hoofprints pressed the mud beside the fence line, larger than any deer. She followed them with her eyes to a break in the brush. A horse stood there in a patch of morning light. Its coat shone gold, its mane spilling bright down its neck. No saddle. No rope. It watched her, muscles taut, ready to run. The builders had come on horseback. This one had wandered loose, or been left behind. Lumen stepped toward it slow, palm open. The crow lifted off her shoulder and settled on the fence, quiet. The horse held its ground. She did not need to break the fence. She needed to get over it. Lumen led the golden horse to the rail. She gripped its mane, pulled herself onto its warm back, and pressed her heels. The horse gathered and leapt. They cleared the fence clean and landed in the sick grove. Lumen slid down. The trees here were worse than she feared. Black sap pooled at their roots. But among them stood one tree she had never seen. A young pine, needles bright green, dotted with small red flowers like berries. It grew straight and healthy in the middle of the dying. One tree thrived where all others rotted. Someone had planted it. Lumen knelt and dug at its roots with her fingers. The soil there smelled wrong, sharp and bitter. She had found the source of the poison, and it had a gardener.