Twigs and branches immediately tried to shove themselves in her face, but she forced herself forwards, trying to reach for where the light was brightest. They snapped under her heavy boots, snagged at her shirt, tried to slice at the skin of her cheek. But she was making progress, ducking under the larger boughs, and she could have sworn that the ground underfoot was becoming softer. With one final push, she broke through the treeline, her boots thudding onto a mossy path, and she pulled a couple of twigs free before looking up.

What a sight! Frankie had seen Faerieland in pictures, had received a couple of postcards from Emyr when he holidayed with his dad’s family, but nothing touched on the sheer beauty of this place. The winding path was lined by plants of all kinds, in every shade of green she knew and then some. Ivy twirled its way up tree trunks, boughs draped with strings of golden flowers dipped just above her head, and bushes and flora and gleaming fungi all fought for space in their shadow. The scents of a thousand flowers all clamoured for her attention, and some of them she could spot amongst the greenery: fluffy sprigs of traveller’s joy, florid runners of honeysuckle clinging to mossy bark, crimson flecks of campion dotted on the forest floor. She even thought she could see a gossamer wing peeping out from amongst the petals. It was a beautiful haven for nature lit by flickering fireflies.

Now this was more like it.

The moment was broken by a loud snap and some swearing, and then Meg had pulled herself free of the thicket. Twigs had caught in her long red hair and scratched along her vambrace, and she had to duck below the golden chains of petals swinging above.

“Ew, laburnum.” She was already dusting glittery pollen from her shoulders. “Isn’t this stuff in poison draughts?”

Frankie rolled her eyes. At least Meg hadn’t suddenly and suspiciously come down with hay fever, that really could have ruined the moment. “You got something there.” She pointed up to her scalp, where a couple of loose twigs still sat, wrapped in fine ginger strands.

Her friend’s free hand plucked at the strips of wood. “Ugh. I am trying not to think of all the ticks that are probably drinking my blood right now.” She pulled them free, tossing them aside, and unfolded the map once more, squinting in the light of the fireflies.

“Maybe we should just follow the path?” Frankie jabbed an impatient finger along the moss-lined trail. In the dim, hovering glow of the fireflies, she could see it snake off up some old, jagged steps as it disappeared amongst the trees.

Meg shrugged. “I just wanted to be clear on what landmarks there are – you can never be too careful, with a welcome like that.”

Typical Meg. Always seeing problems where there probably weren’t any. Frankie scuffed her boots on the verdant moss while she waited for her friend to announce her approval, ears open to the sounds of the forest: insects buzzing, leaves rustling in the gentle breeze. Was all Faerieland as lovely as this, or was it just this little corner of Kent? She’d have to ask Emyr when term started. And what on earth could a faerie mean by treasure…

“Okay, I think I’ve got it.” A crinkling noise made Frankie look over – the map was being slotted back into Meg’s belt, alongside her daggers. “We can keep following the path –”

“– you mean, like I said –”

“– if you’d just let me finish, until we reach the giant oak.” Meg was gesturing now, waving her hand towards the trees. “Which I assume we’ll notice, and then take a left – hey!”

A shadow sprung from the bushes and latched itself onto Meg’s hand. Frankie blinked in shock for a second.

“Get off me!”

She fumbled for the shortsword at her hip. When she glanced back up, hilt in hand, Meg was trying desperately to shake whatever it was off her fingers. It clutched on with long, knife-like claws and flailed about with Meg’s swinging arm, like some sort of freaky puppet.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

She raised the steel sword, edging it closer. “Hold still, Meg!” There was no way she could put a sharp edge too close to Meg’s hands, already scarred from a couple of years of swordfights. “Let me get it!”

The steel waved close to Meg’s skin as the thing jumped free, a glint of metal in its jaws. Frankie chased after it for a couple of steps, but it scuttled across the moss, diving between the campions, and it was gone.

“What the – my ring!”

Frankie wheeled around. Scarlet blood dripped from a puncture in Meg’s finger, dribbling down her wrist and soaking into her sleeve. The glint of silver that always sat there, on her ring finger, was missing. The two of them stared for a moment.

