The Poisons of Caux: The Hollow Bettle (Book I) by Susannah Appelbaum Page A

this, remember, for
years
at the seminary. It can’t be bindweed. Look, its woody parts are simply way too thick.”
    He leaned in for a closer look.
    Ivy shrugged. “It’s just a particularly old vine. No one’s come along to disturb it. If I were you, I’d be careful—”
    She squinted ahead, trying to decipher the slight path as it wound through the undergrowth.
    “—Bindweed moves fast.”
    “Thank you,” Rowan replied stiffly. “But since it’s shadow phlox, and since I’d like a cutting to compare with the
Guide
, I hardly think—”
    But it was too late. From behind her, Ivy heard Rowan gasp.
    “Rowan!” Ivy shouted, turning back just in time. “Step away—quick!”
    But before he could do so—his nose was just emerging from Axle’s book—his ankles were immobilized by the quick-moving vine, and the plant was rapidly snaking up his leg. His balance was thrown to one side, and, as bindweed does, the vine was swiftly making its way up to his chest, immobilizing his arms. Axle’s
Field Guide
dropped to theground, where soon after, Rowan joined it in an unceremonious lump.
    Ivy dashed back and stomped on the advancing weed, putting all her weight into it as it struggled beneath her foot, lashing about. Prying open Axle’s picnic basket, she felt around desperately—her hand finally landing on the neatly organized bundles of eating utensils. She grabbed the first thing she could and poked and speared the ancient thing with one of Axle’s salad forks. Rowan was frozen with fear at the weed’s assault as the tendrils whipped across the path and pulled tightly on his chest. After much effort, the vine finally let go, leaving him stunned and rubbing his wrists and legs. It left welts.
    “I told you it was bindweed,” Ivy admonished breathlessly.
    The taster sniffed, gingerly recovering the
Guide
from the brush. To his great embarrassment, he found his face a vivid shade of crimson.
    “But bindweed can look a lot like phlox,” Ivy conceded, seeing his discomfort. “I might have made the same mistake.”
    Rowan smiled weakly. He somehow doubted this, but he felt better. Still, he found he was far less curious after this encounter. He satisfied himself by pointing with a long walking stick each time he saw something of interest and prodding it, with one hand ready to ward off any assault.
    After arm’s-length encounters with stinging nettles and crampbark—Rowan knew not to get too close—he grewtired of his lesson. He bravely poked at a fine specimen of the unfortunately named pukeweed while prudently sidestepping bladderwrack, but all the while his mind was on the picnic basket that he carried.
    The earth rose in slight mounds to meet the massive trees, creating tempting little inlets of soft mossy bedding here and there—great places for a rest and a picnic lunch. But the last time he’d suggested sitting for a spell, Ivy coldly reminded him that she wasn’t one to sit and dawdle when her uncle was missing. Rowan could smell something remarkably savory wafting up from the basket—ham and cheese on Axle’s thick pillow-soft bread? Whatever it was, it was time to eat it, he decided. He’d insist—just after they rounded this dark tree.
    As they did so, the forest retreated from view.
    “Look!”
    The pair had come to a stop before the strangest sight.
    It was a tree like any other. But impossibly, where the old and gnarled trunk met the forest floor, there bulged a squat and very inviting little cottage, growing—inconceivably—from the living wood. The massive tree and the bungalow had formed some sort of agreement many, many years ago.
    “How completely and utterly peculiar!” said Ivy.
    “I wonder who lives here,” Rowan replied somewhat nervously. He had a particular dislike for strangers lately, especially ones without tongues or descendants of the Taxus clan.
    There it sat, a small wooden structure, snugly in themiddle of the tree. In between massive tree roots, the chimney, an