there she also learns that the student debt she planned on paying off with a professor’s salary has survived the Withering. She takes cheap accommodations in an old hotel by the water, but food has become unbelievably expensive, and she faces bankruptcy if she doesn’t begin to pay down her debt. In desperation, she applies for a job with a vaguely described project located on an island northwest of the city. Though she’s grossly overqualified for the duties of Forest Guide at the Greenwood Arboreal Cathedral, she remains convinced that the primary reason Holtcorp plucked her application from what must have been a stack of thousands, thereby rescuing her from a life of rib retch and dust-shrouded destitution—and, worst of all, a life lived without the steadying companionship of the island’s trees—is the terrifyingly meaningless coincidence of her last name.
PLANKED SALMON
JAKE REACHES THE Maintenance Shed just before it closes, where she signs out a microscope, three rainfall meters, and a soil collection kit. It would be impossible to take measurements of the sick trees during one of her tours, so she’ll have to sneak into the old-growth after hours, which will be risky, especially with the increased Ranger patrols. But she has a private to wake up for tomorrow morning, so she reluctantly decides to leave it for another night, and settles on a quick walk to the ocean to calm her thoughts before turning in early.
The air is breezy and the sky pixelated with stars as she takes the trail to the wharf, where the supply barges tie up. Passing a group of Indonesian chambermaids, she catches the scent of the organic cedar oil they spray the guest Villas with, but only after they’ve already scrubbed them with eye-flaming chemicals. At the water, Jake stops under an ornamental cherry tree to watch four Salvadoran groundskeepers silently cleaning a cluster of hot tubs that overlook the bay. While her fellow employees always offer her a friendly nod, she’s heard that she’s the source of great puzzlement among them. Even though her skin is as brown as theirs, she somehow shares a surname both with the Arboreal Cathedral and the island itself—and yet, she still receives the same measly compensation they do. To them this suggests a downfall nearly impossible to measure.
Jake watches one of the groundskeepers reach into the hot tub with a pool skimmer and scoop out a tree frog from the steamy water. Even at a distance, she can tell that the chlorine has bleached the once-emerald frog to a pale pea green, and the sight of it makes her feel sick. Just as she’s preparing to head back, a group of black-clad Rangers swoops in and surrounds a member of the grounds crew who had been smoking a hand-rolled cigarette, a violation of the Cathedral’s strict fire protocols. The man’s companions bow their heads and surrender their tools as the Rangers point their snub-nosed guns and pat them all down for contraband. Fearful of being questioned about the scientific equipment she’s carrying, Jake slips unnoticed back to the trail, while the Rangers roughly drag the offender off to put him on the next barge back to the Mainland.
It’s dark by the time she returns to her cabin to find Corbyn Gallant waiting near her door, his chin glued to his chest as he stares deep into the talisman of his phone. He’s left his cheeks unshaven and replaced his Leafskin jacket with an expensively rugged chambray button-up. Minus the sunglasses and hat, his facial structure is impossible not to admire.
“Are you lost, sir?” Jake asks as she approaches.
He looks up from his phone, childlike for a moment as his eyes refocus. “If it isn’t the Lady of the Trees,” he says as though they’re old friends. “I’ve got a few more important questions that I’d like you to answer.”
“I’m not supposed to meet with Pilgrims after hours,” she says, glancing around for a Ranger patrol. “How about tomorrow, same time, at the trailhead? We can discuss all the old-growth lumber I’ll sell you at ridiculous prices.”
“Actually, I was hoping we could talk over a drink at your place, except I doubt that we’ll both fit in there at the same time,” he says, examining the row of tiny staff cabins. They’re glorified sheds really, the shabbiness of which the resort seeks to conceal from the Pilgrims by hiding them on the less majestic half of the island, where the trees are comparatively young and spindly. “But I