Dieter frowns at me.
“Three stones and one spark,” I hear myself sing. “Water, air, earth. And fire in the heart.”
Stop, something says, deep in me; somethingscreamsit.
He nods. “Good.”
He pours the stones out of the satchel, dumping them into his hand.
Behind us, there is a shout. Metal scraping metal.
Dieter glares at the opening to this glen, glares enough that I start to turn, but I can’t. I don’t.
He says nothing, but when he starts to climb the Tree’s massive arching roots, I follow with Liesel in my arms.
She bucks against me. “Let mego! This isn’t you, Fritzi!Let me go!”
Mama, Dieter, and I were so happy. We laughed all the time. We crowded in our small cottage and gorged ourselves on Mama’s cooking—something with plums, with cherries, because I remember looking up and Dieter’s face was streaked with sticky red, his mouth and teeth—
I hold Liesel. I hold her, and my face is wet, wetness that drips down on her, on my arms around her. She puts her hands on my cheeks, but I am looking up at Dieter, who reaches the Tree’s trunk.
There are grooves in the trunk. Three of them. Perfect little circles for perfect little stones.
“Three stones and one spark,” I whisper, throat swelling, tears coming stronger.
Dieter places one stone in each hole. The last one clicks into place, and I canfeelthe Tree vibrating beneath and all around us, a sensation that rocks me where I stand on its roots, but I keep my balance, clinging to Liesel.
Part of me expects the Tree to reach its mighty branches down, for it to feel the presence of the stones and react, to fight us off. But it just vibrates still, that hum of life and magic and power, and being this close, the hum isconsuming. It is enticing, a hum that promises strength and life.
Dieter’s eyes are brilliant with need. He hears the hum too. He’s always heard it. Maybe that’s why he’s been the way he is, because therehas always been this vibration in his head, begging. And he’s here now, one palm flat against the trunk, his face stretching in a giddy grin.
“Now, Liesel,” Dieter coos, stroking the bark.
“No,” she says into my neck, half whimper, half fury.
Dieter sighs. He glances behind us again.
Swords clash, closer now. Someone shouts.
“Fritzi!”
I want to look over my shoulder. I want to look—
I want to—
I want—
“Little Liesel,” Dieter says, but the exasperation in his tone is marred with the slightest swell of anxiety. He faces us, one hand still on the Tree. “You will burn this Tree for me.”
“No!” she snaps.
“Yes, you will.”
Hepullson me, and I shove Liesel at Dieter. He grabs her arm, and she cries out, shock more than anything, but he holds her strong, and I’m standing free on the Tree’s roots, balancing on one arch.
“Fritzi!” the voice shouts again, a frenzy of panic.
There’s a knife in my hand. Where did it come from?
