Any Way the Wind Blows (Simon Snow, #3)(128)

“I’m not arguing,” she says.

“Good.”

I find myself hesitating at the threshold of the forest. I don’t like the Wood either. The last time I was here, I saw Baz drinking a deer. I wasn’t frightened—I mean, I was a little frightened. But mostly I was excited. To share a secret with him. To be close to something thrilling and forbidden. He held my hand that day. I wanted him to kiss me.

It’s mortifying to think about now, the way I felt torn between Baz and Simon …

I was just standing between them. And not even in a romantic, dramatic way. I was like a dead badger lying in the middle of the road, something they had to drive around to get to where they were eventually going.

I don’t like the Wood. It’s dark and full of magic. It makes me feel like I’m about to be kissed. And like I’m a fool to want it.

I walk into the trees. Between them. There isn’t really a path.

“I’ve never been in here before,” Niamh says. “It’s darker than I expected.”

“I thought you said you’d looked for the goats here.”

“I said I’d never found them here.”

I roll my eyes; Niamh must make an effort to be this difficult. “You never came to the Wood when you were at school?”

“No,” she says, “the Mage always said there was dangerous magic here.”

“Well, I suppose that’s true.” I get out my wand. I don’t have a spell to cast, but I feel more in tune with … something when I’m holding it.

“Why did you come to the Wood?” Niamh asks.

“Oh, you know … adventures, Chosen One dogshit.”

“You really didn’t like it?”

“What, the Wood?”

“No. You know … Being the future Mrs. Simon Snow.”

I tense my shoulders up around my ears and clench my fists at my side. I think Niamh makes an effort to be offensive, too. “Well … I liked Simon.

You’d like him, too, if you gave him a chance.”

“I never said that I didn’t like him…”

“But I didn’t like being the centre of attention all the time. I didn’t like being stared at.”

Niamh makes a disparaging noise in her throat. “He’s not the reason people stared at you.”

I spin around, and she nearly walks into me.

“What does that mean?” I demand, even though I know very well what it means. I know why people stare at me. Of course Niamh would find the meanest possible way to say, “You’re beautiful.” It’s another thing I can’t help that she holds against me.

At least she has the decency to look embarrassed. “I mean…” She looks at the ground. “I don’t know what I mean…”

I step closer to her. “Don’t you?”

“Sister golden hair,” something says—something with a voice like crushed leaves, hardly a voice at all.

Niamh and I both freeze.

“Is that you…” the thing asks, lingering on every consonant.

I slowly turn towards the heart of the Wood. A nymph is floating there, half in darkness.

“It is you,” she says. “The golden one.”

She moves closer to us. Into the light.

I know this dryad. She’s followed me through the Wood before. Watching, never speaking. She used to look very smart—in a yellow velvet jacket and green petticoats, her mossy hair pinned up with yellow ribbons.

Her skirts have turned to rags now, and the ribbons are long gone. Her hair hangs in her face and creeps down her chest and arms. She looks overgrown. Forgotten. More like a tree than a person.

“Golden one, golden one,” she whispersings, “what do you seek?”

I walk closer to her.

Niamh catches my arm and tries to hold me back—I shake her off.

“I’m looking for a goat,” I say.

“The Goats of Watford,” the dryad says.

“Yes.” I step closer.

She’s hovering in the air. Trembling. The shadows of a thousand leaves dance over her. Her eyes used to glow, I think. But not now. Her face is scabbed over with bark. “The Goats of Watford are lost.”

“Not yet,” I say.

“Yet and yet,” she singsongs. “They wander and roam … and fly.”

“We’re looking for them. We’re looking for a doe.”

The dryad is holding a parasol. She twirls it onto her shoulder and opens it. The silk is rotting away from the ribs. “Sister golden hair…” she says.

“Your friends were here. I don’t like them.”

“My friends?”

She frowns. Pebbles and sticks whorl in the air beneath her. “Tell me now … What do you seek?”

“I told you—a goat. A pregnant doe. She’s in the Wood.”

“How do you know who walks in my Wood?”

“I have a feeling—”

The dryad bends at the waist to shout down at me, one hand clenched in her torn skirts. “The Goats of Watford are lost! They have no keeper! No hook, no crook, no one to lead them home!”

“We want to bring them home!”

“You?” She points her parasol at me. “You have failed them.”