Grinnling cries in the distance.

Rossamünd scurried to the landaulet, took the lantern and dashed back to where the fulgar lay. He knelt and looked to see if she was still alive, wanting to weep but holding it in—he had cried enough on this journey. Blood was running from Europe’s nose. There were nasty bites upon her neck where the proofing did not cover. Breaths did come: short, shallow puffing. She lived!

Rossamünd leaned closer and whispered, “Miss . . . ! Miss . . . Miss Europe . . . !”

The fulgar’s lashes fluttered and slowly parted, her vision clearly swimming. They shut again and it seemed she might slip into insensibility. Rossamünd pressed twice, sharply, on her shoulder, not wanting her to pass out. She groaned and shifted, opening her eyes again to peer at him.

With a gasp, Europe pushed herself up on her arms and sat, head lolling, hair drooping. “What happened?” she panted.

Rossamünd sat back. “You won . . . you beat them all.”

She looked about, blinking heavily. Her eyes were streaming with ash-colored tears.

Rossamünd winced. He had hit her with the bothersalts too.

After a long pause and a deep sigh, she whispered, “Good . . . They were . . . difficult.” Sitting up straighter, she flexed her shoulders and rolled her head about, grunting and grimacing. “My organs have spasmed,” she breathed cryptically. “Not the best time for it, at all . . . I thought I was done for.” Pausing for a rattling wheeze of air, she muttered, “Never advisable to . . . start a fight . . . when one is missing a . . . a dose of treacle.”

Though he did not follow what she said, Rossamünd nevertheless understood that something had gone very wrong somewhere inside her body, that her electrical organs had somehow failed her in a most terrible way. He shuddered. This must be what dear Master Fransitart had meant when he said that there was nothing more wretched than lahzars made sick by their organs.

Far away, the wailing of the grinnlings could still be heard in the cold, cold night.

Europe tried to rise but swooned frighteningly, and fell back to ground. “I . . . need . . . my treacle, little man,” she slurred. “Take the lantern. Get the box. I’ll . . . I’ll show you how to make it.”

The foundling ran over to the landaulet and, as he did, discovered that the chestnut nag had been attacked as it attempted escape. Slain, it now lay with many nasty wounds to its neck, point and chest. How were they going to get away now?

Hold to your course. People’s lives are at stake, Rossamünd coached himself. Do as Master Fransitart would have—everything in its right order. Box first—leaving later.

Rossamünd found her curious black case in the now jumbled contents of the landaulet’s interior. As he extracted it, the feeling of sickly unease moved within once more as he gripped the smooth wood. He ignored the sensation and returned to her side with it gripped determinedly under his left arm.

The fulgar had fainted and he was forced to rouse her once more. She came to with effort, even wiping away tears. “Good man . . . N . . . Now, I need you to listen . . . most carefully—we have not the time for mistakes.”

Rossamünd nodded once, emphatically. This was not some pamphlet story. This was a time for diligence and dependability. This was the very thing they sought to teach all the book children at Madam Opera’s—the very thing expected of you when you have been given your baldric to wear.

The fulgar drooped, gathered herself and continued. “Put the box down and open it . . . carefully, though. That . . . that’s the way.”

Within the box were many compartments, each with its own hinge-and-handle lid, and lined with scarlet velvet. He peeked under one. There was a bottle of liquid within, nestled in straw.

“That’s the bezoariac. There’s no time to do this neatly or make it pretty.” She opened another compartment and pulled forth another bottle, this one half-filled with a dark powder. She put both bottles in Rossamünd’s hands and with them a pewter spoon. Then she indicated the cauldron boiling on the fire. “Take these and put two spoons of the bezoariac . . . the liquid—and one of the rhatany . . . the other bottle . . . the powder—and stir them into the water for some minutes, then . . . come back to me . . . Make sure there is enough water. Anything over half-full will do.”

He did as he was bidden. The cauldron still held enough water, so in went two spoonfuls of the bezoariac—a kind of universal antidote he had seen used in the dispensary of the marine society—and the rhatany powder—which he had not heard of before. He stirred and stirred, knowing well just how it was done because of Master Craumpalin’s patience and pedantry. Figures-of-eight, making sure it did not catch and burn on the bottom of the pot. All the while his back tingled with the dread that the grinnlings might pounce once more from the shadows.

“What does it look like?” the lahzar quizzed quietly. Her voice was muffled, for she had collapsed again and was lying with her head buried in her arms.

“It was like porridge for a moment, but it has now gone thin and reddish,” the foundling replied.

“Does it boil?” Europe raised her head.

