Maybe my body got some rest out of that unplanned nap, but my mind didn’t. It kept racing, generating countless nightmare scenarios beginning with what Blind Michael would do when he learned I couldn’t run and going downhill from there. I woke to find Spike sniffling at my face, attracted by my whimpering.

“It’s okay, Spike,” I said, stroking its side. “You’ll be okay.” It whined but subsided, and I returned to my unhappy napping.

I don’t know how long that went on before footsteps in the dark heralded Acacia’s return, snapping me awake. I tried to twist toward the sound, half hopeful, half afraid, but I couldn’t even move that much. I was more than trapped; I was helpless. Spike jumped to its feet, chirping at whatever it saw in the shadows. That reaction may have been the only thing that kept me from freaking out completely. Spike is usually a pretty good judge of character. It wasn’t worried—why should I be? Unless, of course, this was the one time it happened to be wrong.

Clearing my throat, I said, “Hello?”

“Good; you’re awake.” Acacia stepped into view, the light from her lantern filling the clearing and finally letting me see without squinting. It was a small comfort—there was nothing but the trees. “I was starting to worry.” She didn’t sound it. If anything, she sounded bored.

I looked at her, taking a moment before I spoke. Except for the scar that cut down the side of her face, her skin looked almost impossibly smooth, like she’d been carved from living wood and the knife had slipped. Only one bloodline had skin like that. “You’re a Dryad.” That explained why the forest was willing to obey her: Dryads are the spirits of trees, and they’re halfway to being plants themselves. None of the Dryads I’d met had that sort of control over plants, but that didn’t make it impossible. Dryads are strange, even for fae. What I didn’t understand was what she was doing there—why would a Dryad choose to live where all the trees were dying? Especially a Dryad as powerful as Acacia appeared to be.

“In a sense,” she said, with a small, bitter smile. “You’re quite observant. It’s a pity you don’t pay closer attention to thrown weaponry.”

“It’s hard to pay attention when it’s behind you.” She had to be talking about the spear that caught me in the leg. The only question was how bad the damage was. As calmly as I could, I said, “I can’t feel my legs.”

“That’s to be expected; poison will do that.” She shook her head, tangles of rootlike hair snaking down her shoulders. “The potion on that spear was well brewed. You should be a tree by now, rooted and growing to grace my forest. It’s a mercy, of a sort, to grant my husband’s victims that much freedom.”

I paled. “Then why . . .”

“I stopped it. I brewed it to begin with; it was bound to listen to me.” She tilted her head in a curiously familiar gesture. “I wanted to talk to you. Are you well enough for that?”

“I guess I can make an effort.” Inappropriate humor—the last resort of the terrified.

“Good.” She reached toward me, and for a horrible moment I was afraid she was going to pick me up again. Instead, she stopped her hands a few inches from my chest, and Spike stepped into them. She smiled, cradling it close. Spike chirped, beginning to purr. I gaped at them, stunned and bizarrely hurt. Maybe she was a Dryad, but this felt like a betrayal.

“Where did you get this?” Acacia asked. Spike nudged her fingers with its head, eyes narrowed to content slits. Her smile warmed for a moment, then faded as she raised her head and looked at me.

“It used to belong to a friend of mine,” I said guardedly. I didn’t want to say Luna’s name until I knew more about Acacia.

“I see.” She frowned, pulling the scar on her face into a sharp line. “How did it come to belong to you? It’s yours now. I can tell that much.”

“I named it by mistake.”

“Names have power. It’s been with you since then, I suppose.”

“Yes.”

“You’ve treated it well.” She ran a hand down Spike’s back, not seeming to mind the thorns. “Rose goblins are hard to care for.”

“It’s pretty easy. I just give it water and sunshine, and sometimes fertilizer.”

“We used to have them in these woods. But they died. All of them.” Acacia sighed, hands stilling. “All the roses that grew here died a very long time ago.”

For a moment, there was nothing frightening about her; she was just a woman, lost and a little bit lonely. I almost wanted to comfort her. I didn’t know how to begin. “I’m sorry,” I said finally, aware of how lame the words sounded.

“They had to die.” Her voice was filled with the sort of distance people create to keep themselves from crying. “What good would they have done? The sun never shines here, and roses never bloom in darkness. Better they should spread their wings and fly away.”

“Roses like the sun,” I said, parroting one of the few gardening tips Luna had been able to drum into my head.

“Yes, they do,” Acacia said. “Where is my youngest rose now?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You carry a rose goblin bred of her lines. I know the cuttings that sprouted your companion; I nurtured their parents and originals. You can’t lie to me. I won’t allow it. Now tell me: where is my daughter?”

Oak and ash. “Your daughter?” I was stalling and I knew it. Hopefully she wouldn’t.

Hope doesn’t always cut it. “Her name is Luna,” she said. “Where is she?”

“I don’t have to tell you.”

“Don’t you?” she asked. She shifted Spike to the crook of one elbow and raised her hand.

There may be words for the pain that swept through my midriff and torso, consuming what was left of my lower body and racing upward until it was almost to my chest. If there are, I don’t have them. The numbness followed close behind it, dulling the pain and replacing it with something a lot more chilling: utter nothingness. I screamed. I couldn’t help it.

Lowering her hand, Acacia smiled. “I think you need to tell me,” she said. I stared at her, fighting to breathe. “Unless you want to be a part of my wood forever. If it progresses far enough, not even I can free you.”