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will calm her, and apologize for not fixing the shadow roll to her bridle before leaving. She settles beneath my touch, and I gently dig my boots into her girth, guiding her through a patch that is not as dense, until we are swallowed whole within the mouth of the forest.
    It is like night has fallen before my eyes. I blink, adjusting to the dimness that steals my breath for a moment, and then we are off again, trailing along what appears to be a trampled path. “Shhh,” I whisper. If I do this at regular intervals, I find I am not only calming my horse, but myself as well. It’s not easy to ignore the tricks my mind conjures as we continue along. This is the Black Forest, the very forest my mother ran into. And when she returned to Eltz, to us, she was dead.
    The hooves of my horse clop along, leading me deeper and deeper into the suffocating darkness, and I find myself peering upwards, searching for a sky that is completely obliterated by arching branches. Shadows are cast, creeping along, hiding behind trunks. There are whispers I am sure are not the wind; from both my left and my right, I hear sounds so strange I am convinced they are otherworldly, more than simply the magnified crunching of needles and underbrush.
    At last I see a structure forming within the shadows before me. It is small and constructed of crooked stones. The smell of charred firewood greets me as plumes of dancing smoke roll from a stubby sort of chimney in its thatched roof. A cloaked figure flees quickly from the door, and I am certain it is a woman by the slight build and the agility with which she moves. Could this be the witch the bishop spoke of earlier? I am immediately on guard and let my eye follow her to where she disappears between a thick wall of green.
    I give my horse a kick, and once again, we are off. The cloaked woman I am following seems to disappear into thin air, and I find myself trapped behind a fence of greenery that divides the eternally dark forest and a seemingly lively village on the other side. Yanking the reins, I lead my horse in a half-circle away from the hedge in order to round back and jump over it, but to my surprise, instead of leaping over the waist-high shrub, my horse rears, responding to the small shriek welling up from the mass of twisted green beneath her hooves. The hedge is alive, and from it a girlish screech rises. Before my eyes the thorny patch sprouts two arms and a leg, scrambling for all their worth to be free.
    “Are you all right?” I ask, quickly slipping from my saddle. “I didn’t see you!” I extend my hand to help the girl from where she is lodged, her delicate hand hesitantly accepting me. Then, with a couple of tugs and maneuvering, she steps out of the feral shrub line, pulling at the leaves and thorns that cling to her. Her skirt is dotted with dozens of tiny tears, yet she straightens it, bringing her hands to her face for a moment while staring at me with intense brown eyes.
    “I didn’t mean to scare you. Are you all right?” I ask again.
    “Yes, I think so,” she says, nodding slowly.
    “I’m sorry, I suppose I’ve pulled you out on the wrong side of the hedge. You’re obviously going into the village, not out of it. My horse can take you over, if you’d like.”
    She looks at me with surprise, and I cannot help notice she is stunning despite her current disheveled state. But I am staring too long, and this makes her uncomfortable.
    “No. I’m headed the right way.” Her voice quivers slightly, but is light and beautiful, like little birds have escaped the dreadful forest and gathered in her throat. I have just come from the forest, spending nearly an hour trying to find my way out of it. Why would anyone wish by choice to go into it? And then I spy her empty basket lying on the ground.
    “I suppose you’re spending the day gathering?” I reach down and retrieve the basket. “I’m not sure what you’ll find growing in there. I would think plants need sunlight