But how was I to find the Kinde Ones? They might be across the sea and far away. Then again, they might be just over the next hill. Those ones traveled here and there in the Dark Lands, sometimes staying in one place, sometimes in another. The villagers said the Kinde Folke did not want to be found. But had anyone ever been brave enough to seek them?

  Perhaps in old tales there were those who did, but not in our ordinary life. Certainly not girls like me.

  Truth to tell, it scared me to think of going off on my own. I’d never been farther from home than Lower Hexham, just a mile down the road. On the other side of the village was Mirkwood, where even the bravest boys dared not go. And beyond Mirkwood were the Dark Lands.

  If it hadn’t been for me, my brother would be in Mam’s arms, and Dadoe would be smoking his pipe in the garden. And the changeling would be—​well, wherever he should be, not here.

  So, no matter how scared I was, I had to make things right. Me, Mollie Cloverall, all by myself, I would rescue my baby brother.

  I found Mam downstairs, nursing Guest. Too sad and weary to turn her head, she didn’t notice me, but the changeling gazed at me with his yellow eyes, as watchful as a cat.

  “Soon you’ll be gone,” I mouthed at him. “You hateful thing.”

  He closed his eyes and gave all of his attention to Mam and the milk he sucked from her.

  “I’ll fix supper, Mam,” I said. “Is there anything you’d like to eat?”

  Still without really seeing me, she shook her head. “I haven’t got much appetite.”

  After she’d eaten a bit of bread and half a bowl of soup, she lay down on her bed. For once, Guest was sleeping, and I was glad to see Mam using the time to rest.

  After supper, I pumped a pail of water from the well and washed the dishes. When the kitchen was clean and tidy, I went outside and stood by the gate. Across the fields, Mirkwood lay deep in shadow. Birds chirped in the hedgerows, and tall stalks of purple foxglove swayed gently, still humming with the last of the day’s bees. The moon had already risen, pale-faced in the sky, almost full. The smell of wet grass sweetened the air.

  In the distance, farm workers trudged home, their voices and laughter barely audible. Dadoe should have been with them, but he was far away, working in unknown fields with strangers.

  Gripping the gate with both hands, I wished on the first star of the night. Please let me find the Kinde Folke, please let them take Guest and return Thomas, please let me bring him safely home, please let Dadoe return and Mam laugh and be happy. Please, oh please, a thousand times please, let everything be the same as it was.

  4

  * * *

  THE NEXT MORNING, MAM carried Guest outside and laid him on Thomas’s quilt. For once, he lay still and watched the clouds float by in the shape of endless flocks of fluffy sheep.

  Crouching behind a bush, I spied on Guest while I weeded the garden. I was sure he didn’t know I was nearby. Perhaps if I waited long enough, Guest might, just might, reveal something. Surely he had secrets. Maybe he knew where the Kinde Folke were. Maybe they talked to him and he to them.

  A fly landed on my nose, and I brushed it away before it made me sneeze. Ants paraded across my foot, tickling my toes. Beads of sweat trickled down my back. The sun was hot and the air heavy with summer. Bees buzzed in the foxgloves as if they were trying to lull me to sleep.

  Guest began wailing softly, not a cry, not a shriek, but a sad sound that rose and fell, not quite sobs, not quite a tune. The song drifted across the garden and over the wall. It mingled with the breeze and the rustle of leaves; it ran with the stream over rocks; it mingled with the singing of birds and the humming of bees.

  Sorrowful it was and beautiful. I’d never heard anything quite like it, certainly not from Guest.

  The song ended as suddenly as it began. Guest turned his head toward my hiding place. His yellow eyes found me and held me fast. Silent now and sly, he looked at me as if daring me to come closer.

  I got to my feet and stared down at him. “Where did you learn that song?”

  He kept his gaze on me. His expression didn’t change. Nor did he answer. Not that I’d expected him to.

  “I might as well ask the cat.” I leaned over him, my face mere inches from his. “I don’t know what you see when you look at me like that. Do you know what I see when I look at you?”

  His face became secretive.