“By the angels, give that back!” In a flash, Meg was on its tail, beating her way into the brush, beyond the safe insect glow. Frankie hesitated for a beat, and then was after her.

Beyond the trail, the woods were dark. Thorns sprouted up underfoot, crowding around huddled tree trunks. Nettles and cleavers caught at her boots, her leggings, and the bitter-smelling air started to turn chilly. Frankie stuttered to a halt, watching as black, serrated leaves climbed ahead of her in real time. The glow from behind her was still close, something she couldn’t lose.

Her friend was just ahead, her bright hair glinting in the last vestiges of the fireflies’ light. “Meg!” She could hear her frantic gasps over the crashing of leaves and branches. “Meg, stop! We’re gonna get lost!”

Her tall figure halted. Frankie stood stock still, the only sound in the silence her own heavy breathing. Usually it was her, barrelling recklessly into the unknown, not Meg. And after all her own warnings about how tricky and dangerous faeries were – who knew what could happen if they lost the trail? They’d all grown up with stories of being trapped in Faerieland, of dancing to death in a faerie ring, of being snatched away. Frankie had never put much stock in them, but the forest here was distinctly unnerving in a way that made the little hairs on her arms prick up, and standing here, in the dark, felt a little like balancing on a knife edge.

After a few dozen breaths, Meg turned and trudged back towards her. Frankie breathed a sigh of relief, and she waved her onwards as she started her own retreat to the trail. The jade gleam was inviting, and planting her boots back onto the safe moss helped to settle the thudding of her heart. She’d signed up for an adventure, sure, but she’d imagined riddle-wars with faeries. Not pelting after her partner into the depths of a wooded maze.

Meg ducked back into the dim light, injured finger in her mouth and her eyes staring into space, somewhere over Frankie’s head. There was silence for a couple of seconds, and then Frankie shoved her hand into a pouch on her belt.

“C’mon, Meg, let’s see it.”

She fumbled for a moment, and then pulled her prize free. A narrow, rectangular box, not unlike a historical snuff box, inlaid with a silver version of the healing rune, laguz. She flipped it open to reveal a translucent cream that smelt strongly of rosemary. Meg had yet to extricate her finger from her mouth, and she tugged at her arm. Maybe she was in shock, or the puppet-thing was venomous? “Meg, let me salve it.”

Slowly, the finger came free, and Frankie gave her friend’s hand a quick once-over. Dried blood was smeared over the pale skin of her wrist, but the two puncture wounds didn’t have any ugly greens or blues spreading from them, a sign that would’ve meant something nefarious was rushing down Meg’s veins.

“That was my very first sigil ring. My dad gave it to me.”

Meg’s voice was tight as Frankie dipped her finger into the salve and started to smear it over the wounds. Ah. That made a lot more sense. Frankie’s own first sigil ring had gotten flushed down a loo at Hetchworth about a fortnight after she’d gotten it, but Meg was a million times more careful than she was, and the situation with her dad –

“Well, maybe if we keep going, we’ll find it?” She released her hand, snapping the salve box shut. “Maybe – maybe –”

“We shouldn’t have come.” Meg was staring down at her hand, where the skin was knitting itself back together.

Frankie glanced over at her as she popped the pouch on her belt closed, worrying at her lip. The ring was gone now, no matter what anybody said, but – and her tummy squirmed uncomfortably at the thought – Meg had a point. If they’d only spent the night wandering around Romney Marsh, that special ring would probably still be on her finger. And it had been all her idea. The image from before flashed across her vision, of her friends lauding her for the faerie treasure, but it left a sour taste in her mouth.

But there was treasure here, somewhere. Maybe finding that might cheer her friend up? Maybe then losing the ring wouldn’t have been in vain. “Well, we’re here now. And I think we should get going before any more divebombing faeries decide to try and rob us, yeah?”

The poor attempt at humour bounced straight over Meg. She was looking down, counting the daggers in her belt in the dim light. Frankie sighed, biting at her lip, and turned to take the moss-covered steps deeper into the woods.