Natalia's room was predominantly white with accents of pink and gold festooned here and there. She adored a crisply made bed, clothes and shoes stored away neatly beneath, books colour-coded upon the shelf. It was the only room in the house where all evidence of Michael's peculiar paintings and Larissa's clutter had been surgically removed.
Natalia sat at a dressing table brushing her golden hair. She hummed almost inaudibly as Sadie entered with Oliver in tow.
"Hello, Natalia," Sadie said, trying to sound normal but failing.
"Oh, hello," her sister replied, looking at her in the mirror. "Are you okay? You look...pale." She put her hairbrush down and spun to face Sadie. "Where have you been all day? Father's been pacing. I don't like it when he paces."
Ignoring Natalia's question, Sadie fired off one of her own. "What do you remember?"
Natalia folded her hands. "How do you mean?"
"What's your earliest memory?"
"Why do you—?"
"Please," Sadie insisted.
Natalia paused for a moment. "I'm not sure if this is my first memory, but I remember you being born. I mean, I remember Mother and Father bringing you home. I remember being jealous of the amazing nursery Mother decorated for you. There was an awful storm, the moon was blood-red. The river and most of Iron Bridge consumed with a strange mist. I remember fearing the noises from Darachna Forest...barking, screaming, howling. But Father told me about the River Wraiths and how we're protected by the Jongeliers. I think he was trying to get me to sleep, but that story is not meant for bedtime...or children. Someone should tell him."
"What else?"
"A visitor came to the house. I don't remember them arriving, I must have been asleep, but I got woken by Father arguing with a woman—it wasn't Mother, someone else—and there was a loud noise, like a door slamming and then books falling off a shelf, and then...silence."
"You have a good memory, Natalia."
"It was a frightening night. An odd night. I guess that's why it stuck."
"Do you remember anything from before?"
Natalia flicked her hair over her shoulder. "I have memories of riding a bike, flying a kite, Atticus arriving one Christmas, then the cats in the new year, picnics, the Candlelight Parade, the Steam Totem, but I don't know if they were before or after you were born, Sadie. They're snippets, I suppose. Moments. Like pictograms."
"I remember the woman being here," Sadie said, her eyes soft and faraway. "The one Father argued with."
Natalia laughed. "Impossible. You were only a few hours old. I was almost four and I barely recall it." Natalia reached out and stroked her sister's arm. "Seriously. Are you okay? You're acting strange. Just like Father. Some weird old man came to see him. He smelt awful. What's going on?"
I can't tell her. I just can't. I don't know if I believe it myself.
"Sadie? What happened?"
"Nothing, Nat. Nothing at all," Sadie lied. "Everything is...fine."
Evening descended. Dinner passed slowly. Michael told no jokes, played no characters, and saluted half-heartedly. The Madison family sat in relative silence feasting on pork belly boiled in Eden Rock Cider, Silverhaven potatoes, creamed carrots and parsnips, broccoli, kale, and buttered peas. Afterwards, they retired to the library for parlour games and the National Broadcast.
Except Sadie.
The punishment due.
Instead, she returned to the shadows of the eaved bedroom. The faerie-lights around her window were dark and still. Laughter and music rang out from the library below.
Sadie moved to the window and set her eyes on the distant mountains. "You're out there somewhere, Danver," she spoke to the night. "Out there somewhere amongst the trees and rock. Your parents may have forgotten, but I'll find a way to save you. I promise."
She left the curtains open so the night could send her an answer before padding over to the bed and pulling the bedclothes around her chin.
Oliver perched on the bed, his eyes gleaming in the moonlight. "And I will be with you the whole way."
Sadie pulled Hurtmore House: Remedy Through Torment from beneath the covers. But, before she'd read more than a handful of pages, sleep took her.
* * *
Sadie woke in a dark room. Shafts of light sliced the air. An iron-frame bed sat beneath her. Across the room sat a small wooden desk, a wardrobe with lopsided doors. Shelves held coloured glass bottles stoppered with corks.
The air smelt full and close. A confusing, overpowering mix of aromas.
Her hands found a heavy wooden door. It led to a hallway and a vaulted communal chamber. Three men sat at a table, dunking bread in a warm broth. They looked up as she entered and nodded a greeting.
A red fire roared in an enormous hearth. Flames rippled on her skin, but she couldn't feel the heat.
A fanfare of trumpets erupted.
The men looked at one another then jumped from the table and barrelled past. Sadie followed them up three flights of stairs. Pure, brilliant sunlight hit her face as she emerged on a cobbled street. Huge sandstone walls towered above her criss-crossed with lines of rippling laundry. At the top, flags cracked in the wind.
The trumpets fired again.
Here on the street, people were moving with purpose. Sadie watched for a moment.."What's happening?"
"It's the Tree," a woman said, rushing past.
"What tree?"
The woman laughed. "The Witch Tree, of course!"
"The Witch Tree?" Sadie said. "The one from Father's stories?"
"Yes, dear. The Witch Tree at San Cristophe!"
Sadie shook her head. "What about it?"
"They've found it!"
* * *
Sadie sat up. Her skin glistening. Her head pounding.
The moon floated high above the Carcassus Mountains. Oliver watched it from the window seat. "You were having a bad dream," he told her, not taking his eyes off the view.
"I think I was in San Cristophe," she said. "They were firing the trumpets for the Witch Tree. I thought it was nothing more than a bedtime story. Father hasn't told it for years."
"What were you doing there?"
"I woke up there. In my bedroom. I mean, not my real bedroom, but it felt like my own. People seemed to know me."
