He looks at me, curiosity piqued.

“Well, it seems bigger than before. Like it’s—” I pause and gaze all around. “Like it’s growing or expanding or something.” I shake my head. “I don’t know, it’s hard to explain. What do you make of it?”

He takes a deep breath, his gaze clouding at first, as though he’s trying to protect me from something, but then it’s gone just as quickly. That’s our old way of communicating. We no longer keep secrets.

His fingers playing at his chin when he says, “Honestly? I have no idea what to make of it. I’ve never seen anything like it or at least not here anyway. But I gotta tell ya, Ever, it certainly doesn’t leave me with a very good feeling.”

I nod. Gazing at a flock of birds just off to the side, watching the way they carefully keep to the perimeter, refusing to soar anywhere near the darker bits.

“You know, Romy and Rayne once told me, not long after we met, that Summerland contained the possibility ofall things, and you even said it once too.”

Damen looks at me.

“So, if that’s true, then maybe this is like—thedark side ? Maybe Summerland is like the yin and the yang—you know, equal parts dark and light?”

“Hopefully notequal ,” he says, a look of alarm overtaking his gaze. Sighing as he adds, “I’ve been coming here for a long time, avery long time. And I certainly thought I’d seen it all, but this—” He shakes his head. “This is entirely new. It’s nothing like the Summerland I studied or read about. It’s nothing like the Summerland I ever experienced. And if it didn’t start out this way, if this part of it is, in fact, new…well, something tells me that cannot be good.”

“Should we explore? Have a quick look around and see if we can learn anything more?”

“Ever—” He squints, clearly not nearly as curious to get started as I am. “I’m not sure that’s such a good—”

But I won’t let him finish, my mind is made up and now it’s just a matter of convincing him too. “Just a quick peek around, then we’ll go,” I say, seeing the waver in his gaze and knowing I’m close to succeeding. “But I gotta warn you, that mud runs deep, so be prepared to sink down past your knees.”

He takes a deep breath, hesitating for a moment even though we both know it’s as good as done. Finally grabbing hold of my hand as the two of us venture slowly into the muck, stealing a quick glance over our shoulders to see our horse, ears pinned back, pawing at the ground, snorting and grunting while shooting us ayou’re crazy if you think I’m following you kind of look.

Pushing through the relentless driving rain, until our clothes are soaked through and our hair clings to our faces and necks. Occasionally stopping to glance at each other, eyebrows rising in question, but still we keep going, keep forging ahead.

The mud pooling up to our knees when I remember something from the last time I was here, and I look at him and say, “Close your eyes and try to manifest something. Anything. Quick! Though try to make it something useful like an umbrella or a rain hat.”

He looks at me, and I can see it in his gaze, and even though it’s not at all useful, it’s definitely lovely. a tulip. A single red tulip. But it just stays right there in his mind, refusing to materialize for us.

“I thought it was maybe just me.” Remembering that bleak and dreary time when I first found myself here. “I was so confused back then, I actually thought maybe this whole place existedbecause of me.

You know, like it was a physical manifestation of my inner state—or—something.” I shrug, feeling more than a little stupid for having voiced that out loud.

Just about to take another step forward when Damen stretches his arm out before me and stops me dead in my tracks.

I follow his gaze, follow the length of his pointing finger, all the way across the muddy gray swamp.

Gasping in surprise when I spot an older woman just a few feet away.

Her hair hanging in wet, white wisps that fall way past her waist and cling to a thin, gray cotton tunic

that’s a perfect match for the gray cotton pants she wears tucked into tall, brown rain boots. Her lips moving incessantly, mumbling softly to herself, as she stoops forward, her fingers digging deep into the mud—as Damen and I look silently on, wondering how we could’ve possibly missed seeing her until now.

We continue to stand there, unsure what to do or even what to say should she happen to notice us too.

But so far she remains oblivious, focused intently on whatever it is that she’s doing. Finally taking a break from all the digging when she reaches for a small, silver can and begins to water the already thoroughly drenched area.

But it’s not until she turns, turns to face us, that I see how old she really is. Her skin so fine, so thin and translucent, it’s practically see-through, while her hands are gnarled and bumpy, with large bulging knuckles that look painful to the touch. But it’s her eyes that tell the real story—their color resembling a faded-out, sun-bleached light denim. Appearing rheumy, filmy, clustered with cataracts, but even from this distance, there’s no mistaking the fact that they’re trained right on me.

Her fingers loosen, dropping the watering can to her feet, not seeming to care when it’s quickly swallowed whole by the mud. Her arm slowly lifting, finger shaky but still pointing right in my direction, when she says, “You.”

Damen instinctively moves to cover me, to block me from view.