“It sounds like what you have there … is a father.” He gave her a tight smile. “Their ways are riddles to all of us, whether we’re twelve or fifty-two.” He pushed himself to his feet and brushed off his crimped wool trousers with his palms.
Rye buried her chin in her hands and narrowed her eyes at the forest once again.
That evening, after finishing the remains of a sparse supper Abby had left behind for them, Rye and Lottie climbed into their blankets.
“Mama should have returned by now,” Rye whispered to Mr Nettle.
“I’ll keep an ear out,” he replied quietly. “Nothing to be alarmed over. You and your sister try to get some rest.”
Mr Nettle bid them good night and retired to his nest of loose bedding on the tree-house porch. But Rye was alarmed. Her mother wouldn’t leave them waiting without good reason.
“Buggle snug?” Lottie asked, tucking Mona Monster, her hobgoblin rag doll, tight under her arm. Mona’s polka-dot fabric was more grey than pink these days.
“Of course, Lottie,” Rye said. “We can do snuggle bug.”
Rye wrapped her own arm round Lottie and pulled her close, Lottie burying her head in Rye’s shoulder. Lottie had allowed Rye to tame her unkempt hair into a long red braid after a colony of ants had taken a liking to some sap stuck in her locks. It still smelled like pine pitch and cook smoke, but Rye didn’t mind. She just held her little sister tight until they both settled into a rhythmic breathing and eventually fell asleep wishing Abby was there with them.
Rye woke disoriented by the first voice of the night’s choir. Lottie’s eyes were still shut, her mouth open and drooling on Rye’s chest. The voice came again. But this was no growl or slither of an unknown beast. She recognised it as the sound of a far more ordinary animal – the whinny of a rather unhappy horse.
Pulling her arm free, Rye rushed out on to the treehouse porch. From the shadows of the oak tree’s boughs she looked down upon the Hollow. To her disappointment, it was neither Abby nor Harmless. Instead, on the opposite side of the Rill, four hooded men struggled with a horse laden with packs. In the light of their lanterns, she saw the frightened animal buck and rear back as one man tried, unsuccessfully, to yank it by the reins across the shallow stream.
“Worthless mule,” he cursed, splashing through the shallow water and on to the banks of the Hollow to improve his leverage. The others pushed at the horse’s rump without success, and nearly got kicked for their trouble.
“Who are they?” Rye whispered to Mr Nettle, who had joined her at the railing.
“I don’t know. Surely they’ve come down the Wend. But I don’t like their manner one bit.”
The man in the Hollow lowered his hood and raised his lantern, peering up at the branches.
“Who’s up there?” he called. “I can hear you warbling. Come down this instant. We seek shelter for the night.”
Rye and Mr Nettle stepped away from the railing, deeper into the shadows. They exchanged uneasy glances. Lottie stumbled out to join them, rubbing sleep from her eyes. Mona Monster was still tucked under her arm.
“Come down, I say,” the voice bellowed, “before I burn you out of your tree.”
The man’s ashen face reflected in the lantern light, his dark eyes squinting as he struggled to see them.
Rye heard Mr Nettle suck in his breath.
“What is it?” Rye asked.
“I don’t know,” he said. “But these men smell of danger … and death.”
Rye dared to return to the railing, trying to get a better look at the four visitors.
“Wait here,” Mr Nettle ordered urgently. “And be absolutely quiet. You too, Miss Lottie.”
Lottie turned an imaginary key at her lips.
“Innkeeper!” the hoodless man demanded, his black lips curling. “I’m readying the torches!”
“Coming,” Mr Nettle called. “One moment!” He gestured again for Rye and Lottie to stay put as he hurried off to the winding stairs.
Rye leaned over the railing. The man in the Hollow had smudged black face paint running from his lower lip, over his chin, and down his throat, where it split and curled at the end, like a long tongue. He gestured to his companions, two of whom left the horse and slogged through the Rill. In the light of their own lanterns Rye saw that, under their hoods, their faces were also pale and ashen, eyes and lips streaked black. She gasped.
“Mr Nettle,” she called in a desperate whisper. “They’re Luck Uglies!”
Or to be more precise, they were Fork-Tongued Charmers.
But Mr Nettle didn’t hear her. He had already climbed down to meet them.
“What are you, some sort of troll?” the Fork-Tongued Charmer asked, as Mr Nettle padded out on to the Hollow. He thrust his lantern in Mr Nettle’s face, and Mr Nettle shielded his eyes with his hand and adjusted the horns on his skullcap.
“No …” the man went on, a look of recognition in his dark eyes. “I’ve seen your kind before. I didn’t know there were any Feralings left. I thought you’d all been boiled by superstitious woodsmen and eaten for good luck.”
“Fortunately, I’ve proven to be unappetising so far,” Mr Nettle said with mock cheer and a shrug. “Here, allow me to assist you with your steed. I think she’ll be more agreeable with the help of this.”
Mr Nettle gathered the rowan-wood platform and laid it over the Rill. The other Charmers watched him with grim faces under their dark hoods, towering over the smaller man as he gently took the reins and coaxed the reluctant horse over the makeshift bridge and on to the Hollow.
“My name’s Nettle,” he said, affecting a steady voice. “And what should I call you and your companions?” he asked the hoodless man.
“I am Lassiter,” the Fork-Tongued Charmer said, lifting his arm so that his lantern light might catch the boughs of the oak above. He eyed the old buildings suspiciously. Rye was still watching from the porch and stepped in front of Lottie, easing her back into the shadows.
“These are my brothers, doom, despair and destruction,” he added, flicking his chin over his shoulder. “They ride with me wherever I go.”
The other Charmers laughed at his quip, although Lassiter’s attention remained focused on the guesthouse built in the tree. He squinted upwards through the shadows.
“Whose establishment is this? Are you the only one here, Feraling?” Lassiter asked with a crooked glance.
Mr Nettle hesitated. “Yes … just me at the moment.” He stroked the nervous mare’s muzzle with his hand. “The master of the inn and his hunting party should be returning shortly.”
“Master of the inn?” Lassiter said, his black lips curling into a smirk. “And what is this innkeeper’s name?”
“Ab—
