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quickly!”
    “Linty will know all the ways through the Tangletwigs,” said Fir. “She grew up in a colony on the far side. Those squirrels had all sorts of secret ways over and under the ground.”
    “I only tried over ground,” said the queen. “Those thornbushes are everywhere, and…” She hid her face in her paws. “What if Catkin got scratched the way I did? She’s only a baby!”
    “Linty would not take her that way,” said Fir, with a paw on her shoulder. “She knows the Tangletwigs far better than you do, and she will not let any harm come to Catkin.”
    With a flash of anger, she shook off his paw. “She’s already abducted her!” she cried. “Isn’t that harm enough? I just want her back!” She knelt on the hearth to lick blood from a deep cut on her arm, then sprang up suddenly, darted to the window, and gazed out, watching the lights of the search parties. The firelight glow of torches and pale lantern beams moved slowly, too slowly, through the darkness. “I can’t stay here. I’m going out again.”
    “Is that wise?” said Fir. “The chances of somebody arriving at any moment with Catkin safe and sound are very good, you know. I’ve remembered something about Linty. When she was young, she was a dancer and was often among the dancers at our festivals. Many of our best dancers and acrobats came from the Tangletwigs. Living in such a place made them quick and nimble, you know. Linty could carry a baby all the way through the Tangletwigs and back again without a scratch. The Tangletwigs have torn at you, but they will not have touched your daughter.”
    There was a gentle tapping at the door, and Fir limped to open it. Two mole maids stood in white aprons, carrying fluffy white towels across their paws. They glanced shyly toward the queen, their faces grave and concerned.
    “Your bath’s ready, Your Majesty,” said one, with a curtsy. “Moth’s put that lovely lavender oil in it.”
    “Then I will go back to my prayers,” said Fir, and hobbled away. The maids pattered back to the bedchamber where wreaths of lavender-scented steam rose softly from the round oak bathtub.
    “We’re very sorry about the baby, Your Majesty,” said a maid softly.
    “We’re all going to say prayers for her,” said the other.
    “And we’re all thinking about you,” said Moth. “All of us in the tower and all our families.” From a table she lifted a large basket overflowing with posies of autumn flowers, shells, biscuits, clawmarked leaves, and bottles of cordial.
    “What’s this?” asked Cedar, as if she wasn’t interested.
    “Animals have been sending presents to the tower, madam,” said Moth, “because they want to help and they don’t know how, apart from joining the search—and they’re doing that, too. It’s just their way of showing how much they care, madam.”
    The smaller of the mole maids, overcoming her shyness, wriggled forward and reached up to hug Cedar. The other maid followed and hugged her, too, wiping her eyes on her apron. “Thank you, bless you,” said the queen, her voice growing lower and shakier until they had gone, and only Moth remained with her. Moved unbearably by their kindness, the Queen of Mistmantle broke down and wept.

    Urchin, Juniper, Hope, and Docken emerged from a long, thorough, cold, and cobwebby exploration of the Chamber of Candles and the tunnels around it. There was not a trace of the baby, nor of Linty. Not a paw print.

    As moonlight danced on a dark sea, Padra left his cloak at his chambers and loped down to the shore, feeling annoyed with himself. Linty, Linty… somewhere there was a memory about Linty, if only he could drag it to the front of his mind. Perhaps it would come to him. He swam to his boat, where Fingal sat at the oars.
    “I’ll take next watch, Fingal,” he said. “You’ve done long enough.”
    “Can’t I stay a bit longer?” said Fingal. “I’m not cold, and, I mean, I know it’s captain’s orders and all