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sorry. But look, I have to find her. Or at least Venn, and—”
    The tree shivered. “You should not look for her. Now is the time she is strongest, when the sap is high and the leaves are green, when the hare dances and the owl hunts all night. Don’t seek her out, sir, I beg of you.”
    â€œNo choice, I’m afraid. Which of these three paths should I take?” Suddenly Wharton felt foolish. Was he going mad, asking advice of a tree?
    â€œIt does not matter. She will be at the end of all of them. Good sir . . .” The murmur came close to his ear. “If you gain her favor, ask mercy for me, I pray. My brothers will be so concerned. I am gone nearly a week now.”
    Wharton grunted, thinking of the ruined cloister at the Abbey, the hundreds of years that had passed since this poor crazed man had fallen foul of Summer. But he said, “I’ll do my best.”
    â€œYou promise me?”
    â€œI er . . . well, yes. I promise I’ll try.”
    The tree was silent a moment. When it spoke again he heard only the most desolate whisper. “But will God also forgive me? For I have longed for such deadly things.”
    Wharton had no answer to that. He turned quickly and walked into the right-hand path, cursing his own soft-heartedness for promising anything. Ask Summer for mercy! May as well ask the sun to turn itself off. He’d end up as a log or a stone himself. He was trying to imagine how that must feel, when a cloud of silvery butterflies came down and danced all around him.
    He stopped.
    Before him was an open clearing in the Wood.
    Deep in its stillness was the hum of summer bees.
    He knew at once that it was a trap. He knew that if he took one more step he would have entered the Summerland, and that he would see those slanted worlds again, and the temptation to turn and run was so strong, he almost heard it like a warning voice. But George Wharton, he thought bitterly, was no one’s wimp. So he squared his shoulders, lifted his chin, and stepped in.

    Instantly, he was in sunshine, and there was a summerhouse.
    It was a fragile construction, of gaudily painted trellis-work, and it was thatched with a complex iridescent thatch that glimmered like kingfisher feathers. As he came closer he saw it was, in fact, made of the wings of countless birds, all woven together.
    The structure stood on a bank of wild thyme, the smell of the herb cloyingly sweet. Columbine grew there, and honeysuckle wreathed the tilted veranda.
    The Shee came down around him in clouds. He watched how some of them stayed butterflies and how others transformed, wholly or in part, to the pale tall people he had seen before, their clothes now brilliant scarlets and turquoises and oranges. With soft rustles and crackles their bodies unfolded. Abdomen and antennae became skin and smile.
    Wharton stood still, hands clenched.
    Then one moved aside, and he saw Summer lounging elegantly on a wooden cruise-ship deckchair.
    The Shee queen wore a short dress of shimmery gold, her feet were bare, a smile of delight lit her pert, pretty face. “George!” she said. “What a wonderful surprise!”
    Wharton didn’t answer.
    He was looking at the man standing behind her chair.
    Oberon Venn seemed taller, thinner here, his hair as blond as sunlight, his eyes cold as ice. Wharton was shocked at the change in him. Rumor had it Venn was half Shee. Well, certainly he was paler, somehow less solid. As if his human half was being sucked out of him, like bees suck honey from a flower. As if the curse on his family was coming true right now.
    But his voice was still sharp as flint. “What the hell are you doing here, teacher?” Wharton stood his ground.
    â€œI’m wondering that myself,” he said. “Because when I tell you the reason, you probably won’t even care.”

    Maskelyne walked quickly down into the black-and-white-tiled hall, crossed to the Bakelite