He watches as the beech-woman drags the screaming Cordelia away from the circle, as dozens of reaching branches grasp for her. The torch, when dropped, is summarily smothered by the queenly beech, who steps on it with every evidence of distaste: roots grow quickly over it; loam muffles the glow and the smoke that wafts up.

(The Wood! The Wood! The end of the world!)

What happens to the woman, he doesn't see, but his sword stays in his hand until her last screeches have disappeared into the woods well beyond the sanctuary of the garden.

Behind them, the birch-woman's branches lash in consternation. Black sorcery! she cries. Evil, wretched. We have taken her from this place. We are sorry she broke through. Forgive us.