“Perhaps it is just a similar-looking tree?”
“I know its shape exactly. I’ve walked past it since I was twelve years old. I knew it when it stood straight, when it developed its crook, and I recognize it now trying to defy the laws of physics.”
“How could we be back? The path has no deviations, adjoining trails, or forks.”
“It could be a giant circle,” Mouse said.
“Are the paths in Thistlemarsh Wood a circle?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “They branch into the town and to the vicarage. Those are just a few paths out of the forest, mind you. There are many more.”
In her mind, she conjured up a map of Thistlemarsh Wood. She searched through all her memories of jumping over felled logs and mushroom hunting in the autumn with Roger and Bertie, baskets filled to bursting. She remembered getting lost with them, then focusing on finding the statues Bertie named. They were landmarks, and although they were not here in this version of the woods, perhaps Mouse’s memory of where they should be might help.
She opened her eyes. “If we were in Thistlemarsh Wood and trying to go through the forest to the village, we would want to go this way.” Mouse walked down the path again.
Thornwood sighed. “The way that we have already tried?”
“Yes, but wait,” Mouse said. She closed her eyes as she walked; then, when she felt a twinge of familiarity to her steps, she stopped and opened them. She was facing a direction off the path.
If this was a mirror of Thistlemarsh Wood, there should have been a path there. An idea struck her with almost physical force. She kneeled at the edge of the trail and gently cleared away the undergrowth. Beneath it, a cobbled path sprouted outward into the trees. The stones were opal white, and when Mouse touched them with her fingertips, they flashed brightly with magic. She grinned at Thornwood.
“See? And to think, you’d been trapped in this forest for years.”
He sniffed. “It looks very different when you are frozen in place.”
“That must be it,” Mouse allowed. “It seems that the path follows the same trajectory as the one in the woods. If it does, we should cut through the center before reaching the path to Tithe.”
They picked their way through the undergrowth, clearing it as they passed so as not to lose sight of the white stones.
“It’s too simple,” Thornwood muttered.
The path ended abruptly at the base of an old oak tree. Mouse cleared a larger circle of undergrowth around the end, but there was nothing more than dirt and leaves in either direction.
She cursed under her breath.
“It was a good idea,” Thornwood said softly. “But it looks like we will spend our whole night searching for hidden pathways.”
“Why would it lead us to a dead end?”
Thornwood shrugged. “Old magic can go bad after a time, especially when left to run wild.”
Mouse caught sight of something else in the darkness. Two circles high up on one of the trees glimmered, reflecting blue. She froze, and Thornwood bumped into her.
He followed her gaze. A piece of the shadow untangled from the darkness. Mouse could make out a striped pattern across a long feline back as it moved. Mouse gulped, her mouth going dry.
“A tiger?” Thornwood gasped.
“It’s the rug. The rug from my uncle’s office,” she croaked.
20
The tiger was faded, its orange-and-black fur a dusty gray. When it moved, it dragged the shadows behind it like a cape. Its furious blue eyes burned as it stalked toward them.
“It could be made of silk, like Smudge was,” Mouse offered weakly.
“Yes, but I am just as unequipped against a silk tiger as I am against a fur one,” Thornwood replied. The tiger’s claws glinted. They were long, and the tips looked sharp. “Besides, those do not seem like silk.”
They both backed away slowly.