I reach for him, try to find his hand, but there’s just empty space. I spin in a circle, hands outstretched, knowing he has to be nearby—he was standing next to me just a second ago—
No, no, no, there can’t be nothing. He has to be here somewhere.
“Winter!”
He sounds far away, on another path, his voice echoing off the trees. Wind that burns across my cheeks like ice roars past me—fresh meat, so nice to eat—but the Sentinels don’t touch me.
They’re going after Henry.
I stumble forward. I have no idea if I’m going the right way. My eyes don’t adjust to the darkness because there’s nothing to adjust to. It is the pure absence of light.
Winter Parish. Varo’s voice seeps into my brain. Deep like canyon echoes. Crackling like old, crinkled paper. Have you thought over my proposal?
Somewhere far, far ahead of me, Henry screams, a guttural sound that mangles my heart. I grip my coin and call the fireflies, ordering them to his side. I think of the skinless traveler. Wonder how long it took for him to get that way. They were supposed to take their time, the Sentinels, but what if Varo ordered them to be quick?
“Hold on, Henry!” I shout into the void. “Help is coming!”
Varo tsks. You have a bit of the rebel in you, Winter Parish, he says. Inviting a traveler through your threshold. Feeding him, housing him. Giving him access to our history.
I whip my head toward the sound of Varo’s voice, even though I know he could be standing anywhere. A football field away or right next to me. “How do you know that?”
He chuckles. Your thoughts are not as protected as you like to think.
Henry screams again. There’s some force behind it, as if he’s fighting back. Or maybe I’m just imagining that. Hoping—praying—they haven’t hurt him yet. My eyes scan the darkness.
Come on, Henry. Where are you?
Varo laughs again. Your friends are on their way, do not worry. Although, you should know I am wise to your trick now. I could stop them dead long before they got here if I wanted to.
“Then why don’t you?” I spit back at him through clenched teeth.
Because this is merely a reminder, he replies. There are going to be sides to take, and now that I have shown you a glimpse of the power I wield in this place, you must realize the council is going to lose. Anyone who stands in the way of that will be destroyed, but there will still be a place for the guardians. Your duties will not really change, so what does it matter who’s running the council?
“It matters if the person running things implodes the space-time continuum.”
Says the girl who’s allowed a traveler to spend the past several days in the future, he snaps. I have not changed my position since last night. I want the guardians on my side, and I believe you are the best person for that job.
A cloud of blue light appears, cutting through the trees several paths away from me. They gather around Henry so fast I can’t see him, can’t tell if he’s hurt, but the height of their shield tells me he’s standing, so he has to be okay. He has to.
You’re running out of time, Varo continues. Do not wait much longer to make your decision.
The branches overhead creak as they peel back, exposing the sun once more. The Sentinels scream and vanish into the dark, hollow spaces in the nearest tree bark. Varo suddenly appears in front of me, so close I can see the red veins spreading like spiderwebs from his violet eyes.
“Next time,” he says, his chapped lips cracking as he speaks, “I will not hold the Sentinels back. Remember that.” He wraps his cloak around him. It spins, spins, spins, then turns to black smoke that mixes with my breath in the frigid air before disappearing altogether, leaving behind an acrid smell, like tobacco mixed with sulfur.
I turn on my heel and run to Henry. The fireflies break apart to encompass us both as I draw near, and even though we don’t need them anymore, I can’t imagine calling them off. Not when Varo could change his mind and come after us again. I’ll keep them with us until we’re out of the wood.
Henry’s skin is flushed from the heat of the fireflies, his hair wet where ice chips have melted, but aside from several thin, clawlike scratches on the backs of his hands and behind his ears, he’s unharmed.
I let go of the breath I’ve been holding and wrap my arms around him. “Thank God you’re okay.”
“And you?” he asks, holding me tight against him with one arm and threading his other hand through my hair, cradling my head. “Are you injured?”
“No,” I say. “I’m fine.”
We stand there like that for another moment, releasing our relief and our fear and other unnameable things between us, holding on too tightly to possibly lose each other again. But I can feel the sun going down, and we have a long walk home, so I give him one more quick squeeze, then step out of the circle of his arms.
“We need to go.”
He nods, lacing his fingers through mine as we start down the path. I can tell something’s wrong with Henry. He won’t look at me, and he’s clenching his teeth so hard, a muscle in his jaw twitches.
My brow furrows. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
He shakes his head. “I should have never come here,” he murmurs. “My presence has caused you nothing but distress.”
“Hey.” I pull him to a stop. Force him to meet my gaze. “You aren’t responsible for what’s happening here. I’d be dealing with it if you were here or not, except I’d be completely lost. I wouldn’t know what to do, what to think. You being here, helping piece this all together—it’s what’s keeping me together right now.”
He stares back at me, doubt and uncertainty roiling like a storm cloud in his eyes.
“And you said you think you know where your parents are now, right?” I ask him.
“They left a code,” Henry says. “Written on the tree. WP1675-131:2:3:7.”
“What does that mean?”
“It’s one of the journals. William Parish, 1675. Page one thirty-one, paragraph two, sentence three, word seven. It’s a secret language my parents have been using for years. We just need to figure out what the word is to discover where they’ve gone, and then … and then I’m not sure what we should do. They might be somewhere we can’t follow.”
“Then we’ll take it to the council.”
“Is that wise?” he asks. “We still do not know who can be trusted.”
“No, it isn’t wise,” I agree. “But it may be our only option. Only Old Ones can cross thresholds. If we tried, we could get stuck in another time. Forever.”
He chews on his bottom lip, thinking. “You’re right.”
“Henry?”
“Yes?”
“We’re one step closer to finding your parents.” I smile. “Be happy. It’s almost over.”
“I fear you are wrong,” he says. “I fear it is only beginning.”