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the woodtroll cabins were all tiled with lufwood for buoyancy, the slaughterers had constructed their huts with dense leadwood which anchored them firmly to the ground. There were no doors to their dwellings, only thick hammelhornskin curtains, designed to keep out draughts, not neighbours.
    Sinew led Twig towards the fire he had first glimpsed through the overhead branches. It was huge and hot, burning on a raised circular stone platform in the very centre of the village. Twig looked behind him in amazement. Although, beyond the village, the snow was falling thicker than ever, none fell inside. The dome of warmth from the blazing fire was so intense that it melted the snow away to nothing before it could ever land.
    Four long trestle tables, set for lunch, formed a square around the fire. ‘Sit anywhere,’ said Sinew, as she plonked herself down.
    Twig sat beside her and stared ahead at the roaring flames. Although the fire was burning fiercely, each and every log remained on the ground.
    ‘What are you thinking?’ he heard Sinew say.
    Twig sighed. ‘Where I come from,’ he said, ‘we burn buoyant wood – lufwood, lullabee, you know. It's all right, but you have to use a stove. I've … I've never seen a fire outside like this.’

    Sinew looked concerned. ‘Would you rather go in?’
    ‘No!’ said Twig. ‘That's not what I meant. This is nice. At home – well, where I was brought up – everyone disappears inside their cabins when it's cold. It can be very lonely when the weather's bad.’ Twig didn't add that it was pretty lonely for him the rest of the time, too.
    By now all the benches were full and, at the far end, the first course was already being served. As a delicious fragrance wafted across, Twig realized just how hungry he was.
    ‘I recognize that smell,’ he said. ‘What is it?’
    ‘Tilder sausage soup, I think,’ said Sinew.
    Twig smiled to himself. Of course. The soup was a delicacy the grown-up woodtrolls got to eat on Wodgiss Night. Every year he'd wondered what it tasted like. Now he was about to find out.
    ‘Move your elbow, love,’ came a voice from behind him. Twig looked round. An old woman was standing there with a ladle in her right hand, and a round pot in her left. When she saw Twig, she drew back sharply, her smile disappeared and she gave a little shriek. ‘A ghost!’ she gasped.
    ‘It's all right, Gram-Tatum,’ said Sinew, leaning over. ‘This is Twig. He's from Outside. It's him we have to thank for saving Gristle's life.’
    The old woman stared at Twig. ‘It was you who brought Gristle back to us?’ she said.
    Twig nodded. The old woman touched her forehead and bowed. ‘Welcome,’ she said. Then she lifted both her arms high in the air and beat the soup-pot loudly withthe ladle. ‘Hush up!’ she cried. She climbed onto the bench and looked at the square of expectant faces. ‘We have in our midst a brave young man by the name of Twig. He rescued our Gristle and brought him back to us. I want you all to raise your glasses and bid him welcome.’
    All round the table, the slaughterers – young and old – stood up, touched their foreheads, raised their glasses and cried out, ‘Welcome, Twig!’
    Twig looked down shyly. ‘It was nothing,’ he mumbled.
    ‘And now,’ said Gram-Tatum, climbing back down. ‘I dare say you're feeling hungry. Tuck in, love,’ she said, as she ladled the soup into his bowl. ‘And let's see if we can't get some colour into those cheeks of yours,’ she added.
    The tilder sausage soup tasted as delicious as it had smelled. Simmered until the sausages were soft, in stock seasoned with nibblick and orangegrass, the soup was rich and spicy. It was also just the start. Juicy hammelhorn steaks, rolled in seasoned knotroot flour and deep-fried in tilder oil came next, accompanied by earthapples and a tangy blue salad. And this was followed by honey trifle and dellberry blancmange and small wafer biscuits drenched in treacle. Twig had never