"But the dryads!" Diana cried. "You can't!"

Will's gaze dropped. "Ms. Temson can't inherit it," he said slowly. "So I'll sell it to her."

Diana's eyes grew wide in understanding. "But you're a Temson! You belong here! Especially now that you know."

"No, I don't." He gestured weakly to the woods. "Like Ms. Temson said, this isn't my work. This woods isn't mine. I was raised surrounded by trees, always knowing there was more, something just out of reach. You can't imagine what it's like to suddenly find out . . ." Will looked beseechingly up at the dead branches, searching for words.

"Listen!" he said abruptly, desperate for them to understand. "Now that I can see, I can't help but wonder, what would the spirit of an ash or a wild hickory of the forests I grew up in look like. The spirit of a stately hemlock, an entire hillside of birch, the scattering of wild cherries, lighting the understory with flashes of white in the spring . . . do their spirits even exist anymore? Is it too late? I want to know. Now that I can see, I want to know! Can you understand?"

The two women gazed at him with the infinite wonder of youth and the eternal hope of the old. "How much do you have in your pocket?" he asked his grandfather's sister numbly.

With trembling fingers, Ms. Temson brought forth a faded coin purse and extended two coins. Feeling his chest tighten in what might be grief, Will accepted them. The thin weight of them rested in his hand a moment, and then he threw them into the woods. The sound of their fall never reached him. Instead, a delighted cry and a giggle came drifting upon the heavy air, hazy and golden with the unseen sun. "Your lawyer can draw the papers up on Monday," he said, knowing he had given Ms. Temson her life back, even as he felt something indistinct and indefinable slipping from him.

Sitting ramrod straight before him, Ms. Temson silently started to cry. He said nothing, knowing she'd be embarrassed. Diana begin to fuss over her, sneaking glances at him. "I beg your pardon," the old woman warbled. "The cold is seeping into me. I think it best we go."

Helping her up, Diana looked at him with a new light in her eyes, as if seeing him free of the shadow of her fear for the first time. He held himself back as they moved to leave. Standing apart, he took a shuddering breath. His hat felt rough in his fingers. With a last look, he hung it forlornly on a dead branch and turned to follow them out.

"Plenty of good timber in there, Billy."

"It's William. William Temson." Will scuffed the dry, waist-high grass, looking for the rich loam he knew would be there, smiling as he found it. Sunlight pressed down like a physical sensation, maddening the cicadas into a shrill protest and driving the last of England's chill from him. From beside him came Diana's almost imperceptible sigh as she took in the gently rolling hills of his homeland. It had surprised him when she insisted on coming back with him, and even though it was only to help him pick out his land, he hoped she would stay.

The farmer sucked his teeth, and shrugged. "You want it then?"

Will wrote a figure and passed it to him. The money had come from Ms. Temson. "A loan," she had said as she had pressed the check into his hand and strode quickly away into the crush of airport traffic. The iron-hard look in her eye had forbidden any protest; her stiffly held back demanded they not make a scene.

The man stared at the paper for a quiet moment. "More 'n what I'm askin'," he said, the scrap clutched in his thick hand.

"I want it all. The entire valley."

"We-e-e-ell, I was gonna give my Peggy the lake as a weddin' present. Build her a house."

Will shifted impatiently. "That's why the extra."

The man scratched his stubble. "I want to keep the huntin' rights."

Beside him, Diana shook her head and pulled him down to whisper in his ear. Will wrote a new figure.

"You sure you got that much, son?"

Will nodded.

"It's yours." The man's eyes glazed, and he turned to the rusting pickup. The door creaked open, and he looked back. "You coming? It's a long walk into town."

"No, go ahead." The wine bottles were heavy in his pack, and the seeds were light in his pocket, sifting through his fingers like dry rain. "I think we will just stomp about for a bit."

Diana's hand slipped into his, and the man grinned knowingly. "Suit yourself. Watch out for the snakes, miss." He laughed uproariously, revved the engine, and was gone.

Together, he and Diana stood and listened. Slowly the humming silence of insects, wind, and grass reasserted itself. As one their heads lifted to the lake. "That way, I think," he whispered, and they began to walk.

Spider Silk.

"Spider Silk" is another one of my ventures into exploring dryads where the tree is a prison not a sanctuary. I'm not sure I like this bloodthirsty, devilish, sentient version that might be real or might be a mental delusion passed from mother to daughter. Though the story is told from first the grandmother's, and then the mother's point of view, Meg is the character that I'm most interested in, the one that I'd follow if I ever took the next step, curious to see how she handles twenty when the curse falls upon her fully. But seeing the beginnings of a dysfunctional family has its own appeal, and I hope you enjoy it.

PROLOGUE.

