35

Before you can even stop to think—before even your grandma has the chance to react—you rush across the forest floor and throw yourself around her, clinging to her tight.

There are a few moments when all you can hear is your own haggard breathing and your grandma's racing heart.

Then—at last—your grandma gently puts her arms around you as well. As she pulls you against her, you smell the faint scent of wood and flowers and moss, and it hits you: it's her. She's here; she's back.

After a while, however, your grandma lifts her head and lowers her arms so she can look at you properly. You had almost forgotten the way her eyes could pierce like needles—and you shiver slightly as you wonder what she's trying to see in you.

A few seconds later, your grandma whistles softly—and you watch as Carys, her crow Familiar, flutters down from the treetops and lands on her shoulder. Carys lets out a soft trill as your grandma strokes her head, and all the while, your grandma looks you firmly in the eye. Her face is never easy to read—but you know her well enough to be able to tell just how conflicted she is as she looks at you. You don't know what it is she's thinking, but you're half expecting her to turn around and disappear back into the forest without a backwards look.

Eventually, however, you see her blink—and all at once, her whole demeanor softens. At last, she takes in a breath and says in her low, clear, slightly scratched voice:

"You had better come with me, Huknock."

With that, she turns on the spot and starts walking briskly through the trees.

But as you walk—her slightly ahead, so you can't quite see her face—you practically have to bite your tongue to stop yourself from asking one of the thousand questions that you've been bottling up since you left. And it's more than just questions that are getting stirred out of their sleep; it's emotions as well. So much has happened since you last saw your grandma—so many things you've done, so many people you've met.

In just a few minutes, you recognize your old tree coming into view, and before long, you're following your grandma through the hidden entrance and up the familiar stairs to the tree house. When you reach the top, your grandma goes straight to the kitchen and starts making something to drink, and all you can really do is sit down to wait for her in the little living room full of plants and rugs and colorful pillows. As you do, it strikes you for the first time that everything looks just as it did the last time you were here, and the time before that as well, when you first left for Silvertree. Ever since you left the forest, you wondered where your grandma was and what she was doing—but it hits you now, looking around the living room, that it almost seems as if she's been living in the tree house the whole time. Now that you think about it, you're not sure she ever told you she was leaving—but there was so little she told you, you could only guess what her plans might have been.

Even though the place feels so much like home, you feel like a stranger here. Until you know what's on your grandma's mind, it's impossible to really relax.

After a few minutes, your grandma comes in with a pot of tea and sits down opposite you, taking a moment to let her hair down with a sigh of relief. Once she's poured you both a cup and has taken a long sip herself, she fixes you with a plain look and says:

"I know there must be a lot you want to ask me, Huknock. I'd be surprised if there wasn't. But—well, I should probably tell you first that I'm okay. I'm not in any trouble or anything like that. I've been quite safe here since you've been gone. So before you ask me any questions, I need to ask you—"

She pauses, clearing her throat for just a moment.

When she next looks at you, you're surprised to see just how wide her eyes have become.

"Are you all right?" she asks, more fervently than you've heard her say anything so far. Blinking quickly, she goes on: "Are you well? How have you been doing in the old house? How have you been doing in Silvertree—on your own?"

You think about how to respond—how to possibly sum up everything that's happened, everything you've seen and heard and felt since you left the forest. No matter what words you try to string together, it's not enough to really explain.

So after a long moment's silence, you simply settle on: