I walked into the house on Halloween night and found Adelaide sitting on the living room couch, stuffing Jolly Ranchers into her mouth. Atlas was in the kitchen, eying the crockpot. He turned and motioned to my clothing. "What happened to you?"

I glanced down and discovered I was covered in mud. "I was in the mine. I fell."

Atlas still didn’t know about the Weaver or the demons. Since coming home from the hospital, fragments of memory had pieced themselves together like the jagged shards of a broken mirror. I knew that if I told my husband about what was happening to me, it would only scare him.

The low gray sky hung over the farm, threatening rain. I pulled a wet pumpkin vine up by the roots and tossed it in the wheelbarrow waiting between garden beds. A flock of Canadian geese squawked overhead, flying south for winter. I took in a deep inhalation of the late November air, drawing in the scent of rich soil. My rubber boots were covered in muck, and my sleek canvas coat was streaked with it too.

I spent most of December painting. With the help of the Weaver, my artwork was progressing at such an alarming rate that I entered my first art show and sold out every piece.

I’d been so distracted by my work and the excitement of achieving my potential that I'd forgotten about Her assignment for me. As I was sketching the forest outside the back door, Her voice whispered on the wind.