Scarlett Morrison wanted to be a berry. Not a metaphor. A real one, round and ripe and heavy, the way the tavern gossips whispered the experimental berries could make you. She sat at a corner table, hands wrapped around a cold mug, and listened. The whispers said the berries changed your body. They made you grow. Scarlett, red-haired and already broad, already carrying weight she'd long stopped fighting, felt something open in her chest. She wanted it. She just had no idea where to look. The problem gnawed at her for three days. Rumors pointed nowhere. A traveling peddler laughed when she asked. A farmer spat and told her to forget such nonsense. Scarlett had a name and a want, but no map, no door, no path into the woods. Then the barmaid came to clear her mug. The woman's hand was blue. Not painted. Not bruised. Blue like deep water, the color climbing her wrist and up her full arm. Her blouse strained at the chest, swollen past what buttons could hold. She set down a fresh drink Scarlett hadn't ordered and smiled. "You've been asking questions," the barmaid said. "About the berries." Scarlett's throat went dry. "You ate them." "Violet Bramble." She pressed a blue hand to her chest and laughed, warm and easy. "And yes. Best thing I ever did. Tips doubled overnight. And it feels good. You've no idea how good." She leaned close. "I know the look you've got. I had it too." Scarlett gripped the table. "Where. Tell me where." Violet studied her a long moment. Then she reached under her apron and set something heavy on the wood. A book. Its cover was black and cracked with age, stamped with strange sigils in gold and green. A faint shine of purple seemed to breathe beneath the leather. "The one who makes them keeps to herself," Violet said. "A hedge witch. She won't see just anyone. But she wants this back." Violet tapped the old book. "I took it from her when I left. Call it a toll. Bring it to her, and she'll know you're serious." Scarlett opened the cover. The pages held drawings of a strange tree, branches bent under clusters of fat blueberries, each the size of a fist. Below it, recipes in a cramped hand. Directions. A map inked along the margin. "Her name's Bramble Thornwick," Violet said. "Follow the map. But understand me." Her smile stayed, though her eyes went still. "She doesn't make people a little bigger. She makes them permanent. You go all the way, or you don't go." Scarlett closed the book and held it to her chest. Her hands shook, not from fear. "How far is it?" "Half a day's walk," Violet said. "If you're sure." Scarlett stood, the grimoire tucked under her arm, and stepped toward the door. She had the map now. She had the name. The only thing left to find was the witch who could turn her into fruit.