There is a woman beneath the tree again.
She stands ankle-deep in snow, hair drifting in front of her face like wet cloth. The sky above is a dry, cruel blue. Sunlight sharpens the world. But still the figure is there -- a smear of shadow pinned to the white.
Scarlet doesn't blink.
She can't.
• • • •
A knock at the door. Then the sighing sound of her mother.
"You forgot your medicine," she says.
She always says this. Scarlet always forgets.
A tablet is pushed into her palm. She swallows without looking, her eyes still trained on the woman outside. Her mother presses her lips to Scarlet's temple, runs her fingers through her hair.
"Get better," she whispers.
As if that's up to Scarlet.
As if she hasn't tried.
• • • •
The window slides open with a quiet groan. The snow is soft under her feet. The cold is nothing.
The figure waits.
A girl, not quite sixteen, standing under the old pine tree where the backyard ends and the world forgets to continue. Her head tilts.
Rebekah.
The wind moves. So does Scarlet.
• • • •
She doesn't ask why she's following. She Never Does.
The path is still there. A twist of dirt and ice that curves between black trunks and breathless silence. Her fingers go numb. Her shawl clings to her neck.
Where are we going?
To the well.
Scarlet swallows hard.
• • • •
She was fifteen. Rebekah, thirteen.
They had dared each other to race their bikes past the end of town, laughing as they pedaled into the thick green hush. No cars. No birds. Just frost clinging to pine needles and the scent of sap and something darker.
A clearing. A well.
Bone-white and silent. No trees dared grow near it.
"HELLO, BONE WELL!" Rebekah had shouted, cupping her hands to the sky. "I'M THE MOST BEAUTIFUL PRINCESS OF WALLACE VILLAGE!"
Scarlet had laughed. A nervous, quiet laugh. Her hands were cold. She remembered thinking the bones were wrong. Too long. Too human.
"I don't think you should--"
But the well had already answered.
• • • •
She saw it.
A hand -- too thin, too pale -- shooting from the dark and twisting in Rebekah's hair.
Rebekah screaming. Legs kicking.
Scarlet grabbing her wrists and pulling with everything she had.
It wasn't enough.
She never let go.
But it wasn't enough.
• • • •
Now they are here again. The clearing has not changed.
Snow does not touch the ground within ten feet of the well. The circle around it remains untouched. Hollow.
Rebekah stands at the edge. Her face is hidden, but she smiles somehow.
Step closer, she says.
Scarlet does not move.
They want you.
The trees do not rustle. The wind does not shift.
Scarlet's breath fogs in front of her. Her body feels too light.
Who?
But Rebekah only turns.
• • • •
Black smoke uncoils from the mouth of the well like spilled ink.
Something falls.
Scarlet looks.
A finger.
She jerks back with a sound she doesn't recognize. Her scream sends crows exploding from the trees like soot.
There's more, Rebekah says.
And there is.
Hands. Arms. The broken hush of wet meat hitting snow.
The smoke dances. A howl rises -- low at first, then deeper, until the ground itself quivers beneath her knees.
Scarlet moves.
Not forward. Not back. Just moves.
Rebekah floats above the snow now. Her feet don't touch the earth.
Her eyes are wrong. Too bright. Too red.
You promised, she says.
• • • •
Scarlet tries to run.
The trees vanish behind smoke.
The air tightens. The world folds in.
She turns and the well is open, yawning. Its breath smells like old metal and forgotten names.
Something moves inside.
She's shoved toward it. Maybe by the wind. Maybe by her sister.
She doesn't know.
• • • •
The arms reach again. Bone-white and too long.
They grip her ribs, crush her voice.
Scarlet chokes. She can't scream. Can't move.
Rebekah watches.
Scarlet is lifted from the ground.
She sees stars. Just before the black closes in.
• • • •
The snow is falling.
The tree in the backyard is bare.
Scarlet's mother knocks gently, then opens the bedroom door.
The window is wide open. Cold air creeps along the walls.
But the room is empty.
Just the ruffled blanket. Just the pale pill still resting in the palm of a quiet hand.
• • • •
In the well, a voice sings softly.
It is a girl's voice. Familiar. Wrong.
She sings about snow, and hair, and sisters who do not listen.
She sings until the black water closes again.
And the forest is quiet.
• • • •
And somewhere, the dogs begin to howl.