Vika pushed through a cluster of people filming on their phones to where a young woman sat on the ground cradling her arm.
Three parallel burns, red and angry, ran from her wrist to her elbow.
"The tree," she gasped, her voice shaky. "I just touched the tree and—"
The tree she was pointing at had no low branches and nothing sharp enough to cause those marks. Vika breathed in the scent of sulfur in the air, noting how time felt slippery.
Ben crouched down. "Did you see anything? Before you got …scratched?"
Vika’s gaze snapped to him. Surely, he could see those were burns.
The woman shook her head, brushed tears from her eyes. "I don't know. Maybe? There was this weird shimmer and then I thought someone grabbed my arm and—"
Officer Rivera and the firefighter burst into the clearing, pushing Vika and Ben aside to tend to the girl’s wounds.
“Everyone needs to leave now.” Officer Rivera’s voice brokered no argument. “The orchard is closed until further notice.”
A chorus of protests erupted.
“You can’t…”
“…drove two hours…”
“It’s public property…”
“It’s private property,” the officer corrected. “And you’re all trespassing. Move along, or I will start writing citations.”
That got people moving. Vika watched the crowd disperse, searching among them for traces of Dahlia. She had to be here watching this.
“That goes for you two as well,” Officer Rivera said, gesturing to Vika and Ben.
“But—,” Vika protested, but the officer cut her off.
“Go.”
Ben pulled Vika away before she could argue. “It’s fine,” he said into her ear. We got what we needed.”
* * *
That night, Vika slipped past the barricades into the orchard again, with Millie bouncing along behind her. The officers had done their jobs. It was quiet, almost eerily quiet. The marks of the day’s events showed in the broken branches, empty soda cans, and gum wrappers littering the ground.
Unbelievable. Why would the Falks encourage this? At least there were already footprints everywhere. Nobody would know she was even here.
Vika spread her blanket out in the clearing near the wyrd knot, and Millie immediately fluffed the majority of it underneath her like a pillow. Vika sat on the tiny sliver of blanket that was left and hugged her knees in, tilting her face up toward the stars glinting through the trees.
“Dahlia,” she said, listening for signs of the spirit. “If I wanted to take you, I would have. Please talk to me.”
A flicker of white skittered between the trees.
Vika didn’t move, didn’t even turn her head. She wouldn’t go chasing a ghost all over the orchard again. Dahlia would need to come to her. Vika sat in the silence, her hand scratching Millie automatically.
Insects chirped.
“A woman was burned today,” Vika said softly. “I think you tried to stop it, but the spell holding you here is weakening. Ben thinks he can rebuild it, but he needs your help. He needs the words you used to bind yourself. You did it, right? When the Cunninghams tried to take it. You wanted to protect the orchard so they wouldn’t raze it.”
A breeze wafted through, the sound like a gentle exhale. Millie’s ears perked up.
“Unless you no longer want to be bound. If you want to rest, I can help with that too.”
“I don’t deserve to rest,” Dahlia said, her voice coming from all around Vika. “Besides, this is my land. My grandmother tended it. My mother tended it. Nobody will take it from me.”
“Everyone deserves to rest,” Vika said.
“You took Misha.” Dahlia’s pale finger pointed at Vika.
Vika remembered the Keres she’d seen in the vision from the past. “There was violence here.”
“They said we cursed the Cunningham’s trees. Hexed the land. All we ever did was take care of it.” Dahlia’s voice was soft, shaky. “I told her to run, that I would protect her. They shot Misha like cowards as she was running away.”
Her voice rose in a fury. “And then you took her.”
Vika held up her hands. “I didn’t take her. A Kere, yes. Most likely, a Kere set her free and escorted her to the fields to rest, but it wasn’t me, Dahlia. Misha is at peace.”
Dahlia’s hands clenched and unclenched at her sides. “No.”
“She is, Dahlia. You should be at peace too.”
“Prove it,” Dahlia said, her expression a challenge.
Prove it? What did she mean? How could Vika prove such a thing? She stared at the frowning ghost, trying to come up with a response to that challenge. It wasn’t as if she could waltz into the Underworld and pluck Misha from the fields…
Actually.
