The decision is made mostly by her feet, which are already moving left while the rest of her is still debating the matter. The Thornwood closes around her like a held breath — one moment there is amber field-light and an unsympathetic crow, and the next there are only trees, old and black-barked and enormous, their branches laced so thickly that the sky becomes a rumour. Mist rises past her greaves. She can hear herself breathing, which is less than ideal, because it reveals she is breathing very fast. Something rustles. She spins, hand flying to the sword hilt — it is a leaf. She leaves the sword alone. The path forks again almost immediately, as though the Thornwood finds complications irresistible. One way descends toward the sound of water running somewhere in the dark; the other climbs a root-ridged rise toward a pale smear of light between the far trunks. Not moonlight. Not foxfire. Firelight, deliberate and warm, burning in the deep of a wood where anyone sensible would be afraid to stop.