chapter one


Whisper Lake


— When a dragonfly lands, listen.

The lake speaks through its wings —

Boldo’s Book of Earth Magic


A dragonfly lands on my palm as I count to twenty. Its violet wings shimmer, then fade. I hold my breath.

It flutters once, twice … then goes still.

Dead.

I crouch in the reeds, cradling the delicate body in my hand. That’s the third one this week.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, and lay it beneath the willow’s drooping boughs, where the roots touch the lake. A small offering to whatever still listens.

Pickles snorts behind me. My donkey hasn’t gone near the water in weeks. He stays by the fairy hedge, ears flat.

I flick away the dark hair that springs across my face like bindweed. The afternoon light is fading, and soon it will be dusk.

"Ready or not!" I call, brushing off my knees. My voice echoes off the hunched trees surrounding Whisper Lake.

No answer.

I glance around. The dragonflies are scattered today, drifting low near the shoreline. Normally, they hover above Nana when she hides. A shimmering giveaway. Not today.

“Willow!” I call.

It’s our game. Since I was a toddler, Nana’s hidden by the lake, and I’ve tried to find her. ‘Willow,’ is what I shout when I’m seeking. ‘Weaver,’ is what she calls back. 

“Weaver!” comes her reply, faint and teasing.

“Willow!” I yell back, grinning.

I climb onto a mossy log. The lake stretches out before me, still and thick with algae. It used to be crystal clear. Now it looks like a swamp.

I scan the lake shore beside the Magic Meadow. Even from here, I can tell it’s changed. The colours are duller, the flowers sparser. That meadow used to grow whatever we needed, chamomile for coughs, blackberries during the blight, bluewort for burns. Now, half the plants won’t bloom at all.

“Weaver!” Nana calls again. This time from the direction of the Twisted Willow.

Got you.

I hop down and jog toward the crooked tree, careful to avoid the swallow holes, ghostly-white flowered pits that suck you in if you get too close. Nana calls them death traps.

Pickles stays put. Smart boy.

Red kites circle overhead, their eerie whistles cutting through the quiet afternoon. Halo soars higher than the others, banks, then traces three perfect loops.

I duck beneath a willow branch, brushing past the silk-threaded dragonfly webs stretched along its boughs.

One glints. I freeze.

Could it be?

I reach up, heart thudding, but as my fingers touch the thread, the glimmer vanishes. It’s just dew catching the light.

I sigh. I’ve only ever found three wispstones in my life. Not bad, maybe, for an twelve-year-old. But now more than ever, I want to find another.

Just one.

But the webs are empty.

"I know you’re here," I say, pushing through dead leaves that dangle like curtains.

A sharp rustle, then a familiar laugh. Nana bursts from behind the trunk, silver plaits swinging.

"Too slow, Belle! Always looking, never seeing!"

I laugh and chase after her.

"Hang on! I need to ask you something!"

She veers toward the shore, stopping just before the waterline. Her walking stick — carved from the wood of the Mother Tree — sinks into the muck.

"I wasn’t really hiding," she says, crouching beside the reeds.

"You literally ran away.” I kneel beside her.

She lifts her wrist, revealing the tong-shaped wispclasp which she uses to pluck a wispstone from a dragonfly web stretched between the willow branches above.

"That’s a bright one.” I wonder for the hundredth time how come Nana can find them so easily. 

"The brighter they are, the more the dragonflies remember," she replies, holding the wispstone to the light. It pulses with a soft glow. "This one still has strength in it."

"I've finished most of the wreaths," I offer. "Twisted Willow, Weary Willow, the Watcher, and the Wishing Tree. Just the Mother Tree left.”

“That one must be woven last. Always."

I nod. Her walking stick, her wispclasp and her home are all shaped from its branches. It is where she lives, after all. Alone on the island in the middle of the lake. She’s lived there since before I was born. She says the island chose her, the same way the valley chose our family generations ago. 

"Dragonfly web for healing," she murmurs. "Wispstones for renewal. Willow threads for wisdom…”

Pickles' ears twitch. He noses the ground near her feet, lips tugging at something green. She chuckles.

“And fairy berries for luck,” I finish, tucking a few into my pocket as Pickles chews his. “Can Todd come to the ceremony this year?” I hesitate. “Just to watch?”

She sighs. "Whisperers only. You know that."

“But he's my best friend. He understands more than most adults. Mum says he’s an honorary whisperer.”

"Your mum says a lot of things. Doesn't make them true."

I look away and stroke Pickles' mane as he edges forwards to nuzzle my shoulder. I pretend I don't mind about Todd. There are more important things to worry about today. 

"The water's worse, isn't it?" I say. 

Nana dips her hand into the lake and cups a palmful of green-tinged water. She sniffs it. Her brow creases.

"Metal. Sour roots. It's all wrong. This poison makes everything feel twisted. The animals won’t drink it. Even the plants move away.” 

"Mum says Professor Wildman's treatments are just taking time. She really believes he's doing everything he can."

Nana doesn't reply.

"She sent me here to talk to you. Says nothing's working because you’ve been interfering with his tests."

"I’m protecting what’s left."

"But if he’s right and you’re stopping him …”

"Belle."

Her voice stops me. Low and sharp.

I hesitate. "Mum’s scared. The lake’s sick. The meadow’s fading. Her business is barely hanging on. And the animals people bring here — all the injured donkeys and other creatures that come for healing — they're suffering too. Pickles was the first, but now we've got dozens relying on those herbs. Mum says if we don’t act soon, the whole valley will collapse."

“Yet still she brings in an Outsider, meddling with things he doesn't understand."

"But what if he does understand?" I ask. 

A dragonfly lands on her shoulder, flickering faintly. Nana touches her walking stick and for a second, the insect brightens, then fades.

"They’re all dying," I mutter.

She sighs. "The balance is tipping. The lake, the meadow, the dragonflies — they’re all linked. And something is poisoning them. Maybe by accident. Maybe not."

"What do we do? We can't just let everything die while you and Mum argue.”

Nana doesn't answer straight away. Her eyes are fixed on the dragonfly, still resting near her sleeve.

"We get rid of interfering Outsiders, and help nature to heal itself," she says finally. “We perform the Wispstone Ceremony, and let the dragonflies rejuvenate their waters. It can't come soon enough this year." She pauses. "But we have to wait for the Flower Moon. Three more nights."

I glance at the sky above the treetops that line the far bank of the lake. It looks the same as always.

“What if it doesn’t come?”

Nana shakes her head, watching the dragonfly float away. “The moon always rises, Belle. But will there be any dragonflies left to catch its light?”

A barn owl sweeps overhead, silent and ghostly. 

Nana pales.

Then a scream splits the air.