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they slipped away unseen, their clothes bulging with apples and pears.
    ‘After dark the whole world belongs to us,’ Marian whispered. ‘We will go where we like, take what we need. Now follow me, and stick close, we are going on a long and dangerous journey.’
    They left the village far behind and travelled deep into the valley, following the moonlit course of Silver River – two explorers charting unknown lands, stopping now and then tocrunch on fruit and to race sticks in the eddies.
    They discovered ancient barrows and firefly grottos and even a forgotten lake, claiming them all as their own. And still they pushed on. A traveller’s moon cast its blue light and purple shadows, showing them the way; everyone else lay oblivious in their beds; the whole of the night was theirs.

V. The Walking
    T his time with Marian – this grand adventure – lasted far longer than Robin expected. For weeks they roamed the valley and explored the manor, scurrying across the roofs, crawling by candlelight through the crypts and the cellars, emerging with whatever treasures they could find.
    But then came the night Robin woke with a twisting emptiness in his stomach, and he knew all this had come to an end. He sat up in the dark den, listening to the moaning of the wind, knowing he was alone in the tower. All that remained of Marian was a single glass flower, lying on a pillow. He told himself he knew this would happen – he knew sooner or later she would return to that grand manor house, and to her servants and maids and cooks – yet the twisting in his stomach only grew worse.
    He crawled out of the den and pulled on his boots, preparing to go back to Summerswood. But then he noticed the trap door was open, wind fussing around it, making it rattle. And there were other sounds, faint in the distance: shrieks and whistles and bangs; people shouting and clapping their hands.
    He climbed into the crown of the tower. Night had fallen, the sky was thick with cloud, yet it was so bright out here it couldalmost be noon, a giant hunter’s moon gilding everything in its reddish hue.
    Marian was there, at the edge of the parapet. ‘Lazybones,’ she said. ‘Thought you were going to sleep till Doomsday. What’s funny? Why are you smiling?’
    Robin said nothing, only stood alongside her and looked out. From up here, on such a bright night, Winter Forest appeared to stretch away for ever, lost on the very edges of sight. It was a great storm of colours: evergreens and browns and reds. Streaks of smoke and bone and old blood and rust. Even where the branches were bare it was black in its depths. It was like the ocean – the way it was described in Marian’s mother’s books – churning and roaring in the wind, throwing up a spray of leaves. Above it boiled a sea of cloud: its dark reflection.
    Robin looked towards Wodenhurst. At its northern boundary – where village ended and wildwood began – three huge balefires burned, as they did at every full moon. The light from the fires danced across the spirit fence: a row of stakes topped with animal skulls. Along this perimeter the villagers patrolled, ringing hand bells, beating sticks against pans, blowing reed whistles, entreating the Wargwolf and all the other gods of the forest to stay in their domain.
    ‘Summerswood and Winter Forest were joined once, did you know that?’ Marian said. ‘And Bearwold too, in the next valley, and every other coppice and copse, all across the land – they were all part of Sherwood. My mother told me. Now Winter Forest is the only true wildwood left. Sometimes it spreads overnight, trying to reclaim what it lost, and it swallows villages whole. One day Sherwood will circle the whole world, the way it once did. What do you think of that?’
    Robin didn’t answer. Movement deep in the wildwood had caught his eye. Movement that seemed to have nothing to do with the wind …
    It was a rippling line, distant at first, but zigzagging closer. Robin watched