“Aye, ma’am, it has just started.”

She reached over without looking and took out a jar from the box.

“Quickly then, add this. Use your fingers but do not put that spoon within this jar! Understand? There needs to be the . . . same amount as two spoonfuls of it.”

Rossamünd did as he was asked, even though the unpleasant feelings these reagents gave him were increasing with each moment as he scooped cold, foul-feeling muck from the jar. Scraping off the correct measure twice onto the spoon, he plopped it into the bubbling brew. Disgusted, he wiped his fingers on some pine needles, then stirred yet more. As he did, Europe held out another bottle two-thirds full of a black powder. The sense of terrible foreboding radiated most strongly from this little jar.

He hesitated.

“When the curd is properly mixed and thick and even and turned to honey, you must take it off the flame, then sprinkle in half a spoonful of this. It’s Sugar of Nnun—don’t let it touch your skin! Mix it well in . . . and when that’s done . . . bring it to me.”

Sugar of Nnun! He had certainly heard of this ingredient, though he did not know what it did. Craumpalin had condemned it in no uncertain terms, stating once that only people up to no good had any business messing with it. Had their situation been any less desperate, Rossamünd might well have refused to even hold the bottle containing such stuff, so thoroughly had the old dispensurist warned him.

The brew indeed became very much like the consistency and color of honey, even causing his stomach to rumble, deprived of dinner—and maybe some other meals—as it was. He quickly lifted the cauldron off the fire by its handle, using a handy stick, and placed it on the ground.

With a sharp sickliness in the back of his mouth, Rossamünd removed the stopper of the bottle holding the Sugar of Nnun. He felt sure he could see an evil puff of black dust come out from within. Squinting, he nervously tapped the right amount onto the spoon, and this he mixed into the brew. As it was stirred in, the whole lot quickly turned black, became even thicker and began to stink disgustingly.

The potion was ready.

Rossamünd took off his scarf and used this to carry the cauldron to the lahzar. “It’s ready, I think, Madam Europe. I don’t know if I have got it right, but it seems just like it did before.”

Unsteadily, Europe got to her knees and scrutinized the result of the foundling’s dabblings. When she saw the brew looking very much as it should, she seemed stunned, even as ill as she was. “Well done, little man,” she breathed. “Well done . . . That is exactly it.” She snatched the brew—the treacle, as she had called it—and, waiting only a moment for the edge to be cooler, drank greedily, taking great gulps and spilling some, surely burning herself on the hot metal. The effect of the potion was rapid. Not putting the pot down till it was empty, she had a healthy look in her eye when she did. After only a few minutes of breathing heavily and digesting, the fulgar had recovered enough to stand. She wobbled as she did, but with the foundling boy’s hand to hold on to she was soon on her feet. She was still for a moment, swaying somewhat—to Rossamünd’s alarm—but staying upright and staring into the dark silence of the forest.

The woods were now quiet, but for what Rossamünd hoped were the usual treeish creaks and whispers.

“We must be leaving,” said Europe. “They will most certainly be back for another try before the night is out.” She hushed as the foundling repacked the black case with its frightful chemicals.With a great sigh, she turned to gaze at the place where the ruins of what-was-once-Licurius lay. Grief worked in her soul and showed on her face. “Oh, Box-face . . . Oh, Box-face . . .” she lamented quietly. “What have they done to you?”

With Rossamünd to help her, she staggered over to the leer’s body. In the nimbus of the lantern, the grisly proof of the violence just passed showed clearly. There the bodies of two grinnlings lay where they had fallen, slain by Licurius’ hand. No longer animated by foul and murderous intent, they looked small, pathetic, doll-like. In their midst was the black huddle of the dead leer. Though he was mostly covered with his torn cloak, it was still obvious that he had been ripped and gouged in cruel and vile ways.

With a choking sob, Europe sagged and dropped to her knees near the corpse. She swooned for a moment, panting heavily, pushing Rossamünd weakly from her. “You must not look on this!” She stood straighter. “Go! Get your personals and ample water for one night’s travel. We must be away very shortly, and not delay—those creatures have gone silent, and I like that much less than their distant jitterings. I will right myself presently. Have no concern for me: our survival is afoot now.”

Nevertheless, and though she would not like it known, Rossamünd was aware that Europe wept silently as he gathered his valise and satchel, filled his biggin with water and his pockets with food. She must have cared more for the leer than the foundling had ever noticed. He felt sad for her, and for the Misbegotten Schrewd. For the leer, however, he entertained no regrets—the villain had tried to strangle him! This is what Verline would have sternly called “a hard heart,” but Rossamünd could not see how he might possibly feel anything at Licurius’ end.

