"I don't know," Hazel said, shifting.

"You don't know your name?" breathed the first.

"No," said Hazel.

The first woman shook her head. "How do you expect to know who you are?"

She looked at Hazel like she expected an answer, but Hazel did not have one to give. The first woman sighed and rummaged through the threads some more. "Aha!" she said suddenly. "Lookee lookee, Cookies!" She picked a long gray string out of the box. It had a puff of wool attached at one end. She pa.s.sed the string down, puff end first, and the three hooded women stared at it as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world.

"Is that me?" Hazel asked quietly.

"It is," said the first woman, raising her head.

"You're like the Fates."

"Somebody had to do it," said the second woman. "This is the sort of place where people want answers."

Hazel stared at the long, ordinary thing. "Does that mean you know what's going to happen?"

The third one held up the messy, unformed puff of wool and threw up her hands.

"Oh," Hazel said. She shifted. "Um, do you . . . can you see my name?"

"Nope," said the first, shrugging.

"Okay." Hazel looked down and began to dig her foot into the ground. And then she stopped. What was she doing? This wasn't about her. "Um," she interjected, raising her voice. "I lost my friend."

All three heads tilted sympathetically.

"That's sad," said the first woman.

"I'm so sorry," said the third.

The second woman looked intently at her portion of the string. "Oh! You're looking for your friend!"

"Yes," said Hazel, wrapping her arms around herself. Wasn't that what she'd said?

"Your best friend," the woman continued. "But wait!" She raised a hand. "He changed." She drew out the last word dramatically, and then turned to the others. "Isn't that like a man?"

The three women giggled.

The second one turned back to Hazel. "He changed. But you came into this dark place filled with mysteries, wonders, and terrors beyond your imagination"-she stuck her hand out, palm first, and swept it though the air dramatically-"to save him."

"Um"-Hazel blinked-"right."

"And to learn about yourself."

"No." Hazel shook her head. "I just want to save my friend. Please," she said, not trying to keep the desperation from her voice. "Do you know where he is?"

"I'm sure we can help you," said the woman in the middle. "But we need something from you."

"Something shiny," said the third one. The other two nodded.

Hazel looked at them to see if they were serious. They apparently were. She exhaled. "Um," she said, taking down her backpack. She had done her best to be prepared, but had not antic.i.p.ated the crazy people. She pushed aside her jacket-which she was not giving up-and change of clothes, and then her hand settled on the flashlight.

"Will this work?" she asked, taking it out and turning it on. She shone the beam on the ground.

"Oh, yes!" exclaimed the third woman. Hazel walked it over to her, and she grabbed it eagerly and then sat there, flicking it on and off.

"What's your friend's name?" asked the first.

"Jack," Hazel said. "Jack Campbell."

"Coming up, b.u.t.tercup!" She bent down and began rifling through the box. She took out a clump of gray yarn and began to sort through it, and then frowned and picked up another clump. She shook her head and looked up. "Jack Campbell?"

"Yeah," said Hazel, a twinge of something in her stomach.

The woman shook her head. "I can't find his thread," she whispered to her colleagues.

Hazel's stomach dropped. "Does . . . that mean he's dead?" she asked.

"No," she said. "I would still have it."

"But"-Hazel looked frantically from one to the other-"what does it mean?"

"Wait," said the third woman, looking up suddenly. "How did you lose your friend, exactly?"

"He was taken. By a woman on a sleigh pulled by wolves."

The women all stiffened.

"Oh."

"Oh."

"Oh."

"Do you know who she is?" Hazel asked. "Do you know where she is?"

"You don't want to go there," said the third.

"Shhh!" the second said.

"We can't help you," said the first.

"Nope," said the second.

"They're right," said the third. "Go home."

"Wait," Hazel said. "What do you mean? Can't you tell me anything?"

They all shook their heads as one. Hazel stared at the women as if trying to pull information out of them with her eyes. And they all looked away.

They were supposed to help her. Why were they there, if not to help her?

Hazel stood there for a few more moments. She would not cry. "Well, thanks for your help," she said finally, and turned and walked to the path.

Hazel followed the path through the clearing and up a hill into the trees, heart burning the whole way. She did not understand what had pa.s.sed. It was like they knew, when they couldn't find his string, what had happened to him. Something about the thought turned Hazel's stomach. Why wouldn't they tell her anything? Was the witch so scary they couldn't speak of her? All she'd been thinking of was rescuing Jack. It hadn't really occurred to her that she'd be rescuing him from someone.

And why wouldn't Jack have a string, anyway? He wasn't dead, they said it didn't mean he was dead. But Hazel knew that anyway-you know when a piece of yourself leaves the world, never to return.

Hazel had a string. This was a strange idea to get used to. She was a puffy, unformed ma.s.s of wool leaving something definite and fixed in her wake. Every step she took in the woods was one more bit of string left to time.

And time was pa.s.sing. Tick tock. Tick tock. The sun was lower in the sky than it should be-she hadn't been in the clearing that long, but it looked like late afternoon now. It didn't make sense.

That wasn't the only thing. She reached the crest of the hill and heard the bubbling of the stream. She had met up with the ravine again-but it was on the wrong side.

Hazel looked around. Was she going in the wrong direction? That wasn't possible, was it? If she knew anything about anything, she would be able to look at the shadows the trees cast and know if she was going backward. But she hadn't been paying attention before. She never paid attention to the things she was supposed to. She never had to, before-there had always been Jack.

Somewhere, hours from here, a cracked Junior Explorer compa.s.s lay on the floor of the woods.

