The Edge of Strange Hollow

the depths of the box.
Poppy frowned. “That … that’s it?”
Her mom let go of her hand. “It’s in stasis! Undone! That’s it, my blue-eyed girl. It’s finding them that’s difficult.”
“Nothing more powerful than blood in the Grimwood.” Her father grinned. “Whatever you say takes hold. Salt and iron will help keep some things away of course, but a blood ward is the only other type of ward that actually works.”
“Plenty of creatures know it too.” Her mom stared past Poppy, her thoughts lost in the wood. “Nasty witches— and the good ones too, of course. Faeries. Some of the smarter monsters.”
Her father shook his head, and her mother let out a delicate snort. “We told people years ago that their so-called wards were just codswallup, not that they listened to us.”
Pinching the bridge of his nose, her dad sighed. “Their wards make them feel better. That’s what they do best. Actually keeping them safe? That’s up to us.”
David and Jasmine looked at each other again and something mysterious passed between them. Poppy could swear that sometimes her parents had whole conversations without saying a word.
Her father ruffled Poppy’s hair before he moved to drop back into his chair, his face vanishing into his book. Her mother blinked, and Poppy could see she was about to return to hers as well.
She hadn’t seen them in nearly a week and, desperate to hear her mother’s voice again—to keep either of them talking to her—she had asked the first thing that popped into her head.
“Will you ever let me come with you?”
She didn’t understand her dad’s sudden burst of laughter, but a thrill ran through Poppy at the thought he might answer.
“What a question,” was all he said.
Her mouth went dry. She hadn’t meant to ask it. Some part of her knew, perhaps, that she might not like the answer. She trembled in the chill night air.
A gentle smile played over her mother’s face. “It’s a good question. You’re clever, and have noticed, I suppose, that we’re not suited to … well, a lot of things.” She threw out her hands, palms open, to take in the room of jars and herbs and papers, and the box of maledictions giving off the soft glow of stasis.
Her father crossed his arms, tipping back in his chair. “What your mother is trying to say is … we’re not really suited to be parents,” he chuckled.
Her mother joined him. “Not at all really.”
Poppy stood very still.
“Our job is to keep you safe. That’s the main thing. And to love you, of course,” her father said as his expression grew serious. “That too.”
A bitter taste worked up the back of Poppy’s throat.
“Yes,” her mother proclaimed. “You’re our little Pandora Sunshine, and we love you with all our hearts.”
“Just Poppy,” Poppy muttered.
Her father tipped farther back in his chair, light filling his eyes as he smiled at her mother. “Our brightest light on the darkest day.” Usually when her parents said this, it made her feel better. It was one small advantage of having an interesting birthday—born right at midnight on the winter solstice. This time the words just felt like words.
Her mother smiled back at him, then turned to Poppy with a sigh. “The Grimwood is not safe. Your father and I have spent years learning the wood … watching each other’s backs.” She paused, her face clouding. “And we’ve had our fair share of close calls, Poppy.”
Her father’s expression was apologetic. He held up his hands. “You understand, right, sweetie?”
Poppy couldn’t move. Her feet had turned to stone. Her whole body had turned to stone.
She didn’t remember if she’d answered. She didn’t even remember leaving the lab, or returning to her tower. All she could remember about the rest of that night was that she’d been cold. Cold from the inside, as though every thought and feeling had frozen solid in an instant. She’d lain awake until morning, not thinking at all.
Ever since then, she had made her own notebooks … though it hadn’t stopped her from stealing a copy of the key and sneaking into the lab to read theirs. That was how she’d learned blood wards could be broken.
She slapped her journal shut and shoved it back into her bag.
She turned back to Mack. He had a goofy look on his face as several of the kids in the valley executed an impressive tackle. Laughter rang out as one team declared victory. Their happy shouts made her chest ache, so she yanked a handful of tiny daisies to catapult at Mack’s face. Unfortunately, several clumps of dirt went with them.
“Ready to go?”
He shot her a look and threw a flower back at her, but didn’t say anything. When one of his eyebrows lifted, Poppy knew they were thinking the same thing. He and Poppy could kick all their butts at that game if they ever had the chance.
“Come on.” She frowned, pushing herself up before melancholy could take hold of them both. “I’m officially starving! Let’s go tell Jute we’re still alive.”
Mack rose slowly, trailing behind her as Poppy hurried to her front door and ducked inside. The low frame made the soaring ceilings, open front room, and wide curving banister all the more surprising.
Poppy almost walked into Jute’s stomach. The tall, thin hob had come to meet them at the door, and stood looking down his long nose at her with a question in his eyes. Poppy had always thought of them as quail-egg eyes, because even though Jute had dark brown pupils ringed in black, the whites of his eyes were freckled with little brown spots.
Jute, like all hobs, had hatched from a tree alone in the forest. And like all hobs, he had then gone in search of a home. Jute once told her that hobs were the heart of their tree, broken free, born to wander in search of a home to protect and a hearth to tend. Her parents had found him as a teenager, jammed into the back of a troll cave. He