Excerpt

There were few people out on such a miserable morning. Jes kept her eyes and ears open and avoided the road as she walked toward the stone column, passing through fog that made her feel as though she were floating through the world like a ghost, not quite a part of anything. The fog made it hard to keep her bearings and dulled the distant thuds of hooves over the hard-packed dirt road that she would have heard more clearly on a nicer day.

It was a lonely feeling, but not a bad one.

She wished she still had her cloak with its deep hood to keep her face dry and was glad when she finally reached the shelter of the woods at the bottom of the stone column. She was damp from hair to boots by then, her skin as bumpy as a freshly plucked chicken's.

The woods, for their part, were darker than yesterday, eerily silent, with not a single bird willing to brave the rain to offer a song. The leaves kept much of the rain off, though, and the damp air carried scents of mushrooms, moss, and last autumn's rotting leaves. Jes inhaled deeply. She wished she had some matches and dry wood.

Point taken, Mother dear, she thought as she fluffed the water from her hair, then set off in search of edible mushrooms. There were dogs that could sniff them out, and pigs were supposed to be good at it, but Jes had never had the knack. Even without assistance, though, she found a few small patches as she made her way through the woods. Enough to garnish a soup, anyway.

At the edge of the woods Jes passed a decrepit woodcutter's shed—the only sign of human presence she'd seen near the mountain. She stepped out from the trees and picked greens as quickly as she could, working her way around the side of the column. She was about to dart back into the woods for shelter when she stopped in her tracks, rain dripping down her face as she looked up, eyes wide, mouth gaping.

The stone column, which had been so remarkably featureless the day before, now appeared to have a vertical garden growing up one side. Leaves, deep green and vaguely heart-shaped, each larger than her bed at home, extended outward, glistening in the rain. Narrow tendrils reached out from beneath the leaves and hugged the smooth stone wall.

It can't be.

Jes blinked, but the leaves didn't disappear. She stepped closer on shaking legs, still telling herself she wasn't seeing what she thought she saw.

Beneath the leaves, a trio of vines twined together, each of them at least three times as thick as her body.

Beanstalks.

Magic beanstalks.

White spots appeared in front of Jes's eyes and she crouched with her hands resting on her legs, unwilling to risk fainting onto the cold, wet ground. When her head cleared she looked up, stood, and stepped closer.

It was only when she touched one of the leaves, finding it cold, stiff, and solid, that she decided she'd be a fool to disbelieve what was in front of her.

Her heart pounded. Real magic. Whether it was the beans themselves, the magic of this place, or some combination of the two, this was real.

The old woman hadn't lied. Iola's milky white eyes surfaced in Jes's memory, and she shivered.

Jes grabbed on to the leaf's thick stem with both hands and tugged, but it held firm. Even when she pulled herself up and stood on the leaf's broad base, it didn't bow under her weight. She pulled up her skirt and tied the ends around her waist, leaving too much fabric bunched around her hips but her legs free for climbing. She stepped onto the next leaf, then another, steadying herself with her hands. A person could imagine these beanstalks wanted to be climbed. The leaves seemed to move and lift her, offering an easy path upward.

Jes leaned her forehead against the vines. Her vines—hadn't she paid six silver coins for them?

Iola's raspy voice echoed in her mind. Something to help you escape your troubles, maybe even bring untold riches.

That part was still likely a load of utter cowpats. And yet who would have thought any of this was possible?

She stood on a leaf, sheltered by the lush greenery above her, shaking with cold and indecision.

Two choices, she told herself. She could climb down, forage a bit more, and go home. Forget about this. Accept the life she'd been born into, try to marry a dying old man or a prince who would call her Cordelia for the rest of her natural life—or if both failed, move on to the next town and the next job. She'd as good as accepted it already. It was the sensible path, the one she'd been walking all her life.

Or.

Or she could accept, unbelievable as it seemed, that the old woman had told her at least a portion of the truth and see if there might be more.

There could be anything at the top. Nothing, most likely, and certainly not the lost treasure Balthazar had mentioned. Not even a good view with those clouds in the way. Giants' bones, maybe. Or a trap. Or a dead end.

Cordelia would walk away. Run home, back to her mother's protection and the reasonable choice.

But she wasn't Cordelia. Not yet.

Jes adjusted her bag on her shoulder, checked to make sure her dagger was secure in her boot, and began to climb.