Her heart twinged. Her legs whined. Hey body protested.

There was nothing to do. Hazel stepped off the path and plopped down behind a nearby tree. She rummaged through her bag, and her hand touched on the Joe Mauer baseball. A pang of missing Jack went through her. Then she pulled an energy bar and her canteen out of her backpack for some approximation of lunch. The energy bar tasted as good as she felt.

But Hazel still ate the whole thing, washing it down with water from the canteen. Then she sighed and looked around for some sign of anything. Something squeezed in her chest. She had no idea where she was or where she was going. And she was alone. No one ever has to do these things alone.

Usually, they at least have a friend with them.

Hazel wrapped her small arms around her small chest and looked around at the great trees. She kept her eyes level-she felt all of a sudden if she looked up and saw how far they reached into the sky she would disappear altogether.

And then her eye caught on a flash of something out of place. She squinted. About ten yards away, near the ravine, something white was tucked into the hollow of a tree.

Maybe it was something. Hazel needed something.

She grabbed her backpack and crept toward the tree, looking around carefully as she went.

It looked like a garment at first, a cast-off cloak made of small white feathers. It was tucked away in the hollow, as if someone had hidden it there. Hazel put her backpack down, grabbed a thick stick, and poked the ma.s.s. Nothing happened, so she bent down carefully and placed her hand on it.

It was the softest thing she had felt in her life, and everything that was twisting inside of her stopped. As if there was no need for fear or loneliness when there was such softness in the world.

She picked up the feathery garment-it was surprisingly thick and heavy-and then yelped and dropped it. For attached was a long slender neck that supported a beautiful white head with a black mask and a bright orange beak.

It was a swan, but with no swan inside.

Hazel stared at the thing at her feet. A dead eye stared up at her. It had been alive once. It had been a swan and someone had taken it and killed it for this skin.

Hazel knew about this from fairy tales. There were people who could turn themselves into an animal by wrapping themselves in its skin. It had always seemed to Hazel like the most wonderful power-to be able to transform yourself into something else entirely.

Hazel looked around again and then picked up the skin and let it unfurl. The swan had been no ordinary bird-the skin belonged to a creature bigger than Hazel. It must have been magnificent.

Maybe she could do it. In the real world Hazel was an ordinary thing, a misshapen piece with no purpose. Maybe here she could be a swan. Maybe it had been left here, just for her. She could fly over the woods to rescue Jack. She could bear him on her back on the way home. She would alight just before the edge of the wood and unfurl herself. And then maybe she would hide the skin there, deep in the hollow of a tree, for when she needed to spread enormous white wings.

She held it up. The neck and head hung to the side, and Hazel tried to ignore the way her stomach turned looking at it. After all, she was not the one who'd killed the creature.

She felt naked as she began to wrap it around herself, like a bird plucked of its feathers-all gooseb.u.mpy skin and trembling bones and frail, sputtering heart.

And then the skin was around her and Hazel was softness, she was warmth. The skin settled into her as if made for her.

But she was no swan. She had legs, she had arms, she had a swan neck dangling uselessly behind her. Of course it would never work, not on her. She didn't even know her name.

Hazel walked over to the edge of the ridge, thinking she might catch a glance of her reflection in the stream below. But it was too far away, and moving too quickly. It didn't matter. Hazel knew what she looked like. The skin was just a taunt, just one more thing she would never have. And she was still alone.

She tore the skin off and hurled it into the ravine.

Hazel watched as the beautiful, terrible thing fell into the water. It could not fly, it could not float, because all its swan-ness had been taken away. She stared down at the ravine, and then turned and walked slowly back to her backpack.

And a hand grabbed her arm.

"Where is it?" a voice hissed in her ear.

A woman was standing over her, her hand clutching Hazel's arm like a claw. The woman did not look right. Her skin was sickly yellow, and it hung oddly on her too-thin body, like someone hadn't gotten the size right. Big dark eyes popped out of a head that was a layer of skin away from being a skull. Nearly colorless hair hung in deadened strings over her shadowy, gaunt face.

Fear exploded in Hazel's stomach and she sucked in breath. She could not tell whether or not the woman was human or something else, but it didn't seem to matter, because the woman oozed blackness and rot. Hazel exhaled in a whimper, and the woman leaned into Hazel and sniffed her.

"My skin," she said again, her voice a parched rasp. "You touched it. I can smell it on you."

"I-" Hazel tried to back away, but the woman's grip on her arm tightened.

"Where is it?" she repeated.

"I-I don't know-"

"You think you can lie to me, you worthless thing? Who put you up to this? Were you going to sell it?"

"No-"

The woman's head tilted, and a cracked smile spread slowly across her yellowed face. "Did you think you could use it yourself?" She drew out the last word in a hiss. Hazel sucked in breath in little pathetic gasps. "Did you want to be a beautiful swan, you ugly little girl? Did you think you could fly?"

Her face was right up against Hazel's now, enough so that Hazel could smell the odor of decay that emanated from her. Hazel squirmed, trying desperately to wrench herself free. The woman's grasp tightened.

"You think I'm going to let you go? Is that what you think?" She pulled Hazel into her and clutched her against her chest. Hazel could feel the woman's body against her back, and it was all bone and rattling breath. "Tell me where it is," she whispered into Hazel's ear. "Now."

Hazel should have had a story ready. Something. Something to say that the woman would believe. This is what you were supposed to do now, come up with a clever story. But her mind was nothing but fear and pain.

She could only whimper, "I'm sorry."

"I see," the woman said, running a cold finger down Hazel's cheek. "Actions have consequences, little girl."