She could. Maybe. It was frowned upon. Well, it was more like forbidden, but it could be done if she could get in and out quickly without attracting any attention. It would be easier to bring Dahlia to her sister, but forcing her wouldn’t help Vika gain her trust. And they needed Dahlia to help fix the spell.
“Dahlia,” Vika said. “To prove it, I need something of your sister’s. She’s been gone a long time. Is there anything left?”
Dahlia’s form flickered, the edges of her form bleeding into the darkness. She was so still and silent, Vika wondered if she was going to disappear again.
“Or,” Vika prompted. “I could take you to her. You could see for yourself.”
Dahlia’s eyes widened as she stared at Vika with a ferocity that made Vika take a step back. Dahlia’s fingers clasped and unclasped. “No! I can’t… I don’t…”
“It’s all right,” Vika said gently. “Try to remember. Where can I find something of Misha’s?”
Dahlia lifted a shaky hand to her temple, pressing as if she could hold her thoughts in place. “Misha…her knife…for grafting.”
Vika leaned forward. “Where is it?”
Dahlia’s form wavered as her eyes darted wildly between the trees. “Everything looks different. The tree line… I don’t… Misha was wearing her blue dress, the one Mama made, or did I make it? I don’t remember. It runs together sometimes.” Her voice rose. “Why can’t I remember? I should remember.”
“It’s all right,” Vika said, trying to keep the impatience out of her voice.
Dahlia’s form scattered, reforming several yards away, then closer and further, as if she couldn’t decide where she should be. She pressed both hands to her face. When she lowered them, her eyes were filled with confusion and grief.
Vika held out her hand. “Show me.”
Dahlia stared at it, and for a moment, Vika thought she might actually take her hand. Instead, Dahlia backed up, away from Vika. She turned and drifted toward the edge of the orchard, her movements uncertain, pausing and checking back. Vika followed with Millie at her heels, keeping a respectful distance.
They went in circles, veering left and then right and doubling back as if the landscape shifted under her feet. All the while, Vika quietly followed without a word. They moved toward the edge of the property, near the broken fence post with the boundary marker. Her hand hovered above it without touching. She glanced back at Vika, her eyes wide. Her shadowy form flickered and then it was gone.
“Dahlia,” Vika called into the darkness.
It was no use. The ghost was gone.
Vika kicked at the dirt, stifling a scream. She was so close. What happened?
A soft snuffling sound interrupted her thoughts.
“Millie?”
The dog snuffled several feet away, nose buried near the broken fence, her tail wagging.
“Millie, this isn’t the time to hunt mice. We’re going home.” Maybe tomorrow she would think of something.
Millie kept digging, her paws sending dirt flying behind her.
“Millie, come on.” Vika moved closer, but Millie ignored her, totally focused on digging.
Vika took out her phone and shined the flashlight on the ground in front of Millie. Something glinted in the beam. Millie chuffed, dirt flying.
Vika dropped to her knees next to Millie and scooped some of the dirt out of the hole. She pulled out a wood-handled blade wrapped in a braided cord made of flax, horsehair, and something else.
Vika sat back on her heels, staring in disbelief at the blade in her hands. It was darkened with age, but still sharp, the applewood handle smooth from years of use. This had to be Misha’s grafting blade. Dahlia led her to it after all. Or led Millie to it.
Maybe Dahlia was starting to trust her a little.
The blade thrummed with energy, warming in Vika’s hand. Images flashed through her mind of hands smaller than Dahlia’s carefully pruning branches, binding grafts and carving symbols in wood. The images were disjointed, sliding into one another. Was it the binding ceremony? Ben might know.
The copper smell of blood filled her senses, and an image of Dahlia dropping the knife faded to black.
Millie’s nose nudged her hand, tail thumping the ground.
Vika took a deep breath to clear her mind and gave Millie a hearty scratch. “Good girl, Millie. How did you know?”
Millie leaned into Vika’s hand, wiggling with joy, clearly pleased with herself.
You wouldn’t be so excited if you knew where I was going. Vika pocketed the blade, steeling herself for what she had to do.