Rachel worked it out at the gate.
Not all of it. Rachel never let herself work out all of anything until she had proof. But she stopped at the Windward boundary stones, looked at the two guards in silver-and-blue bowing us through, looked past them at the snow beyond—smooth, unbroken, without a single bootprint in it—and turned to me with her eyes narrowed.
"Lucifer let you in here."
"He did."
"Lucifer. Let you. Into the grove." She grabbed my sleeve with both hands and shook it, as if she could shake the truth out. "I asked him every single winter until I was twelve! I brought him cake! He said his father would skin him!"
"I asked nicely."
"Liar." She was already bouncing on her toes. "Liar, liar—what did you give him? No, don't tell me, I don't care, I'll find out later. Come on."
She took my hand and towed me through the gate before the guards had finished bowing.
