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Morning sun trickled through the crack of the cellar door and down over the steps, spilling warmth across Finley's face. As her eyes blinked open, she found herself wrapped in a pair of firm arms, her body pressed tight against another, cheek to bare chest.

Slowly, she reached up to their face, tucking a tress of dark auburn hair around their ear. Sleep had smoothed away the hardened tension in their jaw, unwrinkled the knot in their brow. The discolored scar that split it stretched farther along their cheek than she had ever noticed before. She'd never been so close. Her fingers traced down over their neck, stopping at their collarbone where just below, their chest rose and fell with her own.

Whatever they may be, witch, ghost, angel—or demon, there were definitely worse haunts in these woods to wake up next to than River Hawthorne.

And maybe it was just the aftermath of all they'd survived together. Being in danger could do that to you, bind you to another through trauma. Tethered to some kinda malevolent bond due to a buildup of chemicals and misfirings. Or maybe it was just because she was literally dead cold, but River felt warm and safe and all over just plain good.

As they began to stir, Finley turned away, scooting as best she could towards her corner of the sleeping bag, but River pulled her back and snuggled in closer. Their fingertips slid over her hip, stealing her breath when they came to rest against the band of her underwear. Before she could willingly release her breath, it escaped her lungs as River's thigh slipped up between her legs. Her body burned with desire and shuddered against theirs. River's lips hummed along her ear, vibrating down her neck, and Finley was sure she could feel the heat of them smiling into her skin. They were certainly in no hurry to let go.

"Good morning," they murmured against her hair. "Looks like we made it through the night."

"Looks like," Finley managed to reply.

River straightened their leg out and their toes grazed hers. "How are ya still so cold?"

"Bad circulation, I guess," she answered sheepishly. It wasn't untrue before death, she'd always been cold. A draft slipped beneath the cellar door and she shivered against them. Their hand, still on her hip, slid down her thigh to rub her leg. "River, do you think the dead know they're dead?"

The breath of River's quiet laugh wrapped around her neck, rekindling her with warmth. "You back to thinkin' I'm dead again?"

"No, not you." Rolling over, Finley turned to face them. As their dark curious eyes shifted over her, the beam of sun lit up the honey gold rings around their irises. "I just mean Béla didn't know he was dead, but he was trapped in the mine so long with no sense of time. I was just wondering if others would be aware."

"Usually, no... That's what makes 'em so susceptible."

"Susceptible? To what?"

They seemed hesitant to say. The sharp line of their jaw, their scarred brow, their cheekbones all hardened once more. "Demons." Their hand came to rest on Finley's side again, thumb circling over her hip bone. "That's why I gotta reap their souls, return 'em to the mountain, lest they wind up in the wrong hands."

"Wrong hands," Finley echoed. Or hooves? "Good to know." While Buckmouse had never directly stated he was the one who procured her soul, he seemed to be the one most benefiting from her finding the talismans. "So you go rounding up the dead for the mountain? That's your part of the curse?"

River watched her closely. "Somethin' like that."

"And that mark you made on Béla..." Finley reached down to lace her fingers with theirs, pulling their hands out of the sleeping bag to study the scarred tattoo on their forearm.

"It's the mountain's sigil. Pointed peak, roots."

But from Finley's perspective, the way the crescents nested atop the inverted triangle, well, it almost looked like an antlered buck. "You drew it out upside down on him?"

"Makes it quick." Circling from one end of her collarbone to the other, River drew out one of the crescents, then tapped her sternum. Beneath it, her heart raced. "Directs the roots where to go. It's just how it was taught to me." River traced back up her neck, sliding her hair behind her shoulder. Every touch set her body ablaze and they knowingly smiled. "And somehow, them roots respond in kind to ya," they murmured. "Opposite ends of the same ol' curse, huh?"

Finley swallowed hard as their eyes lowered to her lips. "And what would happen," she whispered, "if these opposing ends of the same ol' curse decided to bind themselves?" As their fingertips slipped down her back, she curled her body into River with intent this time, legs entwining. But as River's lips parted, Finley dipped her head, leaning it against theirs with a reticent sigh. "We shouldn't, right?"

