The Hazel Wood (The Hazel Wood #1)(35)

There are recurring themes in Althea’s work that are disturbing to anyone who knows of her supposed self-imprisonment at her estate: of displacement, of abandonment and assault, of a sort of supernatural identity theft, and, naturally, of incarceration. The vessel of this imprisonment changes—the body, the tower, the marriage, the cave—but close reading has led me to believe Althea was foretelling her own incarceration—not merely a spiritual but a physical one.

Yes. I have come to understand her not as recluse but as prisoner. I believe she’s being held in the Hazel Wood against her will. Martin agrees, but takes a pulp-fiction perspective: he imagines her held in place by creditors, or by some original teller of the tales she has made her name on (a theory I do not subscribe to). Of course, Martin has never read the stories firsthand, nor has he sat at the knee of Professor Miranda Deyne and labored to unpack them. I believe the backstory given by Althea in the Vanity Fair article is smoke and mirrors, just one more fairy tale told by a master of them—a master who has plugged herself into an ancient source of odd fables that feel like just one corner cut from the fabric of a much larger and stranger world.

I believe it is a force from that very world that holds her prisoner. The true aim of my quest, which I have avoided revealing when it seemed too far from my grasp, is to reach and rescue Althea Proserpine from whoever, or whatever, it is that binds her.

Martin and I left New York City on Wednesday, driving five hours north to start, then looping around area lakes. I admit we hoped for some clue to carry us forward, knowing that, otherwise, we were looking for a tiny pea beneath an enormous mattress. We both had a powerful sense of the Hazel Wood as being surrounded by trees …

“Because it’s called the Hazel Wood, hack!” I couldn’t help yelling aloud.

We both had a powerful sense of the Hazel Wood as being surrounded by trees, and nosed Martin’s Honda around many a large and isolated home in the wooded areas just beyond the state’s numerous lakes. The Honda took the brunt of several canine attacks, and I’ll admit I was surprised by how quickly New York’s upstate homeowners are willing to pull a gun on a scholar who seeks only information, and whose independent study relies on grant money and donations. (Click here to learn more.)

On the third day—as I expected, owing to the importance of the number 3 in fairy tales—our luck changed. We stopped for breakfast at a diner owned by a woman who’d heard tell of an author who lived nearby, though she didn’t recognize the name Althea Proserpine.

I scrolled through an extended rant on how unfortunate it was that every waitress and pancake-flipper in every truck stop from here to Mars haven’t heard of my grandmother, who was, let’s face it, a one-hit wonder whose book went out of print shortly after she went off the grid for good. Then there was this:

Our instincts told us to turn down a dirt path lined with cherry trees blooming very much out of season. When, ten minutes later, we reached a pair of tall, green-metal gates, we knew we’d found our destination: the gates were decorated with a stylized hazel tree. I ordered Martin to park the car somewhere out of sight, though we didn’t see any cameras. When we exited the car, the air felt balmy—by my estimation, it was a full twenty degrees warmer than it had been when we left the diner.

We looked through the gates, but could see nothing beyond a stand of trees about thirty yards in. As we circled the estate on foot, we discovered that cunningly placed greenery around the entire perimeter kept us from seeing inside. Martin attempted in several places to scale the fence, but discovered it was impossible.

We had no breadcrumbs to mark our path out of the forest, and when I pulled up the map on my phone, it showed our location as being in the center of the Bering Sea. Martin’s told him we were on the grounds of Memphis’s Graceland. Was it a cosmic joke, or a sign that we were on the edge of something bigger than we imagined? Somewhere, I was sure, Althea—or her captor—was laughing at us.

Finding no way in, we had to leave the wood. I’m writing this now from my motel room, a forty-minute drive from the Hazel Wood. Tomorrow we’re getting onto the grounds, by hook or by crook.

Ellery and I looked at each other with raised eyebrows.

“She’s totally sleeping with Martin, right?” I said.

“In Martin’s dreams.”

But behind Ness’s silly self-interest, there might have been something real. An ancient source, as she said, of true magical weirdness.

“The strangest part,” I said, “is the fact that she stalked my grandmother to her home because she thought she had to save her.”

“No, the strangest part is the fact that this is her last blog post.”

I checked the date: January 17. Nine months ago, just before Althea died.

“How often does she usually post?”

“Every day, almost.”

“Huh.” I clicked on Ness’s bio, looked at a bigger picture of her, and read about how she liked fairy tales, themed dinner parties, and large-scale puppetry. “Think they sicced Twice-Killed Katherine on her?” I was joking, but not.

“She’s not Katherine’s type, but I wouldn’t be surprised. And neither would you. What are you doing?”

I’d gone back to the post and was typing into the comment box. “Asking her to contact me.”

Hello. I’m someone you’ve tried to speak to about Althea in the past, I typed. I thought a moment. I’m ready to speak now. Reply w/email address?