  “I see an ugly, ill-natured creature.” I spat out the words as if they were poison. “An imp from the devil, as ugly as Thomas was beautiful, as nasty as Thomas was sweet.”

  A magpie in the hedgerow cocked its head at me. Its wings stirred, as if the bird was ready to fly away to the Kinde Folke.

  No, I must not speak harshly to Guest or harm him in any way—​not while Thomas was a prisoner of the Kinde Folke.

  Mam came to the door and looked out. “Is everything all right?” she asked—​meaning, Was Guest safe?

  “Everything is fine,” I lied.

  At the sound of Mam’s voice, Guest began to shriek. He kicked and waved his fists.

  Bending over him, Mam picked him up with difficulty, as if he’d grown too heavy for her. “Surely you’re not hungry again?”

  His answer was to strike her with his flailing fists and tear open her dress.

  By that evening, Mam scarcely had the energy to eat her supper. Her eyes were nearly as sunken as Granny Hedgepath’s, and blue shadows discolored the skin under them. Her hair, once thick and shiny, hung limp in uncombed strings around her pale face. Her dress hung on her thin body.

  * * *

  Late that night, I wrote Mam a letter:

  I have taken Guest and gone to find Thomas. Do not worry—​I will be safe and I will bring Thomas home and leave Guest with them that he belongs to.

  Please eat and rest whilst I am gone and get strong.

  Love from your daughter, Mollie

  Quietly I filled a canvas bag with a loaf of bread, a jug of milk and one of water, a hunk of yellow cheese, and six apples. I didn’t dare take more, for we didn’t have much.

  I touched the locket hidden under my dress. Perhaps I could use it to barter with the Kinde Folke. Like magpies and crows, they probably liked shiny things.

  I tiptoed to the cradle. Guest lay still, but his eyes were open, shining like a cat’s in the dark.

  Expecting a struggle that would wake Mam, I wrapped him tight in a blanket that I slung onto my back. Without so much as a whimper, he let me carry him from the cottage.

  The dirt road was white in the moonlight, and the foxgloves that bordered it were black. Everything else dissolved in shades of gray—​the fields quilting the hillsides, the stone walls, the grass. The only sound was the cry of an owl somewhere up ahead.

  At the top of Cat Tail Hill, I turned and looked back at our cottage, so small at the foot of the hill. I’d never spent a night away from Mam. Now here I was about to set out on a journey with no clear idea of where I was going. Or when I’d be back. Or if I’d be back.

  But on I trudged, downhill and into the village. The moon silvered its thatched roofs. Windows were dark. Not a single candle shone. I felt like a burglar creeping from cottage to cottage, choosing which one to enter and rob.

  A dog barked on a narrow side street. A cat peered down at me from a high stone wall, eyes agleam. In one house, someone snored loudly enough for me to hear.

  I paused to shift Guest to a better position. He’d still not made a sound, but he tightened his grip and dug his fingernails into my shoulders. This close, I smelled his wildness and quickened my steps. The sooner I found the Kinde Folke, the sooner I’d be rid of the creature on my back.

  As we neared the old stone bridge that spanned the river, I saw a horse and cart stopped in the middle. The peddler leaned against the wall and played a pennywhistle. On my back, Guest shifted his position to look over my shoulder.

  When the peddler saw me, he smiled, but instead of greeting me, he continued to play a melancholy tune. The music seemed familiar, but I didn’t know where I’d heard it, only that I had. Guest dug his feet into my back and reared up to get a better look at the peddler.

  Lowering the whistle, the peddler said, “Well, well, if it’s not little Mollie Cloverall with the travelers’ babby on her back. What brings you out so late at night? Not to buy ribbons and beads and flowers, I wager.”

  “The creature won’t sleep unless I walk him about in the moonlight.” I was surprised at how quickly the lie fell from my mouth. “It soothes him.”

  “Ah, I’ve known a few babbies like that.” He reached over my shoulder to pat Guest’s head.

  “Careful,” I warned him. “Sometimes he bites.”

  The old man laughed. “No fear. The meanest dog in the world knows better than to bite me.”