The half-heard singing of her granddaughter Meg was as cheerful as the sparkling creek, low enough to safely play in now that drought had taken more than half of it. Even the water spiders braved its reduced flow, and they danced around Meg's calves as she turned over rocks in her search for crayfish. Sitting on the simple car bridge that spanned it, Emily dangled her feet over the water, weighing the trouble of taking off her shoes and tying up her skirts to join the nine-year-old. Days like this were rare. Something in the wind spilling from the surrounding wooded hills reminded her of her own youth-holding the promise of something new-something all her own she would never have to share.

"Little copper penny, stuck in a tree," Meg sang, head down and her feet finding purchase on the cool stones below. "Tree falls down, and you can't catch me. Little copper penny, as lonely as can be. Nothing lives forever but my penny and me!"

Emily's smile faded, her gaze rising to look past the farmhouse she shared with her daughter and granddaughters to the woods beyond. No. God, no. It had to be a mistake. Leaning forward, Emily clasped her arms around herself, cold. "Meg, where did you hear that?"

Oblivious to the warning in her voice, the little girl straightened, water drops sparkling on her arms. "Penny," she said, beaming a squinting smile up at her with one eye open, one shut. "I can hear him singing right through my toes. Gram, can I ple-e-e-ase go for a walk in the woods? It's too hot in the pasture. I'll stay on the path. I promise."

Fear caught her breath, memory folding time as if the last five decades hadn't happened and she was fourteen, balanced on womanhood and fighting for her life. Penn. Penny. How long had Meg been singing that song? Days?

"Ple-e-e-ase?" Meg begged, her creek-cold hands making a spot of ice on her knees.

Emily's breath came in with a gasp. Reaching down, she yanked Meg from the water, her back all but giving way as the little girl protested when they fell together onto the dry, sun-baked wood. Emily blinked fast as Meg regained her feet, complaining.

"Meg, go in the house."

Looking at the water, the little girl protested, and Emily reached up, pinching her arm. "Go in the house! I'll get your shoes," she said again, and, looking sullen, the little girl went, rubbing the grit from her arms.

Heart pounding, Emily looked past the farmhouse. The sun still sparkled on the water, enticing her to come and bathe in its coolness. The wind in the woods promised sweet release if she would slip under its soothing umbrella-it was a lie.

Her snare hadn't held. He was loose. He was singing. He was free.

ONE.

Hands clenched, Lilly stood outside of Meg and Em's door, listening to her mother's age-lightened voice rising and falling as she told the girls their bedtime story. Leaning forward as if to knock, she frowned. Part of her desperately wanted to interrupt, to stop what she thought might be the first signs of a slow decline in her mom. Part of her listened with a rapt attention, remembering hearing the story herself as a girl when the sunset-cooled air breathed its first relief into her room, the very room her own children now called their own. The wide window edged in white lace looked out onto the woods, and she recalled all too well the times she'd kept herself awake listening for the wolves that no longer lived there, wishing that her mother's fairy tales of a beautiful, mischievous boy with red hair were real. She had wanted an adventure so badly, but he had never come whispering under her window to lure her into dancing in the moonlight.

Feeling ill, she rocked back, hand going to her side. Penn, her mother had called him, her gaze distant and eerie as she told her stories, stories where the guardian of the woods could appear as a clever wolf or take on the face of a trusted friend to lull you to an untimely death in his unremorseful search for a soul-a beautiful boy with laughing eyes and a wont for mischief that no one could see unless lured into sight with the promise of honey. Crossing running water could save you from him, or trapping him in a tree. Dangerous, yes, but he would be your friend if you were daring enough to impress him. Then you'd be safe.

Her mother always had stories to tell. Her parents had been among the first settlers to the valley, attracted to the fertile farmland in the lowlands, the tall trees in the hills, and the cool waters coming from them. But her mother had scared her this afternoon with a frantic story of a monster in the woods, one that would kill unless it was stopped.

Resolute, she reached for the knob, hesitating when Meg asked, "Wasn't the little girl scared?"

"More scared than anything in the world," her mother said confidently, "but she knew that to believe him would let him destroy everything she loved in the world, so the brave girl shoved him into the tree and said the magic words to make the tree swallow him up forever."

"And he couldn't get out?" Meg asked, her voice earnest with admiration.

"Not for years and years, love. And everyone lived happily for a time, driving the wolves away and not fearing the woods anymore. But trees grow old, rocks fall apart, and waters shift their course. Even so, you don't have to worry. Stay out of the woods, and you'll be safe. Promise me that you'll stay out of the woods, Meg. You too, Em. Quickly now."

Lilly let her hand drop and she took a step back into the dark hall as the two little girls earnestly promised. Maybe it wasn't that bad. Her mother's stories were harmless. And they did help keep Meg out of the woods. Vengeful tree spirits weren't real, but hunters often overlooked the Keep Out signs. Not to mention the holes that opened up into unknown caves beneath your feet. The woods were dangerous. Perhaps this was her mother's way of keeping the ever-wandering Meg close to home. Her younger sister, Em, wasn't so venturesome, but Meg . . .

