Before they disappeared, I made the Green Man promise your brother would have a good life. He said his son would live and be treated as a king. It's no justification, but he gave his word, and among the Fae, an oath is unbreakable.
When I made my deal, I agreed to carry a child for the Green Man in exchange for a child of my own. I was so eager, so stupid and excited, I didn't think to make any further demands or press for details.
I was so desperate, so driven by my own desires, that I didn't think about all the many loopholes there were to trip me up.
I don't regret a single day of my life as your mother, and I'd be lying if I said I wouldn't do it again if I knew then what I know now. I'd have made sure to better phrase my deals with the Fae.
Trust me, I know how that sounds. I want you to know I regret the selfishness of my decision and how it will affect both you and your brother.
You are and always will be my whole life, my only love, and I've put you in such terrible danger.
Your father—and I call him that with the loosest of terms—came back for you. I don't know why, and I wasn't going to stick around and ask. He followed us the night you built the bridge for us, like a dog chasing a car down the street.
He couldn't keep up until I stopped at the crossing, and the only reason we got away was because the trees you summoned were so tall, they acted like a catapult when I broke them loose.
He went flying, like a rock out of a slingshot. I was able to get you to Haggara by the next day, and the layers of protection spells were able to give us enough time to bind your powers.
I would never have done such a thing, except under extreme threat, and that's exactly what I felt. We were being threatened, and it was the only way I could come up with to protect you.
He can sense your magic, and I had to make another terrible choice to keep you out of his hands. You had to be invisible to him, and I'm so sorry for the hardships you'll face because of it.
You never did a single thing wrong, my sweet girl. Not one thing. I bound your powers to keep him from seeing you, and I made Headmistress Le Doux their keeper. I'm going to try to lead him away, and the truth is, I might not succeed.
If something happens to me, you'll be safe. The Headmistress might seem like she's made of stone, but beneath all that hardness, she considers her students her own flesh and blood. If something happens to me, she'll do what I can't to make sure you have a good, long life.
Per my instructions, she won't tell you about your father, or about me, unless she feels you're in imminent danger.
I can't take the risk that you'll go looking for him, or for your brother because you're angry with me. You have every right to be, but he can't have you, Ivy.
In my heart, I suspect there's a reason he was so insistent on us coming together on Beltane. Something that has nothing to do with the solstice itself.
He's a god of the forest. He needs no rituals or sacred days of power to impregnate his chosen victim, and it must be why he's come back. It's something about you, something special and unique that he can't get from anyone else, not even Ilex.
If I fail, if I can't protect you and he comes for you, no doubt he'll say and do whatever he thinks will make you willingly come with him.
You have no idea how long I searched and what it took to track down someone who knew your father's true name. He is Donnatar of the Western Hills, and among the Fae, names have power. He's immortal, so if it comes down to it, nothing you can do—even with your exceptional abilities—will kill him.
In school, you'll learn all the spells I should have taught you myself, and so many more I never had the chance to learn. Remember, my sweet girl, your magic is as elemental as the rain.
You're a Greene, and our bloodline is as old as Stonehenge. You're also the daughter of a forest god. You don't need spells or incantations, baby.
Magic doesn’t understand English or Latin; magic isn't a person with ears to be summoned by your words. The words you use are tools to focus your thoughts and channel your imagination to mold magic to your will. Feel it in your heart, see it come to life, and know there's nothing you can't do.
I hope one day you meet your brother, that he welcomes you with open arms, and that he's nothing like your father. I hope he can forgive me for what I did. I hope you both can.
I'm going to try and fix all this. If I can, I'll be back before you know it, and you won't know any different.
This is what I want more than anything, and I'm going to do everything I can to make it right. If I can't, well, you won't know different unless your father comes for you.
I love you more than life, Ivy. Please don't forget that.
Mom
P.S. If you do someday meet your brother, tell him I was a fool. Tell him I love him. Tell him I saw him in every one of your smiles, and I thought about him every day. Tell him I missed him. Tell him he was wanted, and tell him I'm sorry for how terribly I failed him as a mother.
The entry was dated September 24th. Six days later, Ivy had been called into Le Doux's office. The Headmistress was as kind as Ivy ever recalled her being that day. She came around her big desk to sit in the stiff chair next to Ivy, and informed her there had been an accident.
All this time, Ivy had been led to believe it was a fire that claimed her mother's life and destroyed all remnants of her body.
Ivy traced the flourishes of her mother’s handwriting, her throat tight, eyes burning with sadness.
“I never got to say goodbye.”
*****
Ivy was awake, Uriah spooned up behind her, snoring softly. She'd managed to eat and enjoy dinner while Uriah read her mother's last words to her. He didn't comment other than to say how sorry he was. He didn't ask any questions or press her to share what she was feeling, which was exactly what she needed: to process everything she'd learned while he silently held her up.
She was exhausted but couldn't sleep a wink. She just lay there in the dark, staring at the salt lamp softly glowing on the bedside table. Her thoughts whirled like a tornado, but she couldn't hold onto them for very long.
She kept remembering that at seven years old, she'd been powerful enough to grow trees from nothing in the middle of the road. Trees big and thick enough to bear the weight of a car and slingshot a forest god.
A forest god.
So what exactly did that make her?
Her whole life, Ivy imagined her mother up on this pedestal of perfection, and to find out Ilsa was as flawed as everyone else, was a crushing blow. It also brought this strange sense of relief to know Ilsa Greene wasn't perfect.
She also thought about how her mother confirmed Ivy needed no spells or incantations to perform her magic. That she only needed imagination and a will to make the plants grow. So much like what Uriah told her that day she'd discovered she could do magic.
The fuzzy memories of Ivy's childhood were returning and getting stronger every day, and she couldn't remember a single moment where her mother hadn't expressed her pride and love for Ivy.
Part of what kept her up was trying to reconcile years of being ostracized by the other witches at school, having her powers bound on purpose, and everything that went with having been lied to, with all the things her mother had done to protect her.
Ivy was deep in thought, trying to weigh what she might have done in her mother's place, what she would do to protect her own child, when she felt a ripple.