Hopefully, they were looking for her, perhaps via magical means. But then so would whoever the Fenris reported to, and the she-wolf knew exactly where Susan had been, so they had the advantage. Therefore moving away was the first priority. She could worry about everything else once she was a good distance from the well and the wood.
At least Morcenna’s healing touch had fixed up her aches and pains. Despite being rather damp, Susan felt surprisingly lively and well. She was alive, and free . . . and it was good to be out among trees, in clean air, with all the constant noise of London gone, replaced by the gentler sounds of birdsong and the rustle of small animals about the undergrowth, perhaps hedgehogs or rabbits. . . .
Susan stopped to think about this. All she could hear were natural sounds. No aircraft overhead, no distant traffic noises from the motorway or some closer road. Nothing. But the Fenris had only gone three-quarters of a mile at most from the road, and she had walked at least a couple of miles.
“Of course!” she muttered to herself. “It’s a mythic wood. Far bigger than it should be, once you’re in it. But how do I get out?”
She thought about that for a bit longer. The wood didn’t feel like the May Fair; there was none of the supersaturated color or feeling of otherness. She hadn’t seen anything that appeared out of place, and instinctively she felt that this would not be the answer to getting out of the forest.
Instead, she drew a deep breath and loudly spoke to the trees about her, but not shouting, using her best loud, very polite voice.
“Could you please let me out? I love this wood, but I need to leave!”
All the soft sounds stopped as she spoke, the rustling ceased, the breeze no longer played in the upper branches. Everything was absolutely still and quiet. But Susan felt something change; something flickered, for an instant, in the corner of her left eye. She turned slowly, ready to bring up her sword.
As she turned, the little noises came back. The breeze wafted through the upper reaches, lifting leaves and branches. Something small and furry whisked through the thick undergrowth. A blackbird called again, perhaps that same hopeful male from the dell, keeping her company.
Two overhanging beech trees, rimed with green, had fallen on each other to form a gateway, a rough path visible beyond that gate. Neither beeches nor path had been there a moment before.
Susan bowed, said, “Thank you,” and took the path. Almost immediately the wood opened up. There were no longer thickets of brambles, the oaks were farther apart, the beeches between them shorter and less grasping. She could even see the sky and the sun. Which looked much higher than it had when she’d last seen it.
Only a few minutes later, she heard other noises up ahead. The crack of a trodden-on stick, the swish of branches pushed aside, the scuff of footsteps . . . there were people coming towards her.
Crouching low, Susan left the path—not without a moment’s hesitation, in case it disappeared—and slid around the trunk of a vast oak, so she could peek around but still be hidden—though the forest was so dense this worked both ways, and she couldn’t see very far.
There were at least two people, she thought. Maybe more. She heard them come closer, then they also stopped, and she caught faint whispers. Susan held her breath, removing even that faint noise so she could hear better. They were moving again, towards her, noisier now, with clumping feet and—
“Susan!”
Susan whirled around, instinctively lifting her sword. Merlin had silently crept up behind her, a dagger in his left hand. She didn’t lower the sword, but he was already disappearing the dagger. Literally, she couldn’t see where it went; it was gone in the space of a single blink. Possibly up the sleeve of his corduroy jacket, which Merlin clearly considered suitable for rural wear, combined with a cream blouse atop a subdued tartan skirt, green stockings and upmarket Hunter Wellington boots with side straps, and what at first glance appeared to be a kind of green beret with a bobble on top. His tie-dyed yak-hair bag still graced one shoulder.
“What is that on your head?” asked Susan. The look of relief on her face made it clear these words were an expression of how pleased she was to see him.
“It’s a tam-o’-shanter, of course,” said Merlin, as if she should already know. He held out his arms and smiled. Susan walked into his embrace, they hugged for a moment, and then both recoiled as if suddenly remembering pressing appointments.
“I was worried,” said Merlin.
“Me too,” said Susan. “Who is that stomping around?”
Merlin looked past Susan and called out, “Vivien! It’s Susan!”
Vivien approached from in front, not bothering with her heavy “for the purpose of distraction” boot stomps. She was wearing jeans, a checked shirt, a wide-brimmed straw hat with a crushed crown that had been pushed out, and Adidas running shoes. A British Caledonian vinyl airline bag hung over her shoulder and she was carrying the scabbard for the old sword.
“Oh, thank heavens,” said Vivien. “Where’s the Fenris?”
“Gone,” said Susan. She let out her breath and lowered the sword, her heart beginning to slow down. “Merlin’s sword . . . you wounded it badly but it took a while to take effect. So she . . . it was a she-wolf, diverted to get healing from Morcenna’s Well, down there. Morcenna healed her, but wouldn’t let the wolf take me. So the Fenris turned into a bunch of ravens and flew off to whoever she answers to.”
“Morcenna?” asked Merlin.
“Has to be a water-fay with that name,” said Vivien. She frowned. “Lucky she wasn’t hungry.”
“What?” asked Susan.
“The water-fay are rather arbitrary,” said Vivien. “Kind of a fifty-fifty proposition for visiting mortals. Get helped, or get eaten. Not that they need to eat. But they like to from
