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— that is … Able,” Mr Nettle said, catching himself mid-sentence. “You may have heard him called Able the Imposing. Or Able the Awe-Inspiring,” he added quickly. “He’s a legend. A giant among men.”
Rye cringed as she listened. Too much, Mr Nettle. He was not a practised fibber.
“I’ve never heard any such names,” Lassiter said, glowering at Mr Nettle. “I’ll look forward to meeting this master of tree houses upon his return. This is the shabbiest flophouse I’ve ever seen, but we’ve travelled far and long. Fix us a room and a hot meal while we wait.”
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry, but there’s not much I can do to help. We’re all out of food.”
“A guesthouse without food?”
Mr Nettle bobbed the horns on his head with a nod.
“Are you out of rooms too?” Lassiter looked up at the smaller cottages nestled in the boughs of the oak.
Mr Nettle chewed his beard for a moment. “Yes, yes, full up.” He gave Lassiter and the other glaring Charmers an apologetic smile.
“And yet you just told me you were all alone,” Lassiter said flatly.
“Right,” Mr Nettle said slowly. He pursed his lips. “I did. What I meant was … well …”
“Pigshanks,” Rye whispered to herself.
Lottie must have recognised the severity of Rye’s expression. She didn’t say a word about Rye’s colourful language, just crossed her index fingers and rubbed them together in Rye’s direction. Tsk tsk.
Rye put her own finger to her lips, reminding Lottie to keep hushed, and led her quietly inside where she began helping her with her boots and cloak. The voices below were muffled, but Rye could make them out through the gaps in the tree-house floorboards.
“Perhaps you meant to say that the guests are all out with the hunting party?” Lassiter snarked.
“Yes, exactly,” Mr Nettle said enthusiastically. Rye could hear the misguided relief in his voice. Life in the forest had made Mr Nettle resourceful, but he had no ear for sarcasm.
“Do you know who we are, goat boy?” Lassiter demanded, his voice rising.
Rye threw her arms through the sleeves of her coat and was still pulling on her boots as she ran back to the porch railing.
“Certainly,” Mr Nettle said, blinking his eyes. “You’re Mr Lassiter, and that’s Mr Doom, and Mr Gloom and –” he tapped a finger on his chin before waving at the fourth man – “Mr Desperation, was it?”
Lassiter unsheathed a blade from the scabbard at his hip. He clutched a handful of Mr Nettle’s vest.
“We’re Fork-Tongued Charmers – and no greater nightmare than us roams this forest. We have searched this forsaken wood far too long in pursuit of our quarry, and now, at long last, he’s been found and we are on our way home.”
Rye bristled. Their quarry? Surely he meant Harmless.
“But at the moment we are tired and starving. If you truly have no food, we’ll just have to test the old superstitions.” Lassiter pressed the tip of his blade against Mr Nettle’s chin. “After all, everyone can use a little extra luck.”
Mr Nettle pinched his eyes tight.
“Let him go right now!” Rye yelled from the darkness above them. She wrapped her white knuckles round her cudgel in anger.
Mr Nettle opened his eyes and, along with the Fork-Tongued Charmers, looked up.
“So there is someone else here.” Lassiter nodded his head at one of his companions. “Gibbet, go get whoever’s in there and bring them down.”
Rye’s heart climbed into her throat.
The Charmer named Gibbet moved in the direction of the oak but paused at a sound from the surrounding woods. The night choir had come to life – the first voice, a gravelly growl, took up its song on the other side of the Rill.
Lassiter loosened his grip on Mr Nettle’s vest. “The denizens of this forest are relentless,” he said in exasperation. With his blade, he gestured for the other two Charmers to watch the trees opposite the Rill. They unsheathed their own weapons and moved to the edge of the little stream, angling their lanterns so their light might penetrate the shadows.
The chorus grew louder, their throaty warbles and wicked ramblings calling to one another, excitement in their mysterious tone.
“Gibbet, to the tree,” Lassiter ordered again. “And you two, cut down any creature foolish enough to trifle with us.” He gave Mr Nettle a hard shove towards the two Charmers by the Rill. “Feed the Feraling to them if need be.”
One of the Charmers took him by the shoulder.
“No!” Rye yelled. She pressed herself over the rails, her eyes flaring at them. “Stop it!”
As suddenly as it began, the night chorus fell silent. Mr Nettle and the Fork-Tongued Charmers froze in surprise, none of them more shocked than Rye herself. Then she heard it – a thumping plod followed by slithering through the dried leaves outside the Hollow.
Mr Nettle caught her eye, then glanced at the rowanbranch platform still laid across the Rill.
“Oh