“She’s not gone,” I say. “Just… waiting.”
The bark of the nearest tree groans softly, like an old lung exhaling.
“I’ll make it right,” I promise. “You don’t need to worry. I’ll protect you, like I always have.”
But the Grove doesn’t calm.
In fact, it grows quieter.
The vines stop shifting. The moss holds its breath. Even the roots below my feet still.
It’s not fear.
It’sdoubt.
They’re not sure I can protect them this time.
And that makes my gut go cold.
Because if the Grove doesn’t believe in me anymore, maybe I’ve already failed.
CHAPTER 17
CLARA
Iknock on Hazel Blackmoor’s cabin door like I’m delivering a letter bomb.
The teenage camper opens it barefoot, already sipping something dark and probably illegal from a chipped mug. Her hair’s up in a mess of curls and pencils, and she squints at me like I’ve disturbed the flow of her daydreams.
“Clara Monroe,” she says, voice dry as burnt sage. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
I hold up a folder. My fingers are trembling, but I keep my voice steady.
“I need help. Witchy help.”
Hazel raises an eyebrow. “You say that like it’s free.”
“I know it’s not.”
She leans against the doorframe and gives me a long, slow up-down. “Didn’t peg you for the ‘dark favors’ type. You sure you’re not lost?”
“No,” I say. “I’mdesperate.”
That gets her attention.
She opens the door wider. “Come in before someone sees you. You look like guilt.”
Her cabin smells like burnt herbs, patchouli, and magic gone slightly sideways. There’s a fox skull on the mantle and a snake plant in the sink. I sit on the edge of a faded velvet chair, gripping the folder like it’s my last tether.
Hazel sinks into a beanbag and crosses her legs. “Alright. Spill it.”
So I do.
About the inspector, the re-zoning, and how all the data and proof in the world doesn’tmeananything if the Grove can’t defend itself.
AboutThorn.
She listens without interrupting, except for one low whistle when I describe the barrier stones flickering.
