There's not much shrubbery in Leng, no towering forests like the one around Ulthar. That means next to no cover, except for some of the onyx and marble houses and monasteries. But we do come across a grove of pomegranates and honeysuckles.

These pomegranate trees aren't tall, only about ten feet, but we manage. The scarlet fruits hang from the thick leaves like swollen bulbs. I imagine they'll only get bigger with what I saw in the wicker baskets.

My hand hovers over one yellow flower, thinking of how I'd pick and eat the ones that grew over the playground fence. But it feels wrong. Like a trap. If I eat something, I might find myself lost here. Then again, I'm already a part of this world, aren't I? Even drifting along, I belong somewhere in the Dreamlands.

Somewhere.

As we weave through the grove, the air feels different. Tighter. The sky above us is different. Once colorless, a purple light ripples through the dim clouds.

I see a temple in the distance, like the monastery I saw before. A series of temples. Rectangular, onyx with something blue patterning the sides. Maybe sapphires. This might actually be the monastery, but from another side. Pickman said if she's anywhere, it's here. He stops us.

"Wait here," he says. I'll go call assistance." And he leaves us. I crouch with Caramel and Moggy there, listening for any rustles or footsteps. After some time, I swear I hear a howl in the wind. It sends a chill down my spine.

I move closer to the building, so I can see around one of the sides. The front, maybe. I'm sure Pickman won't mind if I move, what, five, twenty feet.

My throat closes up again as I wait for Pickman. But before I can get too stuck inside my own mind, Caramel jumps on a branch and meows. Small dots line the horizon.

A procession of about twenty people approaches the temple, many of them carrying baskets of glistening pomegranate seeds. I catch Moongirl's father near a palanquin covered in silver like, like strips of the moon.

Moongirl. It has to be. Trapped in there.

I can't wait. I stand.

"Mraw," Caramel says in alarm, looking down at me.

I cross my arms. "C'mon."

"Mrah."

I huff. "Yeah, yeah, no splitting up. That's just in movies."

"What are you doing?" Moggy says.

I start to pace. "I can't believe you're taking her side." When I hear rustling in the bushes, I stop. But it's Pickman, and relief floods me. So why is my stomach cramping?

"You moved," he says dryly.

I point to the temple. "I saw them take her in there."

"Did you see her?" he asks.

"No," I say, "but I know it's her."

"It'll be some time before the ghouls get here."

"How long?" I ask Pickman. "Ten minutes? An hour?"

"Less than an hour." It's hard to judge his emotions in his ghoul form. If he thinks that that'll make me shut up, he doesn't know me at all.

"But more than twenty minutes?" I ask.

"I'm not sure," he says. "Time never quite works the same as it did in Boston."

I bite the inside of my cheek. "What if we don't have that much time?"

"Trust me," he says, and I learn back, shoulders all tense.

It's hard to trust. Whether it's a normie or a moldy werewolf who likes to paint. I don't know him that well. Maybe one day. Maybe one day we can sit and share stories. He can tell me what it was like being an artist of the macabre in Boston. But now, we don't have time for that.

"We can't wait," I tell him. "If we wait for too long, she'll be gone."

"These ceremonies often take hours. But, then, let's wait a few minutes. Fifteen."

"Five," I say.

"Ten."

"Seven and a half." Just because I trust him enough to wait doesn't mean I want to sit around for fifteen freaking minutes.

He releases a reedy sigh through his snout. "Fine."

"Okay." I look over at Caramel and Moggy. Caramel has been watching this whole time from her pomegranate branch while Moggy has started to eat some bark like it's a candy bar. "Who's keeping time?"

"Mrah," Caramel says, slowly blinking at me.

Reaching up, I scratch behind her ears. "I always know I can count on you."

Thing is, none of us have watches. I try to keep count in my head, but numbers get mixed up for me; I couldn't even get far in my multiplication tables until my third grade teacher scoffed and said I was an embarrassment.

We go toward the back of the large temple. There are several doorways, and Pickman sniffs the doors until he points toward one. When we go in, the lights in the hall we're in are dim, but the walls and floor are a shiny blue. I take the lead and sneak through, until I hear faint voices. Quiet but constant, like praying. We enter one room that's just full of Great One statues. Some with horns, some without. Some with tentacles, some without. And baskets of pomegranate seeds we need to be careful not to spill anywhere.

