19.

Don't go into the woods, she was told, her mother anxious and whispering as she brushed her hair and fastened her pretty dresses. Don't go into the woods, murmured low, there are beasts who will devour you, crunch on your bones and lap up your blood, there will be nothing of you left for the ravens to feast on. Don't go into the woods, she said, you will be lost on the tricksy paths, the roots will trip you and the vines will bind you.

The woods, the woods, the threatening woods, the dark ranks of trees with beckoning limbs. The leaves that flutter and hiss at the window when the storm whips the clouds at the moon. Mother's quick breathing in the next room, the creak of the bed and the groan of the branches shifting restless. The moan of the wind and the haunting hoot of the owl; her head is full of echoes of words and the wood and half-remembered tales.

She treads lightly, sure-footed in the ragged light. The woods break over her like a wave and she drowns in the sudden hush. There are no tracks here and she skirts round the great black trunks, tracing their grooves with her fingertips. In a clearing she stops. Her skin is on fire and each sense screams as she swims unshackled through this night.

There is something here in the silence, lurking in the shadows. It has waited for her forever, shouting the pain of its heartbeats, chest heaving with torn breath. It falls on her with heavy hands, howling at the smoothness of her skin, the silk of her hair. She sinks into the embrace, the rasp of teeth at her neck, the scorching eyes. You would eat me up, she says. Her eyes are as still as forest pools. I have come, I am here, I am yours.