What had happened? What had she done, and why couldn’t she remember any of it?

Hazel forced herself into the shower, turning the tap to as hot as she could stand it. Under the water, she was able to work glass splinters out of her hand, tiny beads of blood swirling away down the drain. She was able to wash away the mud and to stop trembling. But she was still no closer to having any answers.

What had she done?

Her muscles hurt, as though she’d strained them, but that and the dirt and the shards of glass didn’t add up to anything. She was breathing too fast, no matter how much she tried to tell herself to be calm, no matter how much she tried to tell herself that she’d known this was coming, that the hardest part was waiting, and that she ought to be glad that she could finally get it over with.

Five years ago, when Hazel was nearly eleven years old, she’d made a bargain with the Folk.

She had crept down to the hawthorn tree on a full-moon night, just before dawn. The sky was still mostly dark, still dusted with stars. Strips of cloth fluttered from the branches above her, the ghosts of wishes. She’d left her sword at home, out of respect, and hoped that even though she’d hunted some of the Folk—the bad ones—they would still bargain with her fairly. She was very young.

Keeping what she wanted in mind, Hazel crossed the ring of white stones and waited, sitting on the dew-wet grass under the hawthorn, her heart beating mouse-fast. She didn’t have to wait long. A few minutes later a creature loped from the woods, a creature she had no name for. It had a pale body and crept on all fours, with claws as long as one of her fingers. It was pink around the eyes and around its too-wide mouth, which was filled with jagged, sharklike teeth.

“Tie your ribbon to the tree,” hissed the creature, a long pink tongue visible when it spoke. “Tell me your wish. I bargain on behalf of the Alderking, and he will give you all that you desire.”

Hazel had a strip of cloth she’d cut from the inside of her favorite dress. It fluttered in her hand when she took it from her pocket. “I want my brother to go to music school in Philadelphia. Everything paid for, so that he can go. In return, I’ll stop hunting while he’s away.”

The creature laughed. “You’re bold; I like that. But, no, I’m afraid that is no sufficient price for what you want. Promise me ten years of your life.”

“Ten years?” Hazel echoed, stunned. She’d thought she was prepared to bargain, but she hadn’t guessed what they’d ask for. She needed Ben to be better at music. She needed them to be a team again. When she went hunting without him, she felt lost. She had to make this bargain.

“You’re so very young—stuffed with years yet to come. Won’t you give us a few?” asked the creature. It padded closer, so that she could see its eyes were as black as pools of ink. “You’ll hardly miss them.”

“Don’t you all live forever?” Hazel asked. “What do you need anybody’s years for?”

“Not anyone’s years.” It sat, its claws kneading the dirt in a way that made the creature appear both bored and menacing. “Yours.”

“Seven,” said Hazel, remembering that Folk were fond of certain numbers. “I’ll give you seven years.”

The creature’s smile went even wider. “Our bargain is made. Tie your cloth to the tree and go home with our blessing.”

Lifting her hands, fabric fluttering between her fingers, Hazel hesitated. It had happened so quickly. The creature had agreed without any counteroffers or negotiation. With cold, creeping dread, she became more and more sure she’d made a mistake.

But what was it? She understood that she’d die seven years sooner than she would have, but at ten, that was so vastly far in the future it seemed closer to never than now.

It was only on the walk home through the dark that she realized she had never specified that those years be taken from the end of her life. She’d assumed. Which meant they could carry her off any time they wanted, and, given how differently time was said to run there, seven years in Faerie might be the rest of her life in the mortal world.

She was no different from anyone who’d ever gone to wish at the tree. The Folk had gotten the better of her.

Ever since that night, she’d been trying to forget that she was living on borrowed time, trying to distract herself. She went to all the parties and kissed all the boys, shoring up fun against despair, against the suffocating terror that loomed over her.

Nothing was ever quite distracting or fun enough, though.

Standing in that shower, Hazel thought again of the walnut and the message inside: Seven years to pay your debts. Much too late for regrets.

She understood the warning, even if she didn’t understand why the Folk were being so considerate as to give her one. Nor did she understand why, if now was the time that she was to be taken, she was still in her bedroom. Had she been taken last night and returned? Is that why she woke up muddy? But then why did they return her? Were they going to take her again? Had seven years passed in a single mortal night? No one, certainly not her, would get that lucky.

Padding to her closet, towel clutched around her, she tried to think of what she could do.

But the note was right. It was much too late for regrets.

Picking out a navy dress dotted with tiny pink-and-green pterodactyls and matching green wellies with a clear umbrella, Hazel hoped that the cheerful outfit would help her stay cheerful, too. But as she sat on the bed to pull on the boots, she noticed there was a mess by the window. Mud, streaking the lintel, smeared on the glass pane—and something written in mud on the wall beside it: AINSEL.

Hazel went closer and squinted at the word. It could be the name of someone who was helping her, but it seemed just as likely to be the name of someone she should fear, particularly scrawled as it was, horror-movie style, across the pale blue paint of her wall.

It was incredibly creepy to think of some creature following her back to her room, one of the Folk crouched on her bedroom floor, painting the letters with a bony finger or sharp claw.

For a moment she considered going downstairs and telling her brother everything—the bargain, the note, waking up with the mud on her feet, her fear that she was going to be taken without ever getting to say good-bye. Once, he’d been the person she trusted most in the world, her other half, her co-conspirator. They’d hoped to right all the wrongs of the town. Maybe they could be close like that again, if only there were no more secrets between them.

But if she told him everything, then he might think what was happening was his fault.

She was supposed to take care of herself—that was part of what she’d promised him. She didn’t want him to know how badly she’d failed. After Philadelphia, she didn’t want to make things worse again.

Taking a deep breath, steeling herself to not say anything, she went downstairs to the kitchen. Ben was already there, packing his backpack with stuff for lunch. Mom had left a plate of homemade kale-granola-raisin bars sitting on the table. Hazel grabbed two while Ben poured coffee into mason jars.

On the way to school, Ben and Hazel barely spoke, eating their breakfast and letting the scratchy speakers of his Volkswagen Beetle fill the car with the nearest college station’s morning punk playlist. Ben yawned and seemed too sleepy to talk; Hazel watched him and congratulated herself on acting normal.