Walking out of the tunnel is like waking from a raucous nightmare. Before them, a steady rain falls on the green limbs of a forest. The water is warm and the air fragrant with the smells of pine, oak, and cedar trees. Nearby, birds chirrup to each other. Hallon finds a quiet copse well away from the tunnel’s exit before sitting Milo down. His eyes are mild and trusting. After their recent ordeals, they both need a rest, but first things first.

“Now that we’re through,” she says, “it’s time to return what is yours.” She opens her hand to show him that the marble is gone.

He takes a fast, sharp breath as the fear floods through him. “What? Where?”

“Be well,” Hallon says. “We’re through the tunnel and found these woods.”

“But how?” Milo asks.

Hallon grins. “We walked.”

“Yes, but—” Milo trails off and shakes his head. “Hypnotism too? Spies really are well trained. And we’re in a forest now? How am I going to work that into the equations.” He falls back to lay down on the ground. Astonishingly, he laughs. “I’ve never been too tired to think before.”

Hallon lets herself relax. She reins in the fire and eases it back behind its gate. Milo starts to snore.

Eratosthenes?

Yes, I’m here.

What am I going to do with Milo? He thinks he’s insane.

From our perspective he is. He doesn’t believe in the spirit world.

You know what I mean.

I do, but doors open when they’re ready. Try to force them, and they may break.

Hallon sighs and closes her eyes. Soon she’ll need to find food and shelter, but for now, it’s enough to listen to the sounds of the forest and feel the warm rain on her face. To just be alive.

###

The rain eases enough for Hallon to start a fire. Foraging around their campsite, they find a handful of wild onions, and the smell of them roasting is wonderful. Hallon’s mouth waters as she and Milo hover, waiting for them to finish cooking.

A boy’s voice comes from downslope. “I’m telling you, I smell smoke.”

Milo looks up in surprise. “What—”

Hallon claps a hand over his mouth and gestures for him to be quiet. Eratosthenes, is someone nearby?

Not that I can see. The road’s clear.

A girl answers the boy. “I don’t smell anything.”

“That’s because I’ve trained my nose,” the boy says with pride.

“Like a dog you mean?”

“Very funny,” the boy says, “but you’ll see I’m right. It’s coming from over this way.”

If he can smell the fire, he must be close. Hallon grabs the still-hot onions, and they make for the trees upslope.

“What if it’s poachers or wild Gloop?” The girl’s voice is concerned.

The boy hesitates. “We’ll tell them we mean no harm. It’s like Mama says, Gloop are people. Just different. Wouldn’t it be interesting to talk to them?”

“No,” the girl says. “It sounds dangerous.”

“If it comes to it,” the boy says, “we have our rifles.”

“A .22 won’t stop a Red,” the girl says. “And if it is poachers, they might have guns of their own.”

“I’m sure it’ll be all right,” the boy says, worry creeping into his voice.

Hallon moves through the trees and circles around to find a thick-leafed bush to hide behind. Below, a boy and girl stare at each other over the reins of their horses. They are brother and sister, around 11 years old. The boy wears a green vest over a loose white shirt and dark trousers. A small neat turban rests on his head. The girl is in a green dress with a gold sash across the front. Her dark hair is pulled back in a braid. In a nod to practicality, she wears a pair of riding pants under her dress.

The horses are beautiful animals and finely boned. The rifles jut from the sleeves attached to their saddles. A picnic basket is strapped to the back of the girl’s horse.

I’m sorry, Eratosthenes says. I don’t know how I missed them. They must’ve passed under the forest’s cover.

It’s all right, Hallon says. They’re here now. That’s all that matters.

What will you do?

“What will we do?” Milo’s whisper is soft, but the horses’ ears turn to track the sound.

The girl notices and looks upslope. “I don’t think this is a good idea. Mama would want us to do the right thing. If they’re poachers, then they’re criminals.”

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“But what if it’s Gloop? I want to see them,” the boy says.

“We have Gloop on staff,” the girl says, exasperated.

“It’s not the same,” the boy says.

“And then there are the horses,” the girl says, patting hers on the neck.

“What about them?”

“They may get hurt if things turn violent,” she says.

The boy pats his own horse with great affection. “Oh, I suppose you’re right,” he says reluctantly. “Let’s go back and tell Khem. Maybe he’ll let us come when he investigates.”

“I wouldn’t count on it,” the girl says, turning her horse around.

Hallon has a clear view of the basket then, and more importantly, the off-center strap holding it in place. The horse is well-mannered and the girl is an experienced rider with an easy seat. If the horse startles—

The motion arises before Hallon’s even aware of it. She scoops up a stone half the size of her palm, steps out into the open, and whips it forward to let it fly and smash into the basket. Crack! The horse jumps, startled. Kicks. The girl fights for her seat. There’s panic on her face, but she’s determined to hold on. The basket tumbles to the ground.

“Dana! Dana! Are you all right?”

The girl named Dana wrestles the reins. Her will is stronger than the horse’s, and she regains control. “Ye-yes. I’m fine.”

“What was that?” the boy asks, looking around.

“I don’t know.” Her horse paces in a circle, still frightened. The girl scans the bushes, but Hallon’s already ducked out of sight. “Let’s go. Now.”

The boy starts to dismount. “The basket—”

“Leave it,” the girl says.

“But—”

“I said to leave it.”

The girl trots her horse, and the boy follows, looking back. “We’re going to be in so much trouble.”

Once they’re out of view, Hallon runs for the basket.

“We’re stealing from children,” Milo says, following after her.