Presently Europe came over to the landaulet too, stumbling only slightly, her face dirty with tearful streaks, and hurriedly organized her own traveling goods. With the horse dead there was nothing for it—they would have to walk their way to safety.

“We must leave . . . him where he lies. There’s no time to bury him and no profit in bearing him away. We must go to the wayhouse. I’ve passed it by many times but never entered. The Harefoot Dig it is called. When we get there and settle ourselves safely, we can come back here to . . . to fetch him. Move on, now! We must be at the wayhouse as soon as we can!”

Gathering all which was needful that they could carry on foot, they set off by lantern light, Europe pointing the way, Rossamünd leading it. How they were to make it, the foundling had no hopeful idea. There was a sandy, bepuddled road running right by their camp—probably still part of the Vestiweg. They walked along this, the fulgar unsteady at first but soon gaining pace, though not speedily enough for him. The fulgar had to caution him to save his energy when sometimes he marched on ahead, reminding him that they had a long way yet to travel.

Soon she made Rossamünd douse the lantern. “The light will be more harmful than helpful,” she whispered, “and lead the grinning baskets right to us.”

He complied eagerly at this warning. What hope did an everyday boy like himself have if a lahzar was cautious and wishing to avoid any new confrontations? In the dark he vainly tried to see into the benighted forest, to see past the straight pale trunks of the pine saplings that lined the road, to find warning of any possible ambush. He could feel that Phoebë was up and shining, but deep in that narrow channel of high trees, her light helped but a little. Oh for Licurius’ nose now!

Europe seemed to sag as well; eventually, to his great relief, she stopped near the top of a steep hill and sat down clumsily. “Aah!” she wheezed so very quietly. “I am flagging terribly . . . How about you, little man? You have kept pace with me admirably till now.”

He dropped next to her, dumping the valise on the verge, and took a long swig of water from his biggin. Only a few mouthfuls more remained when he was done. Taking this as a wordless but definite yes, the fulgar offered him a whortleberry procured from one of the many black leather satchels and saddlebags. Then she chewed on one herself. He took it gratefully. They sat some minutes in silence while the internal glow of the berries restored them enough to allow them to push on. Rossamünd’s senses sharpened again and with them his fears of another attack by the grinnlings or, perhaps, worse things.

A firm conviction was beginning to form in his deepest thoughts: that it would be the grandest thing to return to the safety and forgetful ease of a city and leave all this threwdish wild land behind. How could anyone have ever thought it prudent to put a road through such a place as this haunted region?

The land fell away sharply from the northern edge of the road and upon its steep slope no trees grew, affording them a limited view. At last Rossamünd could see the moon, ocher-yellow and setting in the west. He turned about quietly where he was and observed the white line of the road they had already traveled as it emerged from the trees. He looked with dread at the impenetrable black of the tangle-wood valleys directly below and, beyond that, the low dark hills further north. He quaked slightly—anything could be stalking about out there. The world was so much bigger than he had ever thought: wilder, and full of threats and loneliness and dread. He hugged his knees to his chest and waited, afraid, staring at the fulgar’s shadow.

As they sat, she fidgeted with the scarf about her neck and with the wound beneath. “Are you better?” she whispered.

“Aye,” he whispered back. “Your neck, miss?”

“It bleeds still . . . and it is starting to itch awfully. I believe it may well need seeing to by a physic. That will have to wait. Let’s be off again. We still have far to go and this place is starting to get me down.”

The dose of whortleberry had invigorated them both heartily: they walked and walked, and walked yet more, Europe leading onward. The road rose over hills and dropped into small valleys. The forest soon closed in again and they were surrounded now by several kinds of pine. The air was still, filled with the strong smell of sap and the hissing of breezes in the branches. Stars continued to shine brightly and shed some little light on their path from the glimpse of sky above. Of the Signal Stars, Maudlin was now absent, having passed beyond view; only orange Faustus, the “eye” of the constellation Vespasia, and the yellow planet Ormond showed, and they showed that it was very late indeed. A frightened baby owl screeched thinly, voicing Rossamünd’s own lost and lonely feelings. As he read the stars, he heard the fulgar stumble heavily in front of him, and looked down to see her sink to the sandy path.

He hurried to her. “Miss Europe . . . ?”

She was on her hands and knees, panting as she had done after her organs had spasmed. “The bite . . . the bite . . .” she rasped.

