The roaring of the white-water rapids a hundred feet below faded into a dull, distant hum. The wind whipping through the gorge suddenly felt like ice against my skin.
Aunt Karina.
The woman who had taught me how to braid my hair, who had wiped my tears when the isolation of the woods became too much to bear. The woman I had buried with my own two hands beneath the weeping willow in the Grey Thicket last autumn.
She stood on the swaying planks of the rope bridge, her silver-lined cloak billowing around her. The scent was unmistakable—wild mint and damp earth.
"Hello, Selina," the woman smiled, her voice echoing perfectly over the roaring rapids below. She held out her arms, her face a picture of maternal relief. "Come to me, sweet girl. Cross the bridge. I've been waiting for you."
My
