Page 41 of Thistle Thorns

“Wild magic?” Aunt Hyacinth asked. “Out here?”

Uncle Badger shrugged, peeling away from the bark and returning to his wife, whom he kissed lightly on the cheek. “Magic grows in the wildest of places.”

“Stay alert,” Grandmother instructed. Then she returned to our group and gestured that we should all forget about the anomaly and continue on.

It was not missed by any one of them when she fell into step beside me as I led the way to the lowlands where the water plants dwelled.

“How long has it been like that?” she asked.

“A couple of months,” I mumbled.

“And does the bear know of it?”

I nodded.

She cocked an eyebrow at that. It was clear from the expression on her face that she was shocked he hadn’t done anything to take advantage of the magic she didn’t know I had injected into that tree.

“And the magic hunters?” she asked.

Shaking my head, I answered, “Arthur doesn’t let them anywhere near here.”

“Works all day as a lumberjack, carpenter, and beekeeper, then he patrols at night. And not just here, but your forest too,” she mused. “No wonder he ate so much last night.”

I chanced a glance at her, but there was nothing in her expression that gave her inner thoughts away. But, it was probably the first thing she’d said of Arthur that wasn’t dripping with sarcasm or prejudice.

“We’re here,” I announced suddenly, stopping at the crest of a small slope. Before us stretched a broad-bottomed valley of leaf-covered ground in various shades of brown, ochre, and russet, with nary a green thing in sight. “In this area nearest the river, I found the swamp milkweed, over there is the jelly fungus, and further into the hills away from the river are all the blackberry lilies. The mouse stair ferns are basically everywhere. They’re pretty dead, though, hope that didn’t matter.”

The Hawthornes glanced at each other and, via a silent command, split into three groups. Dad and Uncle Badger diverted inland for the blackberry lilies, probably so Dad could scout the surroundings; Otter and Aunt Hyacinth went after the jelly fungus, as fungi was her area of expertise; Grandmother and I headed towards the river after the milkweed, specifically their seed pods.

We hadn’t been searching and gathering for very long before Aunt Hyacinth began to sing. She hardly sang in the manor gardens, but when we were all out in the remoter areas of the estate, she would sing as a way for us all to find our way back if we got lost. Her mezzo soprano was perfectly suited to the environment, low enough to be heard through birdsong and high enough to cut through the rush of the nearby river. I’d never given it much thought before, but after my discussion with Boar and Otter that day at the woodpile when I’d decided to put myself forward as Great-Uncle Hare’s replacement in the Circle of Nine, I now wondered if she’d spent a gap year or sabbatical in Italy for opera training. Her words weren’t Italian, though; in fact, I’d never known in what language she sang.

Foraging in the late-autumn months was difficult, what with the natural composting effect taking place, and Grandmother and I were filthy up to our elbows as we dug through forest debris for those prized pod casings. Typically it was the milkweed seed floss we sought, but Grandmother had been very specific—only the leathery pod casings mattered. It was of no consequence if they were dried out or supple, as the potion would make them uniformly hydrated.

We foraged like geese: one of the pair often pausing in our work to survey the surroundings for any threats and returning to gather when none were seen. It was a slow and muscle-aching process, and my thighs were screaming from squatting and crouching and duck-walking for so long. I was getting hungry, too, for the cold and constant movement was burning energy at double time.

Aunt Peony had displayed wise foresight by packing us food that could easily be eaten without having to touch it with our filthy hands. Sandwich wraps, bananas, pistachio-cherry biscotti that you could hold at its end with a bit of paper napkin and didn’t crumble when you bit into it. Grandmother and I chose a little mound of drier land out of the mush to have our lunch and stretch our backs.

We hadn’t yet spoken to each other since the elm tree, and I really didn’t know what to say to her. In truth, my thoughts were elsewhere. I was still reeling from my conversation with Arthur last night, the word mate buzzing around my brain like an incessant fly. I wasn’t sure what Otter had overheard, or had informed Grandmother of, but it seemed like she wanted to talk to me about something. Maybe about what she’d said in the attic about Marten. More than once she’d opened her mouth, a little croak coming out that wasn’t even a word, before pursing her lips shut.

But now, as she literally spat out her bite of biscotti, she had no trouble saying, “Look at your feet!”

I’d been lost in thought, staring out over the lowlands without really seeing, but I saw the rising water now sure enough. Whipping around, I confirmed that the nearby river hadn’t overflown its banks. This was water being summoned from the ground below.

Just as Aunt Hyacinth cried out in surprise, a wayward blast of yellow-green magic slammed into a massive tree at the top of the nearest hill.

“Dad!” I shouted.

The trunk shattered into splinters, and the felled cedar crashed through the branches of the nearby trees and tumbled down the hill like a freight train blown off its tracks.

Straight at Otter and Aunt Hyacinth.

Who weren’t moving out of the way.

“They’re stuck!” I exclaimed, rushing forward.

Grandmother seized the back of my coat and nearly yanked me off my feet as she hauled me away from the unnaturally rising waterline. “It’ll trap you too!”

Otter was less stuck than his mother, his long limbs like those of a stork that he could use to high-step into a better position. He angled for his mother, grabbing her arm as she fought something that threatened to pull her down. The waterline had risen to their knees, and there was no telling what manner of creatures were lurking beneath that surface.

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