When I find where the voices heighten, my heart cramps in my chest. We freeze in the dark shadows of the hall. We're behind the main room. Light leaks from the latticed windows and a high door.

Moongirl.

Staring ahead, she kneels on a dais covered in silver rugs. I wish I didn't know that feeling of going numb inside and looking ahead, entering your own soft, sunny spot inside to let time around you pass. I can barely see her horns because of a giant crown of asphodels that almost eclipses her eyes. Flowers upon flowers, with pomegranates, split open and leaking red, around her. Even her silver wedding dress has flowers sewn into it, red petals twisting down the skirt.

Her eyes meet mine.

She stares. Blinks once, like she can't believe what she's seeing. Like I'll disappear. When she breaks her gaze away, she looks at the crowd. I can't see most of the people, but I think she must be looking at her dad. Because from what I see of the corner of her eyes, there's regret. Doubt.

She looks at me again, and when she stands, the air shifts. The rustle of fabric, people who were unmoving feeling something is wrong.

Her father goes to her side and whispers something. She shakes her head, her eyes falling to his hand gripping above her elbow. Something snaps in her, and she tumbles off the dais, away from me, and tries to go out the front entrance. Horrified, I run out, and the others follow. Moongirl's father has caught her, but Moggy leaps forward, tendrils on his face writhing, and sinks his teeth into the man's arm.

We don't get far anywhere before a web of hands comes stretches over us, around us. A man goes to stand from one of the pews and lunges with a knife in his hand. Thinking quick, I sling my bag off my back and whack him in the head with it, forgetting it has a pretty thick wine bottle in it. He crumples to the tiles.

Before we can get overwhelmed, several long shapes fill the entrance, their shadows rushing along the temple murals of Great Ones and the sea. Immediately, they leap and dash around all the people in the temple, acting as shields as we run toward the back. Moongirl sweeps her hand forward, clasping mine as we run. Her grip is cold, but gets warmer.

As we go, I hear a plaintive voice. "No, please, not my daughter." But as we go, Moongirl doesn't look back, even when tears escape her eyes. In our escape, we bowl into the baskets, scattering the seeds everywhere.

We barrel out the temple exit and keep running. As we go, I look back and forth for an escape route besides, you know, running forever. I wonder what the people of Leng use for long travel, if anything; I haven't seen any zebras.

Moongirl gives a sharp breath. The wind catches her dress, and she braces herself. I touch her back to keep her steady.

Trying to catch her breath, her wedding dress ripped at the shoulder, Moongirl says beside me, "I can't believe you came back." Her face is slightly paler, her pupils bigger.

I sweep my black curls over my shoulder. "Oh, c'mon. What, did I really give the 'ditch my friends' vibe?"

She looks down, and I swear her cheeks get a little darker. "Friends."

"Yeah."

In a lonely world where she was meant to get married to a Great One. Have their offspring. Live in a basalt cottage by the sea, growing old as she collected fish spines on the white beach and had to let the Great One do what they wished for fear of death. And death might be the nicest option.

After we've run for several minutes, we stop for a brief rest. Moongirl worries her nails on one of her horns. "If the gods are angered, I'm afraid. I don't want you to be hurt because of me. I'm the only one who's supposed to be punished."

I meet her eyes, heart beating quick in my throat. "If they're angry, we'll face them together."

She swallows thickly. I raise my hands. But stop because I don't want to do anything she's uncomfortable with. She sucks in her bottom lip, tears filling her eyes, and nods.

My hands glide around her arm, settling on her back as she takes a deep breath and eases her head on my shoulder. I still smell the asphodels that flew out of her hair. A hint of sweetness, but also something strong, burning. Like ash.

Not far from us, a high sound erupts in the air, then another. Flutes. My hair stands on end.

"That means I'm missed," Moongirl says.

I palm the whistle in my pocket. "Then, let's go."

We flee out of the grove, desperately heading back toward the white wasteland, the cold, onyx spires of Kadath.