The open, loving relationship Senna had once had with her mother seemed far away and long ago. All Senna felt now was the hollow ache where once light and warmth had been.
After hanging up her sodden cloak by the stove, Senna went to her own room. Traveling. If her mother knew the name for what Senna had done, then so did the Heads. Why hadn’t they told her? Why were they keeping things from her?
Perhaps because by Traveling, she could unearth the truth they were hiding. Which meant she had to try it again. She had to go back to that hidden land.
She changed out of her damp clothes one-handed, put on a fresh shift, and crawled under her blankets for warmth. She imagined herself as a grain of sand at the mercy of the Four Sisters. It came easier this time. No sooner had she let her mind relax than her soul left her body again.
The wind caressed her skin and wrapped around her with the sound of high strings and the tinkling of hundreds of raindrops. Her senses wanted to dance with the music, to sing and be sung to. Though she’d only experienced this once before, her soul seemed to crave it.
She danced across the waters, her feet kicking up drops that sparkled with captured moonlight. She flew with birds, the wind tickling hair and feathers, like she was simply one of them in a different form.
But her joy ground to a halt when the barrier shimmered to life before her. She didn’t want to cross it. Not just because it couldn’t exist, but because she somehow knew they would be waiting for her. But she had committed herself to finding answers, and this was the only way she knew how.
Going through the barrier felt a little like crossing a curtain of honey, but it didn’t seem as thick this time. It was as if it was somehow diminished.
The wind set her down in water up to her ankles. The rocky shore bruised her feet and the chill water splashed the hem of her shift. Trying to discover where she was, she cast her senses of the Earth Sister outward.
An island. Westward, beyond the ocean, was more land—a desert, mountains. Just as she drew upon the Plant Sister, the ground vibrated beneath her feet, and she heard Witch song again. The rocks and dirt stirred beneath her. No, not stirring—shifting. Shifting away from her, as if she’d grown so heavy the ground couldn’t bear her up.
All at once she realized her danger. She bolted out of the water, but with every step she took, the ground only sucked her in faster. Faster and faster she sank until she was buried up to her waist. She called for the wind to carry her away. It surged around her, whipping her hair around her like something alive.
But the wind wasn’t strong enough to lift her out of the mud. All at once, rain pelted her, making the ground softer beneath her feet. Plants and vines reached out to snag her arms, immobilizing her as the dirt swallowed her up to her breasts, then up to her neck.
She was going to die.
She screamed, her mouth filling with dirt. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. Using the last air in her lungs, Senna sang.
Stop.
The trembling ceased, and the plants loosened their grip. Senna clawed her way out of the rough hole and staggered to her feet. Her injured hand ached fiercely, and she was covered in welts and scratches. Breathless, she sang for the wind to take her home. She was lifted from the mud and hurtled across the skies into her own bed, into her own body.
Gasping, Senna tried to sit up, but blankets tangled her limbs. She fell to the floor with a thud and kicked her way free. Her shift was spotless. Lifting her shaking hands, she stared at her clean skin, her pristine bandages.
But her fingernails were torn and bleeding, and she was covered in scratches and welts. Her hand throbbed.
She hadn’t actually been there. It was just her soul. What had her mother called it—Traveling?
But if her soul had died, what would have happened to her body? Suddenly dizzy, she rested her head against her drawn-up knees. A sharp ache stabbed her chest. She felt so out of control. So helpless. It was as if the Four Sisters—the source of her power—had turned against her. Was it some kind of punishment from the Creators, for failing to convince the Discipline Heads to save Tarten?
One thing Senna knew—she needed answers. That required help, and the only person she trusted was Joshen.
What if her attacker was still watching? But there had been only two of them, and one was either dead or badly injured. One person couldn’t watch her all the time, could he?
She fumbled to dress, found her damp cloak, and wrapped it around her shoulders. Then she slipped from her tree house. She ghosted down the path at a jog, breaking all the brand-new rules the Discipline Heads had put in place—rules about Apprentices and Guardians, rules about going out alone after dark.
Twice she had to dart off the trail and wait for other Witches to pass. When she reached Joshen’s tree in the Guardian quarter, she tapped on the window. Nothing. She tapped louder. After her fifth try, he stumbled to the window and stood looking down at her, his chest bare. At the sight, a warm tingle spread from the top of Senna’s head to the tips of her toes.