As she slid past something twinkled in the corner of her eye. She let out her breath, which she hadn’t realized she was holding.
“It’s there,” she said, pointing. “You must have dropped it.”
Ike fell on the polished pocket watch and clutched it to his chest, his mouth open in a silent howl of joy.
Kestrel turned away, feeling like she was intruding on something. She was just a few steps away from her mother’s house. Ten. Nine. Eight . . .
Kestrel saw the stone a moment before it hit her. She ducked and it whizzed over her head, smashing into a nearby wall.
She whirled around. Runo and his sister, Briar, were crouched in the bushes, their fingers stuffed in their mouths as they tried not to laugh. They weren’t much older than Kestrel, but they were as malicious as ferrets.
“I was close that time,” said Runo, nudging Briar. “Did you see her stupid face?”
Kestrel knew she could sling the stone back before they had time to blink, but she caught herself just in time. If she dared retaliate, the villagers would have the excuse they needed to permanently throw her into the forest.
“She’s too scared to fight us,” said Briar loudly.
“Right,” said Kestrel, seeing red. She clenched her fists and the siblings squealed.
“Watch out,” said a lazy voice behind her. “Little Kestrel’s lost her temper.”
Kestrel groaned inwardly. She turned around, although she already knew who it was. She was used to that sneering voice and spiteful smile.
Hannah was a couple of years older than Kestrel. She was pretty and clever and told good jokes, and everyone did whatever she said. If Kestrel was the most hated person in the village, Hannah was the most adored.
“Stop bothering Kestrel,” Hannah said to the siblings in the bush, who sniggered silently. “She’s far too important to bother with the likes of us. Don’t you know she’s the queen of the forest?”
Runo snorted so hard snot came flying out.
“Why don’t you just—” Kestrel began.
“Whatever,” said Hannah. “I’m going home. Have fun plotting with your mom.”
“I’m not plotting anything,” Kestrel protested, but Hannah had already turned tail and left with an impressive sweep of her skirt.
Runo and Briar skipped away.
“Morons,” Kestrel muttered.
She swallowed the lump of shame in her throat and went to her mother’s door.
Kestrel’s home—her mother’s home—was set a little apart from the others, facing the rest of the village like a sulking cat. The last time Kestrel had gone inside was to steal a fork so she could prod an interesting-looking and, ultimately, very explosive mushroom. Whenever the dog made her stay at home, she refused to remain inside and slept in the gutter on the roof instead. Although, to the horror of some unfortunate and opportunistic monsters, she slept with one eye open. And she hated being disturbed.
Kestrel stopped outside the door, raised her fist to knock, and hesitated.
In that instant a bedraggled, fur-covered creature shot from the trees and skidded past.
“Whaddya kill?” it shouted, thrashing around in the leaves, a fast-moving blur of teeth and claws. “Lemme geddit!”
Kestrel grabbed the weasel and tried to shove him in her pocket, but he shot straight out again and ran up her arm.
“Lemme geddit!”
“Shut up, Pippit!” she hissed, snatching him up again. It was like trying to hold a lump of soap. “If she knows I still have you she’ll squash you flat with a frying pan!”
“Gimme blood,” Pippit insisted, cycling his legs in midair. “Whaddya get?”
“A treecreeper,” she said. Pippit was straining toward the trees like a bloodhound. “Will you stop?”
“Ribs!”
“Not now,” she said, finally managing to shove the squirming weasel in her shirt pocket. He burrowed through the lining and shot out at the back of her neck, where he started washing himself. It wouldn’t help, because he always looked like old flannel anyway. He was also horrible and rude and he smelled quite bad, but for some reason she couldn’t fathom, Kestrel couldn’t imagine life without him.
She looked around, but the black dog had gone. Unable to hold herself back any longer, she plucked Pippit from her neck and hugged him as tightly as possible.
“Urghhhh,” complained Pippit, but he didn’t try to run away.
“Where did you go? You were meant to be helping me,” she told him crossly, still squeezing him tight. “You’re my lookout, remember? That’s our deal. You help me hunt, and you get to keep the gross old bones you find.”
“For my nest,” said Pippit helpfully.
“Sure,” sighed Kestrel, releasing him. She’d found him the first time she ever went hunting. He’d been trying to drag away a giant claw, happily mumbling to himself. Kestrel had lured him into a jam jar and taken him home to study, completely unaware of the fury she was about to unleash. She still had a scar on the back of her hand. Not that it made a difference; she had dozens more, all terrible reminders of her grandma’s training.
“Whaddya doing?” Pippit asked, jumping onto her shoulder. He finally seemed to realize where they were standing. “Not her,” he said, sounding disgusted. “Not the Nasty.”
“She called her stupid dog on me,” Kestrel whispered. “I don’t know what she wants.”
“Nasty lady,” he chuntered. “Nasty dog. Nasty, nasty. I’ll bite ’im for you.”
“He’d snap you up like a biscuit, and you know it,” she said, scratching his head. Pippit purred, and something dropped from his mouth. Kestrel picked it up. It was a small silver ring, old and tarnished, covered in weasel-dribble.
“Found it inna bog,” Pippit said proudly. Kestrel turned the ring over. “Did a good,” he added, butting her with his nose.
“You did,” she said, holding it up to the light. She would add it to her collection. She had dozens of things, bits of jewelry and cutlery and rotten trinkets, all from the forest. She didn’t know where all the objects came from; the villagers never went that far into the trees. But every one gave her a tiny bit more hope that there was something outside this place, and people other than the villagers.
Kestrel slipped the ring into her boot and took another deep breath, then raised her hand to the door again.
“Wait!” Pippit said in her ear, making her jump.
“What?”
“Something important.”
“Later,” she said, exasperated, pushing his head away from her ear. The last time he said he had something important to tell her, he’d presented her with a half-chewed piece of pork rind.
“Really important,” he insisted.
“Later,” she said, and opened the door.
The dark room was covered in an impossible tangle of thick rough wool. It stretched from ceiling to floor and wall to wall, multicolored and studded with scraps of paper, dead leaves, nail clippings, and teeth. The strands met one another in midair, tangling together and spinning away like roads on a map. Kestrel dropped to the floor and crawled through a tunnel in the middle, her throat itching from the dust. A string of someone’s milk teeth, their name carved into each one, brushed against the back of her neck. Kestrel shivered. She knew what her mother kept those teeth for.
The door swung shut behind her and plunged them into gloom.
Kestrel’s mother was crouched next to an empty plate. Her coarse hair was covered in dust; she had probably been sitting there for days. The floor was littered with empty cups and bowls and the odd bit of gristle. She rarely left the house and only ate what the villagers fetched for her. Later that day someone would scuttle in and clear it up, and as a reward, Kestrel’s mother might use the web of string, which she called the weave, to tell them something about their destiny.