The dowsing rod’s pull led us down one path after another, until I found myself starting up a series of mud-and-timber “stairs” cut into the side of the mountain. We were about halfway up when Quentin grabbed my elbow, bringing our whole procession to a stop. I turned to frown at him, and he indicated a hole in the muddy bank beside us. A place where someone had recently pried loose a rock. We were getting close to our destination.

I nodded and started forward again, moving a little more cautiously as the dowsing rod urged me to continue ever forward. My hand wasn’t bleeding anymore, but it didn’t need to be, because the blood I’d already spilled was singing so strongly. Gillian was my daughter, blood of my blood, and the dowsing rod was taking us straight to her.

The pull stopped abruptly, my spell shattering. I stumbled, nearly dropping the now-quiescent dowsing rod. The others stopped in turn, all of them scanning the underbrush for signs of the shallowing we’d come here to find. All but the Luidaeg. She pushed me gently aside as she walked up to a vast redwood with a trunk so big around that it could have been hollowed out and used as a home for a family of four. Leaning forward, she pressed one palm flat against the bark of the tree, and spoke the first words I’d heard any of us utter since she spelled Quentin and Connor’s footsteps into silence:

“I know where we are now. I’m sorry you’ve been alone for so long. I should have guessed, when you blocked my scrying. You’re still protecting the King, aren’t you? It’s all right now. You can let us in.” She paused before adding, with the air of someone who was confessing a great secret, “Arden lives.”

A ripple seemed to pass through the trees around us, briefly filling the air with the sea-sweet smell of salt and something fainter, less distinct, like a woman’s perfume left open in a sealed room for a hundred years. It was gone before I could figure out exactly what it was.

The Luidaeg pulled her hand away from the tree, smiling sadly. “Thank you,” she said . . . and the tree opened where her hand had been, the bark fading into nothing and leaving a dark tunnel behind. She looked back to the rest of us. “Hurry. I don’t know how they’ve been abusing the knowe to get inside, but I can’t hold this door for long.”

I nodded. “We’re moving.” I gestured for the others to follow me, and drew my knife as I slipped past the Luidaeg, into the door in the tree.

Entering a shallowing isn’t quite like entering a proper knowe. The separation between the worlds isn’t as pronounced, and the disorientation passes faster. This passage was even more subtle than the norm, since the air in Muir Woods was already so clean, and the night was already so silent. We moved from the mortal world into the fringes of the Summerlands without missing a step. The Luidaeg’s spell of silence must have broken when she spoke, because I could hear our footsteps again, little scuffs against the hard-packed clay of the tunnel floor.

There were no sounds but our footsteps as we walked through the dark of the shallowing. The clay under our feet gave way to smooth gray stone. I shivered and sped up. We were getting closer to the children—we had to be. This was the place, and this was the type of stone I’d seen through Dean’s memories. They had to be somewhere up ahead, waiting for rescue.

And then there was light.

It was subtle at first, the faintest decrease in the darkness surrounding us. It grew brighter until I could see the walls of the tunnel without needing to be right up against them. There was a corner just ahead; whatever was casting the light had to be on the other side. I sped up, sticking close to the wall in case someone was waiting with a lantern and a crossbow. When I reached the corner, I stopped, listening. There was no sound. Gripping the hilt of my knife a little tighter, I stepped forward.

A hallway with oak-paneled walls and the same stone floor extended on the other side of the corner. That wasn’t what caught my attention. The light was coming from a lantern hanging from a hook on one wall, and it seemed to be moving. I took a step closer, and realized that it was lit, not with a candle or an oil wick, but with three live pixies. They were crammed into the tiny glass rectangle, leaving them with barely enough room to move their wings. Quentin’s breath hissed through his teeth as he saw them, and Tybalt scowled. Connor looked away.

“Well?” whispered the Luidaeg, stepping up behind me. “What do you want to do about that? We can’t have them alerting Rayseline to our presence. And we could use the light.”

“Hang on.” I stepped forward and took the lantern down from the wall, bringing it close to my face. The pixies inside looked at me with mingled hope and terror. Keeping my voice low, I said, “I need your help. We need to have light to find the people who put you in this lantern. If I let you out, will you stay and help us?”

The pixies eyed me suspiciously before turning to each other and starting to speak in their rapid, high-pitched language. Finally, the smallest of the three turned to me and nodded, folding her arms to punctuate the gesture.

“Here goes nothing,” I whispered, and opened the panel on the side of the lantern.

All three pixies immediately flew out, performing an elaborate series of aerial acrobatics in the narrow confines of the hall. Then they turned and zoomed over our heads, vanishing into the hallway up ahead.

“Oh, good call,” grumbled Connor.

“Wait.” The pixies in Goldengreen were pests, thieves, and tricksters . . . but they kept their word. I had to hope these pixies would do the same.

The seconds ticked by. I was about to admit defeat and move on into the dark when the light came racing back along the tunnel, and our three pixies flew back into view—now joined by six of their cousins. Quentin grinned.

“They just wanted to get their friends out,” he said.

“Let’s hope Rayseline wasn’t using one of those lamps,” said the Luidaeg . . . but she was smiling to herself as one of the pixies landed on her shoulder. The other pixies found perches on the rest of us, their multicolored wings casting a soft glow through the hall.

“Come on,” I said, and started walking again.

The pixies stayed with us as we made our way through the darkened hall, pausing only to free more of their people from lanterns. The sight of them crammed in there was enough to turn my stomach, and only intensified my need to find Gillian as soon as possible. Pixies are essentially defenseless when they’re not swarming. Using them as living light bulbs wasn’t just wrong; it was unnecessarily cruel. There are plenty of spells and plenty of candles in the world.