The Watchtower

hand. I could feel the right way to go. Besides it was only a ten-minute walk away.
    It wasn’t so easy to stay on course, though. The grass thrashed against me, pushing me left, then right. I’d strayed into an area where it was taller—above my head in places—and thicker. It was no longer grass, really, but some bamboolike reeds that were hollow and whistled as the wind blew through them. The sound was hypnotic—a flutey whispering that took on the shape of words.
    Do you love him? the reeds sang. Does he love you? Do you love him? Does he love you?
    I do love him, I answered angrily, pushing my way through the reeds. And he loves me.
    The reeds chuckled, their dry stalks tickling my ankles and elbows as if trying to get me to join in on the joke.
    Does anyone ever really love anyone else? they asked.
    Stupid question. My father and mother had loved each other—
    Had they? Wasn’t your mother planning to leave your father when he died? Hadn’t your father betrayed her by gambling and losing all their money—your college fund included?
    It’s complicated, I answered, thinking back on all I had recently learned about that last year of my mother’s life. She had been planning to leave us when her car crashed on our way back from a college visit to the Rhode Island School of Design, but that was because she knew John Dee had found her and would try to hurt my father and me unless she drew him away from us. She was trying to protect us because she loved us. My father’s misguided business ventures had come out of the same well-intentioned instincts to keep us safe.
    Or to make himself feel important. He gambled your college fund away not for your sake, but for his. Your mother wanted to leave for years but was only waiting for an excuse. That’s what false lovers do—they find excuses for their selfish behavior. But all they’re ever doing is looking out for themselves. You think Will took the box because he wanted to make himself mortal to be with you?
    For the answer to their own question, the reeds snickered.
    If that’s why he took it, where is he? Where is he? Where is he?
    With that last question echoing in my ears I stumbled out of the field into a clearing. The rock in front of me looked like the rock where I had left Octavia, but she wasn’t there. I looked down the hill in the direction we’d come from, but it was hard to make out the path. Had it been this overgrown when we’d come up it? I looked in the opposite direction where I’d seen the sign pointing to the Tomb of Morgane, but the sign was gone. Was it the wrong rock? I circled it, looking for some sign that Octavia had been there, but found nothing. All I had to do, though, was look at the compass and check that the rock I’d just come from was fifteen degrees northwest from this rock. I held up the compass and waited for the needle to stop spinning.
    And waited.
    The needle kept spinning. I sat down on the rock, my legs suddenly wobbly, and looked around. The spot looked as I recalled it: pine forest, rocks, patches of purple gorse, grass, large rock across the field … but it wasn’t quite the same. The pine forest was denser, the shadows darker, the purple gorse lusher and more vibrant, the grass taller and greener …
    … and still snickering.
    He doesn’t love you. You don’t love him.
    Octavia had said that the Valley of No Return was set with snares for the faithless lover. Once proved unfaithful, you could wander forever directionless in a place where no compass could show you the way. I had come to that place. I had doubted Will’s love for me, and now my love for him, and had lost my direction . Literally. I looked down at the spinning compass gripped so tightly that my hand throbbed.
    No, that wasn’t why my hand throbbed. I dropped the compass and stared at my hand. A dark red spot like a blood blister pulsed in the center of my palm. The compass stone. It was vibrating as if it were trying to jump out of my skin. And it hurt like hell.
    I unwound the cotton Liberty-print scarf from my neck and tied it around my hand, binding it tight to ease the pain. It helped a little, but I still felt that insistent tug pointing me toward the rock across the reeds.
    I wasn’t going back in those reeds. No way. No how.
    I drank a little water and ate half a chocolate bar. I’d wait here. Octavia would be back for me. I slid down onto the ground, leaning my back against the rock, which felt wonderfully cool. At least the