The transition from the cobblestones of Bellmere to the mulched, rotting earth of the Old Forest was abrupt. The air changed. The smell of coal smoke and wet brick vanished, replaced by the scent of pine needles, wet decay, and something copper-sharp.
The trees here were old. They were twisted, ancient sentinels that blocked out the scant moonlight. The darkness was absolute, save for the weak, yellow beam of Isadora's lantern, which she kept shuttered low to avoid drawing attention.
They moved in silence, slipping through the underbrush. Isadora's heart beat a frantic rhythm against her ribs. Every shadow looked like a monster. Every snapping twig sounded like a gunshot.
"Izzy," Bram whispered, tugging on her hand. "Look."
Isadora stopped. She followed his pointing finger.
