By nightfall, they couldn’t delay anymore. Ben spent the day reinforcing the boundary markers to keep the past contained because shadows of flames and torches were leaking through the spaces between the trees. The thick smell of smoke hung over the orchard, even as the leaves rustled peacefully in the breeze.
Shadows marched in the distance, getting closer before dissolving, and whispers ricocheted off the trees. Witch. Murderer. The swinging of lanterns cast unsettling patterns of light, mixing with the shadows of flame.
Even to Vika, who was comfortable in the dark, this was unsettling.
“Let’s get this over with,” she said.
“I’m working as fast as I can,” Ben said. He was crouched over the broken tree at the last boundary marker.
The tree was completely broken now, its halves opened to reveal a hollowed out core that pulsed faintly with light resembling a flickering flame. The earth beneath it was soft, the roots exposed like veins.
“Stay with me,” he muttered as he patted the roots.
He pulled the small pouch containing the memory seeds from his coat. “Ready?”
Vika looked to Dahlia, who was watching him warily. Dahlia gave an almost imperceptible nod. “Yes.”
Carefully, he used the grafting knife to dig a small hole in the broken soil at the base of the tree. He pressed the seeds into the opening, sealing them with herbs and words in a language she didn’t understand.
At first, nothing happened. Vika’s questioning gaze met Ben’s, and he shrugged. Millie whined from where she was snuffling in the underbrush.
Dahlia took a step back.
The ground began to vibrate, a low hum as if something were awakening. The roots beneath the soil shifted, as if making room for something to grow.
“On to the knot,” Ben said after cutting a branch from the split tree.
They started walking toward the center of the orchard, and when they reached the knot, Vika knew they weren’t alone. Dahlia trailed behind, but there was something else there. A tall, loping shadow followed them.
Dahlia stopped, her eyes wide with terror as the smoke and shadow solidified into the shape of a man. “No, no, no.”
His gaze locked onto Dahlia. “There you are.” His voice voice was like embers breaking. “Hiding behind your trees.”
Dahlia recoiled, her hand finding Vika’s sleeve.
Alarmed, Ben looked at Vika. She gave him a reassuring nod, and he began his work prepping the knot with herbs, whispering his ancient words.
Millie put herself between the man and Vika, red mixing with the soft amber of her eyes.
“No,” Vika said quietly, stepping forward. “This is not who you are, Mr. Cunningham. Not all you are.”
Cunningham’s angry face swung toward her. Behind him, the fire flared.
“And who are you to say?” he snarled.
Vika didn’t answer. Instead, she concentrated on the threads of fate. They were everywhere, all tangled together, past and present, fed by the emotions that brought them together.
Anger, sharp and hot, lashed outward.
Fear, deeper, colder, coiled tight beneath it.
Grief, buried so far down it barely breathed.
And buried beneath all of it, was the weakest thread. Truth.
Vika reached for it, not with her hands, but with the Kere part of her that was made to cut threads. But she wasn’t going to cut it. She was going to untangle it.
She got to work as Cunningham and Dahlia circled each other.
“You cursed the land—”
“You burned it—”
“You killed him—”
“Because he killed her—”
“Witch!”
The words slammed against each other again and again.
Vika lifted her head. “That’s anger. We’re looking for the truth underneath.”
For a moment, they stopped arguing, and Vika continued to untangle the threads, her head down, glad for the quiet.
“He wanted to take everything—”
“Fear,” Vika said, and reached for the thread, peeling it away from the thread of anger.
The man faltered. His expression shifted, loosened enough to reveal something raw beneath it.
“I was trying to protect—” he choked.
“Yes,” Vika said gently. “You were.” She turned to Dahlia. “You were protecting, too. The land, your families.”
The orchard trembled. Ben looked up from where he had just planted the last of the seeds. He sprinkled water over the loose dirt on top.
In moments, bright green sprouts poked through the dirt. They spread quickly, sending roots snaking along the surface, bursting through the soil, connecting the trees.
Ben exhaled, tension leaving him, as he surveyed the orchard. “This is it,” he murmured. “This is how it heals.”
Ben took the cutting from the original tree and, using Misha’s grafting knife, cut into the branch of the early bloom tree, which anchored the wyrd knot. Using a worn hemp cord, he bound the cutting from the old tree to the trunk.
“This branch and the new seedlings represent survival, the living memory of the land, new life and legacy which will heal the old wounds,” Ben said, turning to scan the trees. “Now, Dahlia, we need the truth of your magic, the original words that bound you to the orchard. To release you.”
Cunningham loomed behind her, fire raging, the echo of accusation still clinging to him. “You killed my brother.”
Dahlia flinched.
Vika turned to Dahlia. “Did you?” she asked gently. “Tell us what happened.”
Silence. It was if the orchard was waiting.
Dahlia shook her head. “I—no,” she says, her voice small. “No, that’s not—”
“It’s all right,” Vika urged. She nods at Ben, who was searching her face for answers.