  I took a step to pass the peddler, but he stopped me. “If I were you, I wouldn’t go any farther. The crossroads lie just ahead and beyond them is Mirkwood, both dangerous places for a lass and a babby on a dark night like this.”

  “Oh, I won’t go farther than the bend in the road.” I pointed ahead to a place where the road curved.

  “You wouldn’t be fibbing to me, would you?”

  I crossed my fingers behind my back and shook my head. “No, sir, that I would not.”

  “Take care as you go, then.” He stepped out of my way and doffed his yellow hat. Its black feather bobbed. “May no harm come to either of you.”

  With relief, I crossed the bridge and glanced back to see if the peddler watched me, but he’d already turned toward the village. His horse’s hooves rang on the stone, and its harness bells jingled.

  All too soon, the road curved and the village was behind me, no more than a huddle of cottages by the side of the road, now as small as heaps of stones left by children. Ahead, just over the hill was Mirkwood. Hitching Guest higher on my back, I climbed the road to the top. From there I looked down on the dark forest. It stretched as far as I could see, bordered by the sea on the far side and the Dark Lands on the other.

  Again Guest hoisted himself high enough to see over my head. He yelped like a fox or a wolf, a strange incomprehensible sound. From the forest, an owl hooted as if in answer.

  Going downhill, I picked up speed until, stumbling on loose stones, I forced myself to go slower. It wouldn’t do to fall.

  At the bottom of the hill were the crossroads, dark with sorrow and foreboding.

  Those who’d killed themselves were buried in this place. Murderers, too, and thieves, all those who weren’t allowed to lie in churchyards. Changelings and unwanted babies both had been left here to die. If any place was haunted, the crossroads was.

  Moaning softly, Guest clung to me and rocked back and forth as if he feared I meant to leave him here.

  I wished I could do exactly that, but I was almost certain the Kinde Folke would take him and give me Thomas.

  As soon as we left the crossroads behind, Guest loosened his grip and stopped moaning and rocking. Very still now, he crouched behind me as a frightened animal might.

  For the first time, I felt a twinge of pity, a very small one, for certainly Guest had caused a great deal of hardship in our family and did not deserve my sympathy.

  Catching light from the moon, white stones lined the path into the forest. After a few steps, darkness closed around me. I kept my eyes on the stones, afraid of what I might see if I looked between the trees on either side of me.

  Guest resumed moaning. He seemed to be as frightened as I was.

  Things moved in the shadows, too far from the path for me to see what they were. I hoped they stayed where they were.

  On my back, Guest moved restlessly and muttered to himself. His warm breath tickled my neck. With every step I took, he seemed heavier and my legs felt weaker. I longed to be rid of him.

  Too weary to go on, I eased Guest from my back and sank down to rest against the smooth side of a mossy rock.

  Guest huddled beside me, clicking and clacking to himself. Sometimes he glanced at me as if he expected me to understand him, but the noises didn’t sound like words to me.

  “If only you could tell me where to find the Kinde Folke,” I said. “But you can’t talk. And you can’t walk. What use are you to me or anyone?”

  Guest hung his head and stared silently at the ground.

  For a moment, he reminded me of a lamb I’d once raised because its mother refused to nurse it. A useless runt, Dadoe called it. He told me to let it die, but I nursed it with a rag soaked in milk. When it was too big for me to carry, I let it go back to the flock.

  But Guest was not a lamb. He was a wicked creature, unwanted by his mother or anyone else. He didn’t deserve my pity.

  I squatted beside him and looked into his eyes. “Do you know where we’re going?”

  Guest peered at me, wild and strange.

  “I’m taking you back to your own people, the ones who didn’t want you, the ones who took my brother and left you in his place. The ‘Kinde Folke’ they’re called, though they are not kind at all. I’ll trade you for my brother and be rid of you forever.”

  Guest made a mournful sound and curled into a small ball. Had he understood what I’d said? No, I told myself, he had no more intelligence than a dumb animal.

  I poked him as if he were a sleeping dog. “Can I trust you to stay with me if I sleep?”

