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creatures moved so swiftly I could not see exactly what they were, but I sensed a shimmer of wings, flashes of shining colour, a glow from each as if they bore light within their bodies.
    I am the mountain, I am the sky,
    I am the song that will not die,
    I am the heather, I am the sea,
    My spirit is forever free.
    The song was done. The presences danced around my head a few more times, then settled on my shoulders, in my hair, on my knees. Their humming music died down.
    Not insects. Not tiny birds. Good Folk, in shape not unlike graceful Silver of the Westies, but small, so very small – the largest of them was no bigger than a dragonfly. Their garments seemed fashioned of feathers and cobweb, gossamer and dewdrops, and each had delicate wings. Their small presences glowed with light. I hardly dared move for fear they might break.
    ‘The song –’ I said, then fell silent as the whole swarm of them flew up at once, as if startled. Yet my singing had not seemed to trouble them. I lowered my voice to a murmur, and they settled once more. ‘The song is my gift to you, offered with respect. I seek the Good Folk of the east, and in particular, the White Lady.’ That was, perhaps, a little blunt; but I must take the quickest path.
    One of the tiny beings spoke, or perhaps sang; its voice was so high I could hear nothing but squeaking, and my heart sank. Among the Folk Below at Shadowfell had been five very small creatures whose voices were incomprehensible to human folk; one of the bigger Good Folk had translated for them. I had no interpreter now.
    The wee being was trying again. It stood on the back of my hand, waving its arms as if that might help it convey its message. Its hair was long and wild. Its features had a human complement of eyes, nose and mouth, but their placement suggested an insect of some kind. Its garments appeared to be woven from strands of cobweb.
    ‘I’m s–’ I had forgotten to keep my voice down, and as one they shrank away. ‘I’m sorry,’ I whispered, ‘I can’t understand what you’re saying. I am Neryn. A Caller. I’ve come here from the north. Perhaps some word of our venture has reached you. Are there some bigger folk of your kind close by?’
    The little ones broke into a mournful, squeaking chorus.
    ‘Gone?’ I guessed. ‘What of the White Lady?’
    The being on my hand performed a dumb show, first shivering violently and wrapping its cloak around it. Then it pointed to me, and to the cairns, tilting its head as if asking a question.
    ‘Cold, yes, I’m cold, and going to be colder, since we’re on the threshold of winter. Are you suggesting I shelter inside that beehive hut? This is a place of deep ritual, isn’t it? I don’t wish to offend anyone.’
    The being gave a decidedly human-like shrug. It repeated the shivering, then keeled over sideways and lay on my palm as still as death. My heart skipped a beat – had touching me somehow killed it?
    The others rose in a cloud, making a shrill sound that seemed akin to laughter. The cobweb-cloaked one bounced back to its feet, spreading its hands wide as if expecting applause. It pointed to me, then repeated the whole performance.
    ‘Shelter in the hut or die of cold, I understand. If I face that choice, I will do as you suggest. I do need news of the White Lady, if you or others of your clan are willing to provide it. Is she close by? Can I reach her?’
    In response, they swarmed into the air again and flew in a shining ribbon to the low entrance of the beehive hut. Almost before I could draw breath, they had disappeared inside.
    I glanced back up the hill. Whisper’s absence made me edgy and I wanted to watch out for his return. But perhaps this would not take long. I picked up my belongings – staff and travelling pack – and approached the hut. The entry would have been just the right size for my fey friends, Sage and Red Cap. Pushing the staff and bag ahead of me, I crawled along the short tunnel on my hands and