“If you are going to give personal recommendations, you need to be rather more specific,” she said to that bird. “Otherwise, I shall be obliged to ask obtuse questions. Such as ‘What ought I to let go?’ for example.”
The bird—which was good-sized for a songbird and sported a speckled breast—ruffled his feathers at her but without malice. Then he sang, “You know of what I speak.”
“You assume a great deal for a bird,” Daylily replied.
“I never assume. I know.”
“Isn’t that nice for you, then?”
“More to the point, it is everything for you.”
Not a muscle on Daylily’s face moved. Her eyes did not narrow; her jaw did not clench. She might have been bored for all her features revealed. When she spoke, her voice was far too calm.
“I remember how this works. It’s been some years since I’ve read Eanrin’s Rhymes for Children, but I remember well enough. Mortals enter the Faerie Forest, and all sorts of beasts and unsavory characters intercept them along their way, plying them with misguidance, etcetera. And the moral of each story is never to be swayed from your path.” She straightened her already perfectly straight shoulders. “I’ll not be persuaded; I’ll not be turned. I’ve made my decision, and it’s best for everyone involved. And I’ll thank you not to pry.”
With that, Daylily gathered the remnants of her skirts and continued on her way. There was no path, at least none that she could see, only tall trees and green undergrowth. Something was not quite right about this Wood; something beyond a bird singing to her in a voice she understood. She paused a moment and looked down at her feet.
One can look a long time at a phenomenon without recognizing it for what it is, especially if one is tired after narrowly escaping a wedding. So Daylily stood for some moments, staring at her feet and wondering what it was she saw that struck her odd.
When at last she realized, she gasped.
Though the forest floor was thick with grasses and ferns and low-growing things, nowhere she looked was there any sign of decay. Not a withered leaf, not a dropped pinecone, not a red needle off a pine bough.
“The Wood Between knows little of Time,” sang the songbird. He had fluttered from branch to branch and perched on a twig no more than a foot from her face. “There are places, such as this, where leaves don’t drop unless disturbed by a strong gale. Even then, they do not lie to rot upon the floor, but vanish even as they fall.”
“I don’t care,” Daylily said, still staring at the ground. “Do you realize I’ve stood before the Dragon’s own throne?”
She sounded like a child making boasts of courage to the monsters lurking in the depths of her wardrobe.
The bird chirruped cheerfully. “You’ve done a foolish thing, running away. All you need to do is let it go, and you’ll not have to run anymore.”
“And what would you know about it?” Daylily glared at the bird. Anger made her forget how wildly her heart pounded in her throat. “What are you? Some figment of my imagination come to life?”
“Certainly not,” replied the bird with what was probably a laugh. “The figments of your imagination are far more dreadful and much less awful than I.”
This made about as much sense to Daylily’s tired mind as you’d expect. She smoothed the scowl from her face with masterful care, turning her features into a mask. In her ignorance, she even smiled a little. “I don’t care to discuss it. Least of all with you.” Once more, she continued into the Wood.
“You know,” sang the bird, keeping pace with ease, “that it will destroy you if you try to contain it.”
“Of course,” Daylily replied, still smiling. “Better me than everyone else.”
That was the secret, down at the heart of this mad flight of hers. She knew this already with a bitter certainty: Nothing in the Wilderlands could frighten her as much as that which she brought into it herself.
The bird said no more. When Daylily finally looked around, she did not see him anywhere near. Somehow she knew he had not gone far, but the relief of his current absence was enough that she let the smile fall from her face. Grim lines assumed places on her cheeks, under her eyes, around her mouth; lines that had become all too familiar in the last year. Ever since Lionheart had vanished.
Ever since Rose Red.
The spasm came. It did not surprise her anymore, but it hurt, and Daylily doubled up with the pain. She choked on it, her hands clutching her sides just below her rib cage, her knees bent, though she refused to let herself fall. Slowly her hands moved up from her sides to her heart; then her fingers crept up her neck and clasped her cheeks, pressing.
She whispered, “No. You cannot come out.”