"We should..." There was an ache in their breath that matched her own. "We should probably go survey the damage. Before we create more here." As River started to push away, the strange pendant they wore around their neck slipped between Finley's breasts. River's gaze drifted down over her, then back up to her eyes. "Boots?"

It took everything she had to resist the urge to pull them back against her body. "Yeah?"

"You're on my arm."

"Right."

An awkward shuffle in the sleeping bag drew their bodies close once more as Finley pushed up to her elbows. River's arm was freed, but they remained hovering over her, their lips barely an inch away. Dangling from their chest, the pendant teased the sliver of space between them. Finley reached up and ran her thumb down the odd curved length of it. "What kind of bone is this?"

"It's a baculum," they replied from the corner of their mouth. With a grin, River lifted the buckskin cord over their head and placed it around Finley's neck. Their lips pressed close to her ear. "A raccoon penis."

And that burnt up any lingering desire right quick. River's smirk deepened as they unzipped the bag the rest of the way and sprung to their feet. Finley stared down at the crooked little penis bone with a curious disgust.

From across the cellar, River laughed. "It's an ol' hillbilly love amulet. But also functions great as a toothpick." Tossing Finley her flannel, they buttoned up theirs. "C'mon. The fact that sunlight is beaming down them steps probably ain't a good thing."

They were right. Not even the morning sun could angle its way through the iron-barred window down the crack of the trap door. "Do you think it's safe?" Finley asked as she slipped her arm into the damp navy flannel.

"Only one way to find out." River zipped up their trousers and buckled the belt around their waist. They ran a hand through their long hair, heaping it off to the side as they slipped their boots back on. Finley's wedding ring shined against their chest and River quickly tucked it beneath their shirt. They must have taken it off before they crawled into the sleeping bag with her.

Tugging on her leggings, she stood up and followed River to the steps. As River tried to push open the door, they were met with resistance. Again, they tried, but winced, cupping their side.

"That wound on your ribs, it's still bothering you," Finley said.

"I just slept on it funny last night."

She didn't believe them one bit and squeezed up the steps next to them. River shouldered the door and Finley placed her hands near the edge. Together, they pushed, sliding off whatever had weighted it down. Warm sunlight washed over them both and everything went fuzzy white for a moment. River stepped out before Finley's eyes had fully adjusted to the brightness and they helped her climb out.

The slate roof of the springhouse had been completely torn off, letting in a full sky of what Finley had thought to be morning light, but the sun was much higher in the sky. Late afternoon, more likely. Most of the stone walls remained upright, still securing the reservoir like the fortified castle she had imagined as a child. But atop the piles of rubble laid a white dusting of snow.

As she carefully stepped over loose slate towards the reservoir, she gasped. "River, the reservoir. It's near empty." Where just a few nights ago the dark water had licked the sides of the retaining wall, it now was barely ankle deep. And frozen.

Beyond the windows, the crick that fed the reservoir no longer trickled down the side of the mountain. Its bed had been heaved and twisted, all gaumed up with sludge covered roots.

"River?"

River kicked at a crumble of stone, barely looking towards the reservoir or out the window. Instead, their eyes were fixed to the locked wooden door built into the side of the mountain. They knelt before it and removed a ring of keys from their boot before standing back up to hand them her way.

Finley's stomach twisted. "Are those my keys?"

"I am sorry to have betrayed your trust, I truly meant to return 'em, but I'm gonna need ya to open that door for me." When she wouldn't take the keys, River slid the smaller one into the rusted keyhole. As they tried to turn it, their hand jerked away. A raw burn blistered their finger.

"River, stop. What's in there? I've never seen it open."

River took a step back, finally meeting her eyes again. "When that rotted hemlock lowered ya to me, I carried ya here, laid ya into this reservoir til your folks came."

