# Chapter 12: The Blind Man in the Woods

I didn't sleep. I just lay in bed holding that little piece of burned paper, reading it again and again in the moonlight from the window.

*Sienna must never know her father was…*

*…not dead. He's…*

He's what?

He's alive? He's hiding? He's a monster? He's somewhere far away, living a happy life with another family who he loves more than us?

My whole life, my mother told me one thing about my father: *He's dead, Sienna. Leave it alone.*

That was a lie. Maybe the biggest lie of my whole life.

I hid the paper inside an old book of fairy tales, the one Mom used to read to me when I was small. I put the book at the very bottom of my box of things. Then I sat on the floor and cried quietly into my knees, because I didn't know what else to do.

---

In the morning, Mom was in the kitchen making coffee. She was wearing a pretty new dress, light pink, one I had never seen before. Garrett must have bought it for her. Her hair was brushed and shiny. She looked rested and calm, like nothing had happened.

"Good morning, sweetheart," she said. "Did you sleep well?"

I stared at her.

"Mom. About last night."

"What about it?"

"The papers. In the sink."

She poured her coffee slowly. She didn't look at me.

"Old bills," she said. "From the old house. I didn't want to bring them here."

"Old bills."

"That's right."

"You were burning *old bills* at midnight? In secret? And you screamed at me?"

Her hands stopped on the coffee pot. For a second, just one second, I saw it on her face. Fear, deep and old and tired.

Then it was gone.

"I'm sorry I shouted," she said quietly. "I was tired. It's been a long week. Please, honey. Let it go."

*Let it go.* Like always.

I wanted to pull the burned paper out of my pocket and put it on the table in front of her. I wanted to make her read it out loud. But I didn't, because something in her eyes looked so scared. More scared than I had ever seen her.

What was she so afraid of?

Or *who*?

"Okay," I lied. "I'll let it go."

She smiled. It was a sad, small smile. She kissed the top of my head, and she left the kitchen.

---

Kael wasn't at breakfast. He'd left me a note on the bathroom door, folded in half. His handwriting was neat and sharp.

*Meeting with the elders all day about the rogue attack. Read chapters 4 to 9 of the border book. I'll test you tonight. Do NOT go anywhere alone. I mean it, Lark.*

Under that, in smaller letters, it said:

*The hot chocolate offer still stands.*

I smiled down at the note. My heart did that stupid little flip again. I folded it carefully and put it in my pocket, next to the burned paper.

Then I went downstairs, and Mrs. Holt, the housekeeper, was waiting for me with a big white laundry basket in her arms.

"Your mother usually delivers this," she said. "Every Thursday. To the old man in the woods. But your mother is busy with wedding plans now." She pushed the basket into my arms. It was heavy. "So you'll do it."

"Old man in the woods?"

"Hollis." Mrs. Holt's tight face got even tighter. "He used to be the pack's record keeper, a long time ago. Now he's just a strange, blind old man who lives alone out by Crow's Creek. He doesn't like visitors. But he likes clean sheets."

"I'm not supposed to go anywhere alone."

"Then take someone." She turned and walked away. "But get it done before lunch."

I stood there holding the laundry basket.

An old man who used to keep the pack's records. A man who might know about the old days. About the Moonborn. About *anything*.

I needed to go.

---

I couldn't find Tessa. She was working at the clinic all day. So I asked the only other person I could think of.

"*Me?*" Owen stood in the doorway of the guards' house with his mouth open. He had a bandage on his arm from yesterday, and his red hair was sticking up on one side like he just woke up. "You want *me* to go with you?"

"If you're not busy."

"I'm not busy! I'm not busy at all!" He grabbed his jacket so fast he almost knocked over a lamp. "I'll protect you. With my life. I mean it. You saved me, so I owe you. I owe you forever."

"It's just laundry, Owen."

"Then I'll protect the laundry with my life too."

I laughed. I couldn't help it.

We walked into the woods together. Owen carried the heavy basket without me even asking. He talked the whole way, about his little sister, his mom's apple pie, his dream of being the best guard in the whole pack one day. He talked so much I didn't have to think about anything else.

It was nice. It felt like having a little brother.

The path got narrow and dark. The trees got bigger and older. The sunlight came down through the branches in thin gold lines. We crossed a small wooden bridge over a creek. The water underneath was fast and cold and clear.

"This is Crow's Creek," Owen said quietly. "My mom says I'm not allowed to play here."

"Why not?"

"Because of the old man." He leaned close and whispered. "People say he's crazy. People say he can see things, even though he's blind."

"That's just a story, Owen."

"Then why are there so many crows?"

He was right. As we walked, I noticed them. Black crows everywhere, in every tree. Sitting on the branches, watching us. Dozens and dozens of them. None of them were making any sound. They just sat there, staring with their shiny black eyes.

A cold shiver went down my back.

Then the trees opened up, and there was the cabin.

It was small and old, made of gray logs with a sagging roof covered in green moss. A thin line of smoke curled up from the stone chimney. There was a little garden in the front, full of strange plants I didn't know. Silver leaves, purple flowers, white roots sticking up out of the black dirt.

On the front porch, in a rocking chair, sat an old man.

He was very thin. He had a long white beard that went all the way down to his belly. He was wearing a gray wool blanket over his shoulders. And his eyes were open and milky white, like two little clouds.

Blind.

But his face was turned straight toward us. Toward *me*.

"You're not Elena," he said. His voice was rough and dry, like old leaves.

"No, sir," I said. "I'm her daughter. Sienna. My mom is busy, so I brought your laundry."

The old man didn't move. He kept his white eyes on me.

"And the boy?"

Owen squeaked. "How did you know I was here?"

"You breathe like a scared rabbit, boy. And you smell like apple pie."

Owen looked down at his shirt, shocked.

I almost laughed. I bit my lip instead.

"Put the basket on the porch," the old man said. "Then go home."

Owen put the basket down quickly and jumped back, like the porch might bite him.

But I didn't leave.

"Mr. Hollis," I said. "Can I ask you something?"

"No."

"Mrs. Holt says you used to be the pack's record keeper. In the old days."

"Mrs. Holt talks too much."

"Do you know anything about the Moonborn?"

The whole forest went quiet.

The crows didn't move. The wind stopped. Even Owen stopped breathing.

Slowly, very slowly, Hollis stood up from his rocking chair. He was taller than I thought. The gray blanket slid off his thin shoulders and dropped to the porch floor.

He walked to the top of the porch steps. He didn't use a stick. He didn't feel his way. He walked like he could see every board under his feet.

He stopped right in front of me and leaned forward.

He took a long, slow, deep breath through his nose.

He did it again.

And again.

His white eyes went wide.

"Who are you?" he whispered.

"I told you. Sienna. Sienna Vale."

"No." His thin, shaking hand came up and touched my face, very lightly, like a moth. His fingers moved over my cheeks, my nose, my chin. "No, no. Who are you *really*, girl?"

"I don't understand."

"Every living thing has a smell," he said, and his voice was trembling now. "Trees. Rocks. Rivers. That boy, with his apple pie. Even dead things have a smell." He took another deep breath. "But you? You smell like nothing. Like empty air."

"I know," I said quietly. "I'm Hollow. Everyone knows that."

Hollis shook his head slowly.

"Hollow girls still smell like *something*, child," he whispered. "I've only met one person in my whole long life who smelled like nothing at all."

My heart started to pound.

"Who?"

His old, cracked lips curled into a strange, sad smile.

"Your father," he said.