Dahlia’s hands trembled. “I was trying to stop the fire,” she said, her voice breaking. “I was trying to protect my sister, my home…”
The ghost flames between the trees shifted, the memory of the mob faltered.
“I didn’t start this,” she continued. “I tried to contain it. I tried to hold it back, but it was too much. I was so afraid.” Her voice steadied. “I used magic I didn’t fully understand.”
The ground hummed beneath her feet.
“And I broke my promise. I tried to protect it, and I used the trees to channel my anger, my fear…” Her voice faded.
“Say the words,” Vika prompted. “The ones you used. This time, they will set you free.”
Dahlia hesitated, then crouched before the knot. Her fingers hovered over the twisted shoots. When she spoke, her voice was barely more than a breath.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then the ground answered.
A low rumble moved through the soil, and the tight, strangled coils of the knot shuddered.
Vika watched as the tension in it, something she hadn’t realized she could feel, loosened.
“It’s working,” Ben said. The words were barely out of his mouth when three black shadows appeared on the horizon, bat wings outstretched.
Vika cursed under her breath.
The three figures dropped to the ground and tucked their wings away. Time swam and slowed.
Dahlia’s breath caught. She stumbled back, eyes wide with fear. “No,” she whispered. “No, I—please—”
But the Furies did not move toward her. Their attention was on Vika.
“Little sister, I see you’ve been busy,” the Fury Tisiphone said. Turning to Dahlia, she continued. “Since you are freed from your binding, it is time for you to atone for your crimes. Murder. Dark magic.”
Tisiphone counted them off on her fingers.
Vika took a shaky breath. She had no desire to be at the end of Tisiphone’s whip, but she couldn’t let them take Dahlia. She’d made a promise. “Dahlia Vale has atoned. She has protected this orchard all these years.”
Anger blazed in Alecto’s eyes as the second Fury’s gaze snapped to Vika, pinning her in place. “Vengeance is our arena. You dare tell us how to play in it?”
Vika took a steadying breath and squared her shoulders. Of all the goddesses, she didn’t want to tangle with Hades’ avengers, but she couldn’t back down now. “No, Alecto. I wish you to consider that she has atoned for her crimes. She has held the knot together all these years, protected the orchard. Even now, she has helped to heal the knot, knowing you would come for her. Because it was right. Her debt has been paid.”
A wire of tension pulled taut between the Furies and Vika. Everyone else was perfectly still, even Cunningham. Millie rose from where she was sitting at Vika’s feet and pranced over to the Furies. The white tip of her tail wagged in a wide circle as she bounced up to them. She sat at Alecto’s feet, looking up at her expectantly.
Alecto reached down and scratched the top of her head. Millie flopped over, revealing her speckled belly. Alecto bent down and scratched her belly. “Ridiculous dog.”
The tension broke.
Alecto stood and three Furies conferred wordlessly, the way sisters who have been together for eons communicated.
Tisiphone turned to Vika. “Very well, she may join her sister when this is done. You will take her. There is penance to be done, but she can do it from the fields and not from Tartarus.”
“Thank you.” Vika didn’t know how she got the words out. She was stunned.
Even more stunned when the other two Furies bent to pet Millie before giving Vika a nod and disappearing into the sky.
At their departure, it was as if time re-started. Ben shook his head, his brow furrowed.
“I’ll tell you later,” Vika said. “Let’s finish this.”
He nodded and continued sprinkling ash and herbs over the knot as he mumbled his incantation. He adjusted the new cutting. “This will be the new anchor.”
Vika stepped forward, once again taking up the threads. She resumed untangling the fear and anger, leaving the truth, disconnecting Dahlia and Cunningham from the web. “Look,” she said.
Behind them, the roots were completing their work, weaving together beneath the orchard, not as chains, but as a living pattern.
Dahlia and Cunningham both watched the torches and shadows recede. The ghost flames dissolved, their energy sinking into the roots. Soft darkness settled over the orchard again.
Cunningham’s form flickered and faded into the trees, back into the past.
“Did it work?” Vika asked Ben.
He ran his hand over the knot and nodded. “It’s strong.”
Vika turned to Dahlia and held out her hand. “It’s time then. The Orchard Bride is gone. Dahlia Vale, it’s time for you to rest. Let’s find your sister.”
Dahlia took her hand. Before leaving, they walked the length of the orchard so Dahlia could say goodbye.
Where the split tree once stood, a new tree grew between the two halves, new growth spiraling through the old. Fresh, pink blossoms dotted its new branches.
Vika left Dahlia with her sister, tending to Misha’s trees in the Fields. On her way back home, a familiar figure waited for her in the crossroads.
“You did well,” Hecate said, gesturing to Vika’s wing.
On the edge, there was a new feather, bright red melting to orange and yellow. Vika turned slightly, admiring the color in the dim light, how the bright stood out against the inky black of her other feathers and also blended with the other colorful features there.
“Thank you.” Vika waited. “It was your witch, though who healed the knot.”
Hecate smiled, not kindly, but with the certainty of someone who was used to wielding power. “You owe me a favor. Come.”