"It was you," Finley realized. The hemlock may have caught her fall all those years before, but River had been the one to save her by placing her in the spring. "You're the Greenman from the stories. But what—"

"Before your grandpap kicked me outta the springhouse, I seen your granny retrieve an old book from behind this door, a diary that's been handed down to the women in your family, along with that cursed garnet. I think we'll be able to fix the spring, maybe fight whatever seeped outta the earth last night if ya get that book."

Despite her apprehension, Finley nodded and stepped up to the door. Twisting the key in the lock, she pushed against the wooden slabs and the door swung open. Like the cellar, the walls were all dirt, carved out of the side of the mountain, just deep enough to fit a person inside.

River waved their hand at the opening, but quickly withdrew it. "I can't go through with you."

Looking down at her glowing red ring, Finley figured as much.

Rotten wooden shelves lined the rear, stacked with mason jars, all empty but one. As Finley stepped farther inside, she could see the one held a sprig of hemlock, planted in ash like the first witch's jar she'd found. But no talisman was bound to it.

"Boots? Is it in there?"

Scooping up the jar, she looked to the shelf beneath, unable to see much in the dark. Her fingers trailed through dust and grime until they landed on hardened leather. Pulling the book out, she wiped it free of cobwebs and stepped back out into the light of the springhouse.

Finley tried to hand the book to River, but they tilted their head at what she had tucked beneath her arm.

"Is that...?"

"I think so." Holding it up to them, she watched as their face went from elation to despair. "We'll find the rest of—"

"Emery knew it was here all along?" River sunk to the edge of the retaining wall, staring down at the jar. "I suppose he had his reasons."

"Maybe he didn't want to disappoint you with the talisman missing?"

"Maybe."

Finley sat next to them along the wall and took the jar from their hands, setting it down on the ground. Wherever the talisman had ended up, she was more determined than before to find it for River. As she set the book on their lap, River carefully spread it open.

Drawings of leaves and edible berries filled the first couple pages along with notes down the side. Dated entries described families in the company town, detailing specifically their ailments and the old mountain remedies that Finley's third great-grandmother had tried on them. Other entries were pure gossip and weather patterns.

JULY 1901

23d M  Ada Shields visited with mouth ulcers. Applied ground yellow root to sores. Looks to be the same as Nan Rider. Her husband is likely the source of their shared ailment.

24th T  McAfoos bought a yoke of oxen from Whittakers. Thrashing to day. Rhoda still drinking her paragoric like water.

25th  We Linus hauling coal. Other boys at the lime. Beloved V here all night.

River's finger followed along a more detailed entry:

SEPT 1901

S 21st  Rain to day. Beloved grows ever close to the changeling. They walk to the hemlock to dress its limbs with scrap ribbons of her soiled birthing gown. I have warned her of the child's demonic roots and she knows what must be done.

"Dress its limbs?" River read aloud. "She's writin' about me and Vera."

River flipped past elaborate illustrations of dissected animals, scanning for what Finley could only assume more mentions of themself with the miller's wife. As they opened to the middle, a lock of dark auburn hair laid pressed between a blank page. Dark auburn like what had bound the broken antler to the hemlock sprig in the first witch's jar.

AUG 1908

F 13th  Still no rain. The changeling has taken interest in my Violet, weakening our wards. Out of spite, V has agreed to bind her to the mountain, but she cannot be trusted. The white hart watches us.

River's knuckles tightened around the edges of the book and Finley pulled it away. "River, you're not a demon, but even if you were, I wouldn't care. I'm—"

"Boots, why don't ya head back up to the cabin and fix yourself somethin' to eat." As calm as they tried to present themself, their voice began to tremble. "I'm gonna need ya to feed the chickens and milk the goats."

"What are you gonna do? Where are you going?"

Standing up, they walked over to the door and dusted snow off a long-handled shovel from the corner. "Buttercup will give you them lil goaty eyes, but you don't gotta—"

"Let me help you, Riv, please."

"You can't, Boots. I don't think she'll come out if you're around."

She didn't have to ask who, somehow she just knew. The woman she saw last night watching them in the storm had to be Vera.

"Keep the roots on your side," River said as they opened the door. "They'll protect ya."

Before Finley could follow River out of the springhouse, they were gone.