Keefe nodded, peeking around the corner. “I think we’re clear. Ready, go!”

The ground seemed to shift under their feet, but the entrance held steady as they ducked inside, into a dark, dusty hallway.

“We need to find a way up,” Sophie whispered, trying not to think about the tightness in her chest. Seeing the cracked walls and floor dredged up flashbacks of the collapse. “It feels like they’re above us.”

Keefe squeezed her hand. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” But she was glad he didn’t let go as he took the lead, carving out a precarious path through the maze.

The staircase they found was too crumbling to trust.

“What if we levitate?” Keefe asked, pointing to where the center of the stairs had caved in. “It might be our best shot—but only if you’re up for it.”

“I’m up for it,” Sophie said, rallying her concentration again.

Keefe held tight as they floated, and she had a feeling he was carrying her more than she was lifting herself, but she still fought to push against gravity as hard as she could.

“We need to stop here,” she whispered. “It’s this level.”

She pointed left and Keefe took the lead again.

“So, quick question,” he said as they picked their way through an especially dark hallway. “Is there a reason I keep getting this crazy rush every time I touch your hand?” He cleared his throat when he realized how that sounded, “What I mean is, your emotions always feel strong. But now they’re on another level.”

“It’s because I manifested as an Enhancer. I’m supposed to wear gloves, but I took them off to help Edaline.”

She figured he’d pick his most creative I told you so and gloat about knowing she’d manifest another ability. Instead, all he said was, “So that rush was an even clearer reading of your emotions?”

“Probably. Why?”

“No reason.” But when she stole a glance from the side of her eye, she could see a glint of a grin in the dim light.

She was deciding whether to ask him about it, when a strained voice called, “Is someone there?”

“Oralie?” Sophie shouted, racing toward the sound. She hurdled bits of wall and furniture until she reached a crushed golden doorway. Inside was a disaster zone of toppled tables and cracked jeweled trees and twisted balustrades and fallen chunks of starry sky. The air was heavy with the scent of dusty stone and spoiling food and something decidedly iron.

“Over here,” Oralie called, and they found her in the clearest corner leaning over a dark shape. Her hands looked glossy and red and they were pressing on . . .

“NO!” Sophie shouted, wobbling so hard, Keefe had to keep her from collapsing.

The shape beside Oralie moved, lifting its head and confirming Sophie’s horrible suspicion.

“You kids really shouldn’t have come,” Mr. Forkle wheezed.

EIGHTY-ONE

WE HAVE TO get you to Elwin,” Sophie said, dropping to her knees and trying to make sense of what she was seeing.

There was so much red—dripping from his mouth, streaming down his arms and forehead. But the real problem was his abdomen.

Oralie was doing her best to keep pressure on the wound, but the gash was so wide and so deep—and near so many important organs.

“Elwin can’t help,” Mr. Forkle said. “Trust me, I know enough about these things. Sometimes there is no fix. Even for elves. This is my swan song.”

Sophie shook her head, grabbing a tablecloth off one of the fallen tables. “Help me lift him, Keefe, and then go get Elwin. If I tie this around his waist, it should hold enough pressure on the wound to give you guys time to get here. Bring Physic too. And a couple of goblins to carry him. And—”

“Miss Foster, this is one time when your stubbornness isn’t going to make a difference,” Mr. Forkle interrupted. “I’ve had this same conversation with Oralie. You have to let me go.”

“NO!” Tears leaked down Sophie’s cheeks. “No—they don’t get to do this. They don’t get to take you.”

“It won’t be as bad as you think.” His voice had a horrible gurgle to it, but Sophie ordered herself not to think about it.

“I don’t understand his wound,” she told Oralie. “It almost looks like he’s been stabbed.”

Oralie looked away.

“It’s okay, I’ll tell her,” Mr. Forkle said, reaching for Sophie’s hands. They were so cold and slick—and red—it made it hard to listen as he said, “This is mostly my fault. You kept trying to tell me Gethen was important. And I kept stalling. Focusing on the wrong things. I should’ve been at his cell every day, fighting my way into his mind.”

“I don’t understand—did Gethen . . .”

Oralie nodded. “The sword.”

That was all she could get out. But it was enough.

As Gethen broke the castle apart, he must’ve freed the sword in his cell.

But wouldn’t it be ironic if someday I used that blade to chop off your pretty head?

“He came to make good on his threat,” Mr. Forkle wheezed. “But I blocked him with a clever mind trick—the same one, incidentally, I used to make him back off that day at your human home, when he was dressed as a jogger and tried to take you away. And then I took out Brant. Gethen didn’t like that. So he got me back.”

“Wait—you took out Brant?” Keefe asked, his eyes widening when Oralie pointed to a cloth-wrapped lump in the corner. Definitely body-size.

“Mr. Forkle shoved him away from me right as a huge chunk of ceiling fell,” Oralie whispered, pressing a fresh part of cloth over his oozing wound.

“And you’re sure Brant’s really . . . ,” Keefe asked. “After Fintan . . .”

Oralie nodded. “His skull was crushed completely. Gray matter everywhere.”

Something felt wrong with this new information—but Sophie couldn’t piece it together. All she could hear were Mr. Forkle’s labored breaths growing slower and wetter and heavier.

It was hard to see past the blood, but his body seemed to be in a strange in-between state. Like the ruckleberries were wearing off, but hadn’t completely.

“I need the three of you to promise me something,” he rasped. “I need you to remove my body from here. Don’t let anyone see it. And you must promise you won’t do a planting in the Wanderling Woods. No one can know.”