From the natural curves of the wood where root and wall met — green and smooth, the living tendrils of the tree responding to a direction she couldn't see being given.
They came slowly.
Not rushing, not violent, the patient deliberate movement of something guided rather than aggressive.
The first one found her right wrist.
The touch of it was warm — surprising, warm, not the cool dampness she'd expected, genuinely warm the way living wood is warm in sunlight. It circled her wrist once, twice, gentle, and then the other end of it found the carved protrusion in the bed frame and 'held.'
Vivian pulled.
The vine gave a centimeter. Then held.
"'Stop—'" Her left hand reached for the vine at her wrist and found itself caught by another one, equally warm, equally patient, securing her other arm to the opposite side of the bed with the same unhurried certainty.
She was on her back.