“We have to go,” Hallon says. “This place isn’t safe anymore.”

“We’ve become bandits,” Milo says.

“Come on,” she says.

The onions get eaten as they flee. Hallon’s stomach complains that it’s not enough, but they can’t stop. Not now when they might be pursued. There’ll be time for the picnic basket later. Eratosthenes keeps them off the roads and between the estates, taking them through the most wooded parts of the forest. He’s embarrassed by his lapse and warns them twice of people ahead. The first time, it’s a group of finely dressed men and women on horseback. The second is a lone forester inspecting a game trail.

The estates get larger the farther down the mountain they go, but after half a day’s hike, Eratosthenes spots a gully they can use to hide. There’s no path, so they pick their way down carefully past a series of small waterfalls. At the bottom, the water cascades into a pool before flowing out of the gully.

There’s a sandy bar surrounding the water, and Milo plops down. “Can we please stop?”

Hallon sits beside him, bone weary. “Yes, but no fire.”

“Finally!” Milo falls back and stretches out his arms.

She expects him to fall asleep, but he doesn’t. The promise of food lures him upright, and he opens the basket they’d liberated earlier. On top, there’s a thin woolen blanket dyed walnut brown. Underneath are two sets of silverware, a canteen of water, two bottles of blue-flecked liquid, and three lacquered boxes, the tops of which are inlaid with a design of four sparrows in flight.

The first box contains a salad of grapes and salty cheese. The second has two neatly stacked sandwiches wrapped in wax paper. The third, two fried dumplings drenched with honey and stuffed with walnuts and warm spices. Without a word, Milo forks an entire dumpling into his mouth. His eyes close in bliss.

Hallon, her mouth watering, reaches for a sandwich. Roast chicken, mustard, pickled turnip, and something earthy she can’t place. She sighs after one bite and then demolishes the rest. The salad comes next, the sweetness of the grapes and saltiness of the cheese blending nicely. As for the dumpling… heaven. Just heaven.

Only the blue liquid is unappetizing with a bitter, metallic taste. Hallon recognizes the mineral floating inside as rethak, and she puts the bottles aside.

Bellies full for the first time in days, they lay on the blanket and stare up at the dusky light filtering through the trees. The sound of the waterfall keeps them company. Milo hums a tune, and Hallon recognizes it as one of Chopin’s Nocturnes. The melody is actually quite nice.

“You do that well,” she says.

“Music is just math in another shape,” he says, nodding, “and I can do math.”

“I’d gotten that,” Hallon says, smiling.

“And—” His voice catches. “And it’s important to me. My mother used to hum this song when I was little.”

Hallon’s smile fades. “I’m sorry.”

“You must know about the fire then,” Milo says. “But of course you do, a good spy would do their research.”

“I’m not a spy, Milo.”

“I’d rather have you as a spy than a hallucination,” he says.

“I’m neither. I’m—” Hallon hesitates.

How many times has she tried this before? To explain that she’s a guardian, someone who protects people from shadows, fallen spirits who use their influence to inspire fear and hate. How many times have people thought that she’s mad, when the truth is that she’s saner than most?

What’s visible and tactile is just the surface of reality. There is a realm of the spirit from which the everyday world springs and even deeper levels—of thought, luck, and karma—which make up the spirit realm’s fundament. Milo will likely scoff at all this, but Hallon can plant the seeds for his future understanding. The boy deserves that much at least.

She takes a breath and gathers her courage. “I’m what’s called a guardian,” she says. “I protect people from spiritual disturbances, and I work with a companion—well, he’s more than that, but there isn’t language to describe what we are to each other—I work with a companion who’s a dragon—the spirit of a dragon—and together we’re following a series of clues to a spiritual disaster I prophesied one night. Did I mention that I’m a seer? And that I’m over six hundred years old?” Hallon sighs and rubs at her face. “I’m botching this badly, aren’t I?”

Milo has turned to look at her. “No, no, it’s okay. I’ve never shared in a camp story before, so I don’t have any reference points, but I think you’re doing a marvelous job. Will there be ghosts and monsters later? I heard that these stories are supposed to have ghosts and monsters in them.”

“I’m telling the truth,” Hallon says, groaning.

“Of course you are,” he says, nodding. “I have a story too. About the ghost of Daniel Henderson, who drowned in the lake after getting drunk one night. They say he still wanders the banks looking for whiskey, and he doesn’t—how did it go—he doesn’t care whether it’s in a bottle or in your blood.”

“Is that story true?” Hallon asks, curious in spite of herself.

“I’m supposed to say yes, but I actually don’t know. I’m also supposed to jump and yell that he’s here, but that’s impossible given the supposition that we’re in a parallel dimension. Even the alternative—that this is a hallucination—would also make it pointless. I’d effectively be trying to scare myself. Which, now that I think about it, is something I already do quite often, so I really don’t feel the need to do it again.” Milo adjusts his spectacles and waits for her to respond.

Well and well, she’d made the attempt—a piss poor one, but she’s lived long enough to know that that’s what matters. It’s better to do and fail than live with regret. She’d take embarrassment over regret any day. And besides there’ll be other times. The journey isn’t over yet.

Hallon pats Milo on the cheek. “You told the story well. I was entertained, thank you.”

He smiles, his eyes innocent. “I’m glad. I’m very glad.”

“Now hum that tune again, and we’ll get some rest. We’ll start the journey again tomorrow.”

Milo does as he’s told and hums the melody, taking care with each note, until they both fall asleep. Above, Eratosthenes sighs and shakes his head. He digs his claws into the trunk of a cedar to keep watch.