Head down, Lilly turned to go downstairs, shoes silent on the thin green runner as she left them to their bedtime ritual. Her worry trailed behind her like perfume, coloring her mood as she made her way down the narrow, steep stairs, working around the creaking boards so her mom wouldn't know she'd been listening. Behind her, three voices-one old and featherly, two young and off-key-rose in a familiar, singsong chant.

"Wraith by moonlight, hunter by day; Bond is sundered by sun's first ray.

"Blood is binding, blood is lure; Flesh is fragile, to blade's sweet cure.

"Sunder wraith from flesh ill-taken; And bind fey spirit to wood awakened."

Brow furrowing, Lilly looked up the dark stairway as her mother told Meg and Em that they were good girls and Meg giggled at the praise. She hadn't realized her mother had taught them the fanciful, morbid rhyme. It was how her mother had once tucked her in, sandwiched in between her bedtime story and her prayers.

Her mood worsened as the poem echoed in her mind and memories. Pace fast, she went into the brightly lit kitchen, snatching up a cloth to move the dishes from the drying rack to shelves. Pepper, their yellow lab, stood waiting at the door, her tail waving fitfully, and Lilly let her out. The dog's nails scraped as she took the porch steps, and she was lost to the night, leaving only the jingling of the dog collar to show she was there.

Still in the threshold, Lilly's eyes went to the car bridge shimmering in the moonlight. Distressed, she let the screen door slam, agitated as she remembered Meg coming in this afternoon, hand on her arm and unhappy that her grandmother had pulled her out of the creek. Her mother had come in a few moments later, white-faced and distracted with her wild claim, going to her room for hours under the pretense of taking a nap brought on by too much sun, but she had heard her rummaging in her closet. Her room had looked unchanged when Lilly peeked in later.

The creak of the three bottom stairs made her eyes narrow, and she slid the four plates away as her mother came in. Her fiery resolve vanishing, Lilly put her hand on the counter and dropped her head, trying to find a way to begin.

"It's my turn to put the dishes away," her mother said, and the hint of challenge brought Lilly's head up.

"Mom." Lilly blinked, taking in the change in her mother. She was still wearing the cotton sundress with the blue flowers and honeybees, her hair done up in a gray and black braid at the base of her neck. Suntanned, wiry arms were crossed over her chest, and her pale blue eyes looked defiant. She stood in the threshold of her kitchen, almost as old as the house itself, almost as much a part of the land as the creek and woods beyond it. Her incredible stories of danger, death, and temptation had always balanced her no-nonsense, vine-tight grip on the here and now that had kept her family intact through the sorrow and heartache that came with farming alone at the outskirts of nothing. But now, taken to this extreme . . . Lilly was scared.

"I don't care if you believe or not," her mother said, coming to the point with a painful bluntness. "The girls need to be able to protect themselves. Especially Meg. She's too close to becoming a woman."

Arguing was comfortable in its familiarity, and Lilly slumped. "Mom, I love that you tuck the girls in, but I'm the one they come piling into bed with when they get scared. Can't you just read them Snow White?"

Snatching the towel from her, her mother brushed past her to go to the sink. "Yes, a story of a murdering stepmother is so much better than a warning to not believe an attractive man who promises you can have him forever if you do him one small favor, no matter that it will damn your soul and set him free to wreak havoc on a world ill prepared to fight him anymore. No one believes. That's why he will survive. That's why he will kill again. He's loose, Lilly. I couldn't hold him."

"Mom . . . 'Blood is binding, blood is lure'? You're scaring the girls."

"I am not."

It was sullen, and Lilly came forward, hand out, pleading. "You're scaring me."

Her mother pressed her lips together, determination etched in her every move. "I need to go see. Maybe the tree died. I should have kept a better watch, but I didn't think he'd ever remain awake this long."

Fear slid through Lilly, fear that her mother was starting to lose her grip. "There is no tree spirit murdering men who chop down trees!"

"He is out there!" Her mother pointed at the moonlight beyond the window, her loud voice shocking Lilly. "Meg heard him sing. Today in the creek. He can't cross running water, but he can speak through it, and if the tree he was in has died . . . He could be out there right now, watching us, learning what we most want in the world."

Lilly watched her mother go pale. "Bittersweet," the older woman whispered. "He didn't like bittersweet. Do you remember what fencepost we saw it growing on last fall? I can tie some over the girls' window. Maybe it will keep him out."

"That is enough!" Lilly exclaimed, then glanced at the stairs, worried Meg might hear and come down.

"He's out there!" her mother said virulently, eyes wild. "Meg is vulnerable. He hates men, but he is charmed by women and he knows what little girls want to believe. If we don't find him and bind him, he's going to hurt her. People are going to die! People you know and love!"

