Line-dried laundry and the purple flowers that used to grow in the window boxes of his preschool, the warm and bright fragrance swirled around Dickens. They had been driving for hours. In silence.

Inhaling, Dickens leaned his head out of the passenger side window. He glanced over at Kennedy. The seasoned tracker had a death grip on her steering wheel. The page fought back the urge to ask Kennedy what was wrong?

Philly and its sticky heat had melted into Delco sprawl into Lancaster horse and mugginess. Now there was just a single pale road through a field of poppies. They were on their way to the Tree. Whatever that was.

Dickens picked up a sweetness on the air like saltwater taffy soft from summer on the boardwalk. His grandmother had taught him in the ways of the Order, those who preserve thr power of storytelling. He’d only started his apprenticeship last summer. Going on this quest to recover the talisman stolen from his grandmother’s house had taught him so much more.

Kennedy’s car entered an antique covered bridge. The car eased over the groaning wooden road. One the other side there were trees: pink furry trees, corkscrew-shaped trees, trees with big polka dots. Dickens gasped.

Up ahead a forest of tree houses lay before them like an open page. A cookie covered bush waved as they passed.

“Welcome home, Kennedy.”

Bristling, Kennedy gave a quick nod and floored it.