Rossamünd carefully unwound the scarf from her neck and saw, even by dim starlight, that the wound had swollen frighteningly, and even now was beginning to stink of putrefaction. He gasped. “It’s going bad already, ma’am. You must surely see a physician, and soon!”

“It burns . . . !” She managed to sit, to lift a water skin to her mouth and drink greedily before lying back and panting yet more. “We must go on . . . you’re not safe . . . we . . . Not long . . . must . . .” she rattled on, though she did not seem able nor any longer willing to move.

Rossamünd’s mind whirled for a time. This panicked feeling was becoming all too familiar. He forced himself to be even-headed.

The evander water! He sat down by Europe and dug about in his satchel for the little flasks. He searched for the longest time with little satisfaction—oh no!—he must have hurled them along with the bothersalts in his hurry to help. But then he found what he wanted: just one bottle, buried right down at the bottom, tangled in among the rest of the contents. He gripped it exultantly. Leaning close to the fulgar’s ear, he could feel heat radiating from her in a most unhealthy way. “I still have some evander water!” he whispered.

Europe revived with this intelligence and forced herself to sit up.

He gave her the little bottle, but her hands shook too much now. Indeed, her whole body was beginning to shudder. He held the flask for her, removed the seal and tipped it very slowly, mindful lest it should spill and be wasted. She swallowed it all as greedily as she had the water and then lay back again. He watched her, holding his breath anxiously.

With a burst of air from her own mouth—loud enough to startle some night bird, which shrilled terrifyingly three times and flurried off—she sat up once more. “I can walk . . . We’ve not . . . not got far . . . to . . . to . . . go now . . . Help me up, Box . . . Box-face.” Her words came in struggling breaths. “With your . . . help . . . I can . . . can make it.”

Putting a hand on his shoulder, she pushed herself up to stand. Rossamünd grimaced but did not make a sound. When she had righted herself, she murmured, “Lead . . . on . . .”

He struggled earnestly to fulfill this task, at first leading her by the hand, gripping it tightly now, completely heedless of being sparked. Then he began limping himself as she started to lean heavily or pull upon him, often stumbling, silently cursing every stone or rut that threatened to trip one of them.

Interminable seemed these last few miles, though the way had, mercifully, become flatter. At one point Rossamünd thought he heard the far-off tittering of the grinnlings and urged Europe on a little faster. The further they went the more fatigued he grew and the more insensible Europe became. She muttered odd things—often in another strange, musical language—at one time saying clearly, “We’ve been in many scrapes, haven’t we, darling . . . ?” She actually chuckled, then became dangerously louder. “But we get away scot-free every time, hey . . . hey Box-face? You and me . . . we . . . making it large all over the land . . .” It seemed she might go quiet, but suddenly she blurted, “Oh my! What have they done to you!” and began to sob, great, deep gulps that wracked her whole body. “What have they done to you?” she hissed finally and continued to weep. She said no more that night.

Soon Europe collapsed completely, toppling Rossamünd with her in a flurry of sweat and perfume, stunning him. He lay for a moment half under the fulgar, his head full of spinning lights. He never thought a woman could weigh so much.

The soft hooting of a boobook went hoo-hoo, hoo-hoo. It was a peculiarly soothing sound and he focused on it to stay awake. There was nothing for it—he had to drag her. Hardly believing where he was or what he was doing, he pulled himself out from under her, fixed a saddlebag under her head, grabbed her by her booted ankles with a foot tucked under each arm and began to walk. Pulling, pulling, finding energy he did not know he had, he dragged the fulgar. Her shoulders ground noisily and her petticoats rumpled and gathered and began to tear, but he could do nothing about either now. He must trust to her proofing, ignore her indignity and simply go on.

Despite the noise and his agony and the desperate slowness of their pace, Rossamünd pulled Europe, bags and all, along the road till his fingers clawed and the eastern horizon grew pale. The trees began to grow farther apart, a fringe to the main wood, and as he gradually came around a bend in the road, he thought he saw lights through the sparse trunks. He pulled on a little bit farther and found that it was lights, lantern lights. He stopped to gather himself, gasping in air, and peered at this new sight.

There, in the obscure gray of a new day, he found what they sought: a long, heavy stone wall of great height on the left, protruding from the thinning trees. In a gap about two thirds along this wall and crowned with a modest arch was a solid ironwood gate. Above it was a post fixed horizontally from the apex of the arch, a bright-limn lantern at its far end, shining orange. Dependent from this post was a gaily painted sign. It showed what looked like a woman running or leaping and beneath this the barely legible letters:

. . . It was the wayhouse. They had arrived at last.