  Guest curled up even smaller and covered his big ears with his hands.

  I poked him again, harder this time. “You had better be here when I wake up.”

  No answer, not even a look. If I’d had a rope, I’d have tied him to a tree.

  I covered him with the blanket I’d used for a sling and pulled another for myself from my canvas bag.

  I’d sleep for a while and then go on. Soon we’d find the Kinde Folke. I was sure of it. Well, almost sure.

  When I opened my eyes, morning had come and Guest was gone. I leapt to my feet and gazed into the misty forest. The trees had kept their vigil. They still stood tall and straight, but where was the changeling?

  “Guest,” I called. “Guest—​where are you?” My voice bounced from one tree trunk to the next, but I heard no answer. I called again and again, peering into the mist but afraid to leave the path.

  A few days ago, I’d have been happy Guest was gone, but without him I had nothing to trade for Thomas. I might as well go home. I opened my bag and pulled out the water jug. Before I’d taken my first sip, I saw Guest. He’d burrowed into the ferns like a fawn and almost buried himself in a hollow under a boulder. His back was to me, and he seemed sound asleep.

  Angry at the trick he’d played, I shouted, “Wake up!”

  He turned and looked at me, blank-faced as usual, and crawled slowly from his hiding place. The first thing he did was grab the milk jug from the bag.

  I yanked the jug away from him, removed the top, and held him while he drank. Such a greedy creature he was. Guzzle, guzzle, guzzle.

  “You can’t drink it all,” I told him. “I doubt we’ll find a cow in Mirkwood.”

  He shrieked and screamed and flailed about just as he did at home, biting, pinching, and kicking. It took all my strength to swaddle him in the blanket and hoist him onto my back.

  As I walked, I ate a small piece of cheese while Guest screamed.

  Ahead of us, the ground rose steeply. Warm damp air clung to me, and midges too tiny to see bit my face, my ears, my neck.

  Guest continued to wail and snort and snuffle. He squirmed and twisted, throwing his weight from one side to the other. I didn’t dare turn and look at him for fear I’d throw him into the ravine that bordered the path.

  On we went, mile after weary mile. The farther I walked, the more the trees closed in around us. Very little daylight found its way through their leafy tops. Guest and I seemed to move through endless twilight, with no idea of the time—​morning, noon, evening—​but not night, not yet.

  Sometimes I walked between boulders that towered over us, their surfaces softened by thick coats of moss. Trees grew from the tops of some. Their roots twisted down the sides, digging into crevices. Water dripped from the rocks and pooled on the path. I wished I’d thought to bring a walking stick to keep my balance.

  At the top of yet another hill, I felt Guest’s body tense. His grip on my shoulders tightened. Very softly he began to make a series of clacking sounds.

  At the bottom of the hill, a man leaned against a boulder, watching us make our way toward him. While he waited, he played a mournful tune on a tin whistle. The music put me in mind of the song Guest had sung in the garden.

  From what I could see of the man, half-hidden as he was in the tall ferns, he seemed a harmless sort, a wandering musician perhaps. I’d seen his like playing tunes on market day, a cap beside him to catch coins tossed by generous folk.

  Keeping my eyes on my feet, I made my way slowly and carefully down the treacherous path. It was my hope that the man might know the whereabouts of the Kinde Folke. Perhaps he would lead me to them. A bit of company would be a pleasure, especially if he was willing to carry Guest for at least part of the way.

  5

  * * *

  UP CLOSE, THE MAN was neither handsome nor ugly, neither old nor young, but somewhere in between. He wore a faded black hat with a wide brim. The sleeves of his green jacket were frayed, the fabric faded. The knees of his pants were patched and his boots well-worn. A shapeless pack lay beside him.

  I came nearer. But not too near. He had the sly eyes of a clever fox, I thought, and I wasn’t sure I could trust him after all.

  Guest pushed himself up to see over my shoulder. He burst into a series of loud clicks and clacks.

  “He can’t talk,” I said, but the stranger paid me no mind.

  Instead he imitated Guest, as if he were mocking him.