Evan spent the afternoon saying goodbye. Or trying to.
Ross took the news as expected: with dramatic despair followed by enthusiastic planning.
"You'll need cold-weather survival training! I can teach you the basics in an afternoon! How to build a snow shelter! How to identify edible lichen! How to fight off yetis!"
"I don't think there are yetis in the Silent Wood."
"There are ALWAYS yetis! Or yeti-like creatures! It's a fundamental rule of wilderness travel!" Ross produced a list of his own, twice as long as Finch's, covered in enthusiastic handwriting and exclamation points. "I've compiled essential knowledge! Also, I've packed you some experimental magical devices! For research!"
Evan looked at the bag Ross handed him. It hummed softly and occasionally emitted small sparks. "What do they do?"
"Unclear! That's why they're EXPERIMENTAL! But they'll definitely do SOMETHING! Probably!"
Evan accepted the bag. It was heavier than it looked. "Thank you, Ross."
"Of course! Adventure! Discovery! Possibly yetis!" Ross clapped him on the shoulder with enough force to make a normal person stagger. Evan didn't stagger, but the floor tile beneath him cracked. "Come back WISER! And with samples! I want samples of the Silent Wood's magic-absorbing properties! For science!"
Next was Lady Cordelia, who intercepted him in a corridor. She looked like a storm cloud in silk—all dark colors and contained fury.
"So you're running away," she said without preamble.
"I'm seeking training."
"Semantics." Her eyes were sharp. "Julian told me. About the Weaver. About Althea."
Evan waited.
"You'll learn things," she said quietly. "About the palace. About the Carter family. About... what's BENEATH us."
"You know."
"I know ENOUGH to be concerned." She stepped closer. "My family has served the crown for generations. We know the secrets. Or some of them. Enough to understand that some doors, once opened, cannot be closed."
"What's beneath the palace, Lady Cordelia?"
"History." Her smile was bitter. "The kind that repeats itself. The kind that demands payment." She reached out, adjusting his collar with a mother's precision. "When you learn the truth, Evan... remember that some secrets are kept for a reason. Not to hide evil. To contain it."
She left him standing in the corridor, her words echoing.
Containment. Not concealment.
What was so dangerous it needed containing?
And what happened if the container broke?
***
Evan couldn't sleep. The palace was too quiet. Or maybe he was listening too hard.
He went to the gardens. The Memory Tree glowed softly in the moonlight, its fruits chiming a slow, sad melody. Althea was there, but not the young version from the ball. The old gardener, bent and weathered, pruning roses with hands that trembled slightly.
"You're leaving," she said without looking up.
"Tomorrow."
"Good." She snipped a dead branch. "You don't belong here. Not yet. Maybe not ever."
"Do you regret it?" Evan asked. "Studying with the Weaver? Learning the truth?"
She stilled. The pruning shears hovered over a rose. "Regret is a gardener's word. In a garden, you can regret a planting. Wish you'd chosen a different rose. A different spot."
She snipped. The dead branch fell. "But some choices aren't like that. They're not plantings. They're... prunings. You cut away a part of yourself. And it doesn't grow back."
She turned to face him. In the moonlight, her eyes were ancient. "The Weaver will show you truth. And truth is a blade. It cuts clean. But what it cuts away... that's gone forever."
"What did it cut away from you?"
"Myself." She touched her chest. "The part that could bear the knowledge. The part that could hold the truth without breaking."
"And you became a gardener."
"I became someone who tends living things. Who helps them grow. Who doesn't ask what's beneath the soil. Just tends what's above." She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "It's a good life. A quiet life."
"But not the life you chose."
"We rarely CHOOSE our lives, Evan. We choose our responses. And then our lives choose us." She returned to her pruning. "Go to the Weaver. Learn. But remember: every truth has a price. And the first price is always innocence."
Evan left her there, tending her roses under the moon, the Memory Tree chiming a lament for things lost, things forgotten, things that could never be regained.
Back in his rooms, he found Emma waiting. She had changed out of her court clothes into practical traveling gear—sturdy boots, wool trousers, a thick jacket, gloves tucked into her belt. She looked like a different person. Or maybe more like herself.
"Packing," she said, gesturing to the bag at her feet. "Or trying to. It's harder than it looks."
"You don't have to come," Evan said.
"Yes, I DO." She met his eyes. "The queen ordered it. And... I WANT to. For me. Not for her."
"For friendship?"
"For curiosity." She grinned, a flash of the old Emma. "I want to see what happens. I want to meet this Weaver. I want to know what's so important that the queen is sending her most valuable magical asset into a magic-silencing forest."
"Maybe she wants me neutralized."
"Maybe. Or maybe she wants you... refined. Like metal in a forge." Emma's expression turned serious. "Either way, I'm coming. And I'll watch your back. Even if I'm also watching you for the queen. I can do both."
"Can you?"
"I guess we'll find out." She picked up her bag. "Dawn comes early. Try to sleep. The mountains won't care if you're tired."
She left, and Evan was alone with his thoughts and his slowly improving rooms.
He packed. Not much—just what he needed. Clothes. Supplies. Althea's journal, which Mira had slipped him with a meaningful look. Ross's bag of experimental devices, which hummed and occasionally sparked.
And one more thing: a small, smooth stone from the garden. Unremarkable. Just a stone.
But when he picked it up, it warmed in his hand. Became smoother. More perfectly stone-like.
Even now, his magic worked. Improving. Perfecting.
He wondered what would happen in the Silent Wood. If the magic would stop. Or change. Or... something else.
He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, which had developed a faint star-map pattern he didn't remember being there yesterday.
The palace dreamed, Althea had written. Deep in its stones.
What did it dream of?
And what woke when dreams ended?
***