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above the roar of the flame. “I mean, most times I put down where they’ve got landmarks.”
    “I can find it,” Keith said confidently, then felt a twinge of worry. What if his inner radar suddenly ceased to operate? Tensely, he closed his eyes for a second, then tuned in, throwing his sense outward toward Holl and his friends. There they were, just where they’d been a minute ago. Keith let his shoulders sag with relief.
    “You feel sick, Keith?”
    “Nope,” Keith assured him, opening his eyes. “Just feeling the basket sway.”
    “Won’t fall,” Frank promised him. “Never has yet. Want a brew? Or some champagne? Traditional.” The pilot popped open the cooler at his feet and took out a frosted can. Keith shook his head. “Won’t be through again for a couple weeks. I’m on my way to Florida after today. There’s a race over the Everglades.”
    “Sounds great!” Keith said. “I want to stay in touch with you, if you don’t mind. I’d like to go up again when you get back.”
    “Oh, yeah, air sprites,” Winslow said with a grin. He jerked on the heat jet tether. The flames roared. “Well, any time I’m in the area, it’s okay with me. You’ve got the number. Heading for South America in November, joining a rally over the Andes. Wind’s too strong for ballooning around here after then.”
    Keith pointed out the roof of Hollow Tree Farm. Frank nodded, and started the Iris descending slowly.
    Like a beacon, the presence of the Little Folk shone through strongly from one of the homesteads ahead. From above, Hollow Tree Farm looked exactly like all the other farms on the road. It was only Keith’s inner sense that made him signal to Winslow to put down in the right meadow. Feeling a little tired by the effort, he turned off his second sight. Immediately, the auras around everything faded to a nearly invisible glow.
    The Iris lowered gently onto the grass between the barn and a field of standing crops. She curtseyed as Keith’s weight left the gently swaying gondola. Immediately Winslow started to feed heat to the envelope.
    “See you in a couple of hours,” Frank called, his voice diminishing as the balloon rose. “Truck’ll come and pick you up here!”
    Keith waved, and walked off the meadow into the cornfield. The rainbow globe vanished behind the canopy of green leaves.
    Corn stood over six feet high in the field behind the house, concealing the individual cottages he knew were standing there. The Little Folk had come up with an excellent system of camouflage. During the growing season, the cottages were hidden by the tall stalks of grain, since each of the little houses stood no higher than the wooden playhouse Keith and his siblings had in their back yard while they were growing up. When the corn was cut, all you could see from the road was the woods behind the settlement. Even in the wintertime the houses defied detection. Their outer walls were dark wood, carved into strand-like patterns and stained to blend in with the County Forest Preserve that stood behind them. Only someone with superior depth perception who knew what to look for could perceive the miniature village, and that only if they could see through the aversion charm the Little Folk had placed on each structure. Keith fairly admitted he couldn’t do it. He relied instead on the white pebbled paths that led through the cornstalks from one doorstep to another until he could make out each home by its shadow.
    Despite the protective coloration, each home was very different. Most of the eight that were fully built were occupied by members of Holl’s age group, the Progressives, who had quickly shed the fears of the last four decades and taken off to live in the open air, away from the larger community in the farmhouse itself. As was their thrifty custom, the Folk had used scrap wood of every size as well as whole boards to build, binding the conglomeration with skill and magic. Glass windows, pieced together like stained