Lilly jumped when her mother's grip pinched her wrist. "Blood will bind him, but he needs it to become strong enough to be seen, so he'll risk it," she hissed, and Lilly recoiled. "I don't want my grandchildren having to go through that hell! He's so cruel, so beautiful."

Lilly watched her mother's tired eyes fill, and she pulled her arm to herself when she let go.

"My grandbaby," her mother said, head down as she turned away. "He's singing to her. She can hear him. I should have done better. I should have told you the truth, but I didn't want you to have to believe!"

"Mom?" Damn it, now she was crying. Frightened by the mood swings, she put a hand on her mom's shoulder. "Mom, it's just a story," she said as the older woman took a tissue from a tiny pocket and hid her eyes. "It's going to be okay. If you wouldn't fill Meg's head with stories of unicorns and evil witches, she wouldn't make stuff like this up! Nothing is going to happen. Meg is fine! Em, too."

Still she cried, and Lilly's thoughts spun full circle. "Where's your medicine?" she said suddenly. "Do you still have it?" Her mother hadn't had a spell like this in twenty years. Not since Emily's husband had died when clearing a windblown tree from a fence. The weight shifted when a limb was cut free, and the entire tree fell on him, killing him instantly.

"It's poison. I threw it out," the older woman said, grasping her sleeve and drawing her to a halt. "I'm okay. You're right. Meg is making the voices up." Color high, her mother touched her face, smiling even through the last of her tears. "It's just a story. You're right. I'm a foolish old woman who's had too much sun."

Hearing the lie, Lilly's stomach clenched as she watched her mother set the drying cloth on the table and turn her back on her. "I'm tired," her mother whispered, not meeting her eyes as she headed for the hallway. "I'm going to lie down."

"Mom?"

Emily smiled tremulously again, hesitating in the threshold, one hand on the wood, the other clenched in a tight fist. "You have a good night, Lilly. I'll see you in the morning. You're right. It's just a fanciful story of an old woman. I'll gather the eggs in the morning. No need for you to get up early."

Lilly's eyes narrowed, and for the second time that night, she crossed her arms over her chest, angry with her mother. She didn't believe the sudden change of heart for a second. But still, worry lingered as she draped the cloth over the drying rack and turned out the light to better find Pepper ranging in the moonlight.

Beyond the window, the creek shone, a moving, living ribbon of silver. Maybe she should call Kevin despite wanting to gouge his eyes out with a ice pick. Kevin was a prick, but his dad had grown up with her mother. Something had happened when her mother was fourteen, something that no one talked about and had never made the papers. It wasn't a tree spirit, but maybe someone she trusted had raped her and she invented the drama to make it more bearable. Meg's silly rhyme today might have brought it all back. Aging people remembered things from the past better than the present sometimes.

Kevin's dad would know. He'd been her mother's best friend.

TWO.

Though the rising sun was bright in the girls' room, little Em was still asleep, and Lilly eased the door shut, smiling at the pout the four-year-old was wearing. Her smile faded quickly as she went downstairs, the air becoming cooler, but no less humid. It was going to be a scorcher of a day, and she was glad the hay had come in already, filling the barn where her art studio was with the scent of summer.

The chance to lose herself in her work pulled at her, her restless sleep filled with images of honey-eyed wolves. She blamed her mother, and she slipped into the kitchen, seeing the basket of newly washed eggs next to the sink.

It was quiet, even for a lonely farmhouse at the edge of nothing. The come-and-go squeak of the porch swing mixed with the ever-present crickets and bubbling creek, and she leaned on tiptoe over the sink to look out onto the porch. Meg was in the long swing, a half-melted Popsicle in her grip, Pepper sprawled out beneath her. The sun bathed her in its glow, and the nine-year-old girl in her shorts and straight brown hair looked wisely innocent-a small spot of quiet intelligence calmly swinging as if waiting for something to come up the road, something she wouldn't share with her mother.

"Good morning, Meg," she said softly out the open window, holding the faded curtain aside so she could see her daughter's blue-stained smile. "You're up early. Where's Gram? Still in the barn?"

The creak of the long swing slowed, but didn't stop. "She went for a walk in the woods." Meg pulled her attention from the car bridge, twisting to pull her legs up under her as blue dripped from a bent knuckle.

Meg's words tightened through Lilly. She drew back in, her hand looking like her mother's for the first time as it let go of the curtain. Her mother had said she was going to go into the woods to see if her dryad's tree had decayed. This fantasy had gone on long enough.

Brow furrowed, Lilly headed for the porch, her sneakers silent on the faded linoleum. The squeak and slam of the screen door shocked through her, and she forced a smile so as not to worry Meg. "She went into the woods?" she asked, coming to sit beside Meg and keep the swing moving. "What for?"