Oliver quietened. "Sounds like a vision."
"A vision—? Of what?"
"Of the past, the future," he answered simply.
"Don't be silly."
Oliver stood and approached. "Perhaps that is what Rhiannon talked about."
Sadie considered this for a moment. "Seeing things in a different way," she said, nodding. "Do you think that's what she meant?"
"I have no idea. How could anyone? It could be one of a thousand things, a million. But the ability of seeing the future? Well, that is definitely different."
Oliver sat beside her on the bed and stared out the opposite window into the back garden. Together they watched the endless snow nestling on Darachna Forest and the towering mountains beyond. The world seemed so huge, unfathomable and endless. A chill shook Sadie's bones. "I have to get to Danver."
Oliver's eyes fell on her. "Why have his parents forgotten him?"
"The Narrowers," she replied. "I thought about it during dinner. It seems like the only explanation. They must have taken away all their memories of their son."
"Why?"
"Something to do with me. Probably. Or the Foretelling. Or both. I don't know."
Oliver rose and drifted to the window.
"I don't care what Rhiannon says, I know Danver isn't safe at Hurtmore House. We have to do something. We will find a way."
Below, in the back garden, something moved. Oliver's eyes followed a white creature, the size of a small dog, as it dug around in the snow then bolted out of sight.
"What's that?" he asked, reaching for his scarf.
Sadie joined him. "I'm not sure," she replied. "Could be a white fox."
She pressed her nose against the small window. Beyond, the Madison garden stretched steadily uphill. A sandstone wall rose at the back, entwined with brambles, vines, and creepers, keeping the marauding Darachna Forest at bay.
The white fox sprang into the middle of the lawn, running to and fro in the deepening snow. He jumped in the air, landing with his front paws pressed together. Heading over to the swing set, he nosed the seat which arced pleasingly on its rusty chains.
"Where did it come from?" Oliver wondered.
"I don't know. Perhaps—" But Sadie's eyes had been stripped from the fox and focused on the forest wall. "Do you see that?" she said, grabbing Oliver by the shoulder.
"The white fox?" Oliver asked. "Of course. I am pretty sure it is real."
"No," she said, her voice glazed with disbelief. "The door."
"What door?"
"The door in the wall."
Oliver stared down the garden. "Yes, what about it?"
"Well, it's never been there before. Never. I'd remember if it had, and it definitely has never—ever—been there before."
"Like Rhiannon's shop?"
"Yes."
"And me?"
Sadie took a long breath. "Quite so."
The white fox had stopped playing and sat staring directly up at the window. His eyes sparkled; his nose twitched. Then, he spun in the snow and trotted up the garden and disappeared through the door, leaving it slightly ajar.
Sadie got dressed in record time.
"What are you doing?"
"We have to shut the door," she explained, searching beneath the bedclothes for the book on Hurtmore House.
"Why? What's out there?"
"Darachna Forest is out there. It's full of terrible things: Goofang, Glawackus, Hodag, the Cactus Cat, the Winter Witches, Axe-Handle Hound, Wendigo, Ratchet Owl, and loads of others. Father told me all about them. I've heard them too: howling, wailing, screaming in the dead of night. The last thing we need is one or more of them coming into the garden. Or into the house!"
Oliver moved for the door. Sadie crept after him, along the corridor, round the landing, down the stairs, and into the hallway. Silently, she pulled her boots on and slid her arms into her amaranthine coat.
The grandfather clock in the hall began to chime midnight as Sadie stuffed the strange black book into her shoulder bag.
Disturbed by the noise, Atticus raised his head from a pile of blankets beside a withering fire. "No, boy," Sadie whispered. "You stay." The wolfhound whinnied like a horse, his ears standing to attention. "No," she said again, crouching next to him and ruffling his fur. "You stay right here and have a good long sleep. Oliver and I will be back before you know it." Atticus made soft, contented noises, then rolled over as Sadie slipped through the house and into the garden.
Outside, the cold air snapped right to her bones and made her fillings ache. She trudged up the garden, ironing footprints in the snow, following the delicate impressions made by the white fox.
Sadie brushed the thick brambles and creepers aside, stopping six feet from the wall.
Ahead hung the brightly painted door.
"Where did you come from?" she asked, inching forward and prodding the solid, wooden door. The paint shimmered in the moonlight, the colour subtly changing like oil in a puddle. Slowly, she wrapped her fingers around the iron handle—then froze.
"You should probably close the door," Oliver reminded her, his voice quick and urgent. "Goofang, Ratchet Owl, the Winter Witches—"
But Sadie stared at the handle.
"Are you okay?"
Sadie looked up at her friend. "Perhaps this is what Rhiannon meant. And if the existence of this door is me seeing things differently, should I close it and walk away?"
"Maybe," Oliver said, sounding more anxious than usual. "Who knows? I am confused about the whole thing. Rhiannon could have been making it all up. Ancient riddles, strange hospitals, assassination orders, this magically appearing door, her odd little shop. It is not right. Any of it." He paused for a heartbeat. "And I am including myself in this list."
Sadie looked at the handle and, instead of closing it, pushed the door wide.
"What are you doing?" The terror in Oliver's voice tore through the night.
Sadie smiled reassuringly. "Well, this door is not a dream or a vision. This door is real. If I can see this door, and feel this door, then it's for a reason."
"Somebody built this wall for a reason too. You should close the door before all the horrors of the forest come flooding through," Oliver urged, his fingers at his crimson scarf.
"Yes, Oliver. You're right. I am going to shut the door."
He relaxed a little. "Thank the gods."
"But we'll be on the other side when I do."