The silver circle. The ring in mom’s jewelry box. The five princes. Bea. The sea witch.

Try as I might, I still can’t quite piece together the mystery I’ve stepped into. Words, tunes, images and ideas swirl through my mind all the way back to the cabin, as I puzzle over the greater meaning – but I’m still as lost as ever.

From time to time a bird or a squirrel darts through the leafy labyrinth of branches overhead, scattering the early morning sunlight and bringing me to a standstill.

Even now, I feel like there’s someone or something following me, just a few steps behind at all times. I turn around every few minutes to check, but all I see is green, and more green.

My parents were surprisingly relaxed about the shattered coffee table. I thought they were just trying not to make a scene in front of my friends, but they didn’t even mention it after Zee and Grace drove off with Jamie (who was hiding her hangover behind a pair of dark glasses).

My mom and dad really wanted me to stay for the day, and spend some ‘quality time’ with them before going back to the boys. But that’s not an option right now. For one, I’ve hardly done any recording with Fable the past few days. Making music is the whole reason they’re here in the first place, the whole reason they got involved with me, and it’s not cool that I keep on getting sidetracked. And secondly, I’m not actually sure that I want to spend time with my mom right now. I haven’t forgiven her yet for throwing out gran’s stuff – not that she’s aware I know about it – and I’m not sure yet what the discovery of the silver serpent ring in her jewelry box means.

I could never imagine my gentle, scatterbrained mom trying to hurt me, or being a part of anything bad. But maybe there are things about herself that even she doesn’t know.

Until I have more information, I’m going to keep my distance.

Not only from my parents, but from Fable and Kitty too. Not in the physical sense, of course, but emotionally. I’ll focus on doing what I came here to do – making an album – and I’ll avoid getting further entangled.

In theory, anyway.

*****

By the time I reach the cabin, a light breeze has picked up, tugging at my hair with cool, beckoning fingers as I make my way across the clearing. I’m a few feet from the steps when I notice that the sunlight is shimmering strangely on the cabin’s oak shingle roof; the roses seem to shine and swirl from within like small crimson fireworks. All around me, the light seems to suddenly coalesce and condense, until all I see before me is bright, white brilliance, blinding luminosity. The smell of salt hits my nose; I hear waves crashing on distant rocks. Faraway, someone is singing.

A girl with a voice as clear as moonlight.

The breeze picks up, whipping me with lashes of icy sea wind.

A strong gust of air from behind me hits me in the back. I stumble forward blindly, propelled onto the front steps of the cabin.

A few seconds, or maybe minutes, pass by. I’m lying on the steps with my eyes closed, only half-awake, my head resting on my stinging, grazed elbow. I feel as if I’m falling further and further down into a dark pit. Fragments of last night’s dream come back to me.

Felix standing before me. The sorrow etched on his face as he strikes the killing blow over and over again. Felix and I falling together into a dark grave.

Felix. 

Like shards of light breaking through the forest gloom, the trashing cloud of dreams and memories dissipates as I focus on the memory of Felix – the real-life, sardonic and cynical yet deeply passionate Felix that I’ve come to know these past few weeks.

Passion. That’s what divides them. Felix is too passionate and serious about everything, too heavy and deep. And Alastaire isn’t serious enough about anything, he’s light and airy and devil-may-care. They’re polar opposites, and I’m caught in the middle.

Too much light. Too much dark.

The thought drifts through my mind as I slowly regain normal consciousness.

The sound of crashing waves is replaced with sparkling birdsong; the smell of briny seaweed fades and is overwhelmed by the deep red fragrance of the roses.

My eyelids flutter open, and I find myself looking directly at a wall of twisting silvery-brown willow wicker.

It takes me a moment to realize that my face is about an inch away from a wicker basket sitting at the top of the steps on the porch.

I pull myself up onto my elbows, propping myself up so that I’m sitting on the top step. My overnight bag is lying on its side at the bottom.

I turn back to the basket, and feel a shiver whisper through me as I take note of what it’s filled with.

Apples. Plump, red apples, just like the ones Bea grows in her garden.

There’s a note tied to the basket handle with string, a single piece of folded white notepaper. I reach for it, unfolding the paper with shaking hands.

The elegant looping scrawl is unmistakably Bea’s.

Be sweet like apples. Be strong like the twining rose.

I study the words for a moment, wondering why they feel so familiar.

The apples look innocent enough, but I should probably throw them out, just in case.

Until I’ve spoken to Professor McAuley and I know more about the myth, I can’t trust anyone or anything.

The thought of her makes me itch to check my phone for a reply.

The HR woman from the university said that the professor was interested in talking to me, and would be in touch on email. But she still hadn’t sent anything when I checked my inbox this morning before setting out for the cabin.

She might have replied by now.

I scramble down the steps to my bag, unzipping the front pocket and pulling out my phone.

No signal. Of course there’s not. There’s only one place to get it out here.

I glance at the cabin, which is still and silent as a stone. I’m grateful that the boys didn’t hear me collapsing on the steps. That would have been awkward to explain.

Leaving my bag at the bottom of the steps, I pick my way across the clearing, walking slowly and carefully over the slippery, moss-cloaked stones and fallen oak leaves.

I’m holding my phone out in front of me, waiting for the moment that the bars flicker to life on my screen. There’s something about this tree that gives me the creeps, and I want to avoid going too close to it.

Ever since the time I thought I saw this tree on fire last month, it’s given me an uneasy feeling. It feels almost… watchful.

If I can avoid going too close, I will.

I stare at my phone screen, praying for signal.

I’m a few feet from the giant oak when I hear a low, angry voice speaking hurriedly and urgently. I stop dead in my tracks, looking all around until I realize that it’s coming from behind the tree.

It’s Ben.

I can only make out a few words, but it’s enough to recognize his Canadian accent.

“No. Don’t you… I SAID NO. I know, but listen. No, I’m not going to hang up. Just listen. What the actual… you’re joking right? I’m not doing it. You can’t expect me to do that, after she was just gone. She left us. She’ll leave again. We can’t trust… no. She doesn’t deserve that. Not after…”

I turn around and dart back to the cabin, as quietly and quickly as possible.

Who was he talking to? Who was he talking about? It couldn’t be me… could it? He’s not part of it, whatever it is. Not Ben. Not hilarious, wacky, fun-loving Ben. I can’t believe that. I won’t.

I bend down to pick up my bag, and I freeze at the top of the steps.

The basket is gone.

“Thanks for the apples,” a voice says right next to me. I swing around and see Kitty leaning against the wooden porch railing, beneath the cascading roses, a bright red fruit in her hand.

“So, I sort of got stuck into a bottle of Hennessy last night and called up your friend Jade,” she says. “We’re going out tonight. And you’re coming along.”

Time seems to slow down as she lifts the apple to her lips. I step forward, raising my hand to swat the fruit from her grasp.

The last thing I hear before she sinks her teeth into the crisp flesh are two words.

Double date.