EverWorld (Book 3 of the Down World Series)

Part Two, Chapter Nineteen

I was in the woods. And I was alone.

The night was warm, with a full moon streaking through the treetops, casting the soft pine needles that blanketed the ground in an amber light. Overhead, I heard a night bird singing, a call that reminded me of a flute hitting the same melancholy note over and over again. Water trickled somewhere in the distance.

"Adam," I called out, my voice too thin, like it was trapped inside a seashell. "Adam."

Nothing.

I steadied my breath, trying to make sense of it, as I stared at my bare finger. Even the indent of the ring had disappeared. Then I looked around, taking in my surroundings.

I didn't see any manmade structures. It seemed like virgin forest, untouched by humankind. Amalia had called this door "home," but that could mean a million things. One glance down at my body told me that I hadn't aged when crossing over. So maybe I had been wrong about the door leading to the future; maybe it was the past. A simpler time. Unpolluted. Clean. A time before I knew Adam, maybe? That would explain the missing ring.

I looked up through the canopy of trees to seek out starlight. When Adam and I had gone back to the 1940s, that had been the biggest difference in the physical world—so clean you could see every star in the heavens. But the brightness of the moon blew out any other body in the sky. There were no landmarks to indicate a time period.

I realized I was still holding my invention in my hand, and that's what made me think of it. Of course Adam wasn't here. The invention had been the token that had led me to this place—the place Amalia had intended for me. Adam had crossed with nothing in his hand.

So where had DW taken him?

I put the invention in my pocket now. Then I took off my wool Boston sweater and tied it around my waist as I walked, shaking away a sudden onslaught of nerves.

"There she is."

I whipped around. Someone had whispered. I could have sworn. But it must've been a squirrel or something. Maybe a night owl.

And then giggling. Like a child.

No, more than one child. A muted giggling into tiny little palms. They were in the woods, spying on me. Hide and seek.

I turned to look and I heard them scurrying away. So they weren't supposed to be there, or they weren't supposed to be watching me.

"Hello?" I called out.

And I was greeted by more giggling in more hidden pockets of the woods.

I stopped walking, scanning every dark thicket of trees for obscured faces. I wasn't scared of children. But if there were children, that meant there were parents.

"You can come out," I called, singing the last note. "I won't bite." When I had taught robotics to little kids last year, I had learned more than a few tricks to get them to open up. They just need to think that it was a game, and that they were in charge of it.

"She's finally here," another little voice whispered. And then they all began talking at once. "She's beautiful." "I like her hair." "I thought she'd be taller." "She looks just like—"

"Come out," I called. "I'm lost in the woods and I need your help."

"I'll help you," said a little girl as she stepped out into the moonlight. She was young, maybe seven, and she had long, straight dark hair that reached her lower back. She was wearing a simple dress that looked like it might have been sewn out of something else—sheets or canvas.

"What's your name?" I asked, hoping she could see my friendly smile in the moonlight.

"Remedios."