Granmos’s mouth snapped shut. Kestrel looked it in the eye.
“Thank you,” she said, and Granmos rearranged its teeth into a yellow grin.
“That didn’t just happen,” said Finn as Pippit sniffed the pages.
She pressed the notebook into Finn’s hands. He opened it and stared at the familiar black writing, now smeared and covered in goo.
“What now?” he said, his voice trembling.
Kestrel felt her heartbeat quicken. She had an idea.
The grabber had stalked her for days. It had learned as much about her fears as it could. So why shouldn’t it have learned anything else? Why wouldn’t it know what she wanted, too?
“Can you help me escape?” she asked it.
Granmos closed its fist, and its lips twitched into something like a cunning smile.
Kestrel breathed out slowly. If there was a way out, nothing would stop Kestrel getting there if there was a grabber by her side.
“We can . . . leave?” Finn said. Kestrel thought he looked a bit green.
“I think so,” she said, filled with a mixture of excitement and dread. “Finn, we’re finally getting out!”
Granmos moved as quickly and as silently as a bird. It suddenly swung its arm, its mouth wide open, and smacked a huge, pale hand into Finn’s chest. He went flying and hit the ground so hard the trees shivered.
Kestrel turned to face her grabber, teeth bared in fury. Finn wailed until Pippit nipped him on the hand.
“Don’t you dare hurt my friends,” Kestrel snapped at Granmos. “I mean it.”
The grabber snarled at Finn. He jumped to his feet and backed against a tree.
“Why don’t you like him?” Kestrel said angrily. “He’s coming with us, okay?”
The grabber started toward Finn again. He shrieked and scrambled up the tree.
“Stop!” shouted Kestrel, and it halted. Its expression was frosty.
“It won’t let me come,” said Finn. He looked horribly relieved.
“But—”
“It’s fine,” said Finn, climbing to his feet. “We can live here. You, me, and Pip. Even . . . that can stay, if it has to,” he added, looking at Granmos with disgust. “We don’t ever have to go near the village. We can live in the trees. We’ll be so happy we won’t want to go outside anyway. I mean, are there even trees outside the forest?”
“Don’t say that,” Kestrel said desperately. “We’ll all go with Granmos. The three of us. Won’t we, Pip?”
“Kes?” Pippit said, looking distressed. “Kes? Stay here?”
Kestrel felt like a black hole had opened inside her. She stared at him, and he started to wash himself agitatedly.
“Pip?” she said, although she already knew his answer.
She knew that Pippit belonged in the forest. He probably came from generations of weasels who had lived here all their lives. And Finn had never wanted to leave. All the times they’d been looking for the way out, he’d been treating it like a game.
“It’s fine,” she said quickly, turning away so they wouldn’t see her face.
“You’re not going by yourself, are you?” said Finn in disbelief.
Kestrel looked at the tops of the trees. By tilting her head back, she could stop the water that had started coming out of her eyes. The cool air scraped across her cheeks. She could hear the sea in her ears again, the faraway, mythical wash of water.
“Yeah,” she said when she’d summoned up the courage. “I’m going.”
“So that’s it,” Finn said coolly, his face closing up. “Even though there might be nothing there, and you might die.”
They looked at each other. Something had changed in the last few moments. There was an awkwardness between them, a strange, sharp newness. They both seemed much older than before. Or maybe, Kestrel thought, the feeling had been growing there for a while and she’d only just seen it.
“Take my notebook,” she said. “Tell the villagers what you know. They’ll listen to you. Make them understand about their grabbers.”
Finn rubbed his dirt-streaked face.
“They won’t want me back,” he said.
“You have to stop stealing cake,” Kestrel said. “But they’ll take you in. Mardy always liked you, deep down. Start by burning my mother’s house. Nobody else will be brave enough to go near it, and they’ll trust you after that.”
“Really?” he said.
“They might even put you in charge,” she said. “They need someone who’s braver than them.”
Finn and Kestrel stared at each other. Then Finn jerked forward, pulling Kestrel into a hug.
“I’m sorry my mother hurt you,” she said quietly, hugging him back. “And I shouldn’t have been mad about Hannah. I guess I was a bit . . . you know . . .” She swallowed the word “jealous,” but they both knew it was there.
“I shouldn’t have let the others tell lies about you,” Finn mumbled. “And I should’ve worked out your grabber was coming and been there when your dad—er.” He gulped the last word down, too.
Pippit buried his face in Kestrel’s ear.
“Something would’ve eaten me by now, if not for you,” Kestrel said to Pippit.
“Nah,” said Pippit. “Kes crunch, Pip munch.” He nipped her ear. “No go?”
“I can’t stay,” she said, feeling wretched. “If I don’t do it now, I might not be brave enough again.”
“Pffft,” Pippit said, nuzzling her ear with his warm nose. A lump rose in Kestrel’s throat.
“Look after Finn for me. He’ll look after you, too.”
“Bye, Kes,” Pippit mumbled. “Find good snacks.”
“Love you, Pip,” she whispered as Finn pulled away. “You too, I guess,” she added lightly. Finn laughed and wiped his nose on his sleeve.
“Maybe you’ll leave as well, one day,” she said.
Finn nodded uncertainly.
They heard the distant sound of shouting. It was coming from behind them, curling through the forest, a dozen voices mixed with the snapping of branches. Kestrel could hear Ike’s voice floating above the others.
“I’ll talk to them,” Finn said unexpectedly. He tightened his hands around the notebook, looking suddenly determined. “You won’t have to worry.”
“Thanks, Finn,” Kestrel whispered.
He turned away quickly, with Pippit still attached to his shoulder, and hesitated. For a bright, aching second Kestrel wondered if he was going to say something else. Pippit looked at her over his shoulder. But then Finn grabbed a branch and swung himself into the tree. The last thing Kestrel saw was Finn’s feather-stuck hair and Pippit’s face crumpling. Then the trees closed around them, and they were gone.
Kestrel suddenly felt very, very alone.
Granmos put its hand on Kestrel’s back. She turned around, blinking tears away.
“Take that coat off,” she demanded, trying to hide the wobble in her voice. “My grandma made a coat like that. It should stay here, where she is.”
Kestrel wished her grandma were here right now, so she could wrap her arms around her and tell her that she understood why she put Kestrel through all that training. That it had saved her life. That it really had made her stronger. And that, despite everything, she missed her.
Granmos smiled wonkily and oozed its way out of the coat, drawing its arms in and letting it slide down its back and onto the ground. Kestrel caught her breath. Its body was a great jumble of rubbish from the forest, wonky stick-ribs twined with choking ivy, crabby red apples growing in a necklace around its neck. There were birds’ eggs in its stomach and ferns in its chest and thin, translucent mushrooms growing on its organs. A row of seashells undulated behind its ribs.