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that, but…”
    “Oh, move up, then,” said Padra, and flipped himself dripping into the boat. He would be glad of the company. His heart was at the Spring Gate with Arran and his children, who had never seemed more precious, nor more vulnerable.
    Linty. Children. Did Linty ever have children?

    Fires were lit on the beach, to warm the shore patrols. Crackle and Scatter crouched to blow on the smoldering twigs until autumn leaves glowed, curled, and sent flames licking along dead branches. Coughing, turning their faces from the smoke, they stretched their paws to the fire.
    They said nothing, because there was nothing much to be said. Crackle was wishing that she could be the one to find the princess. But, she thought as she prodded the flames with a stick, it wouldn’t matter who found the baby as long as she was found. Scatter, too, wished she could do something wonderful for the island, but she didn’t want it to be this. She didn’t want to do something brave to rescue the princess because she simply hoped that, by morning, Princess Catkin would have turned up safe and sound, and it would be as if this had never happened.
    She huddled closer to Crackle. This long, slow night made her imagine things she would rather not think of.
    “You know,” she said, “you know there was a prince before, and he—”
    “Prince Tumble,” interrupted Crackle quickly. “Don’t talk about that.”
    “But it’s almost as if—” persisted Scatter.
    “I said, don’t!” snapped Crackle, so neither of them said, It’s as if there were a curse on the Heir of Mistmantle. But they could hear each other thinking it.

    In her tree-root home, Damson was busily packing a satchel and singing the lullaby under her breath. Neatly she packed bread, apples, hazelnuts, a flask of milk, and a shawl—the things she would want for a journey, the things that might be needed by a squirrel running away with a baby. All through Juniper’s childhood she had kept him secretly, with the help of the otters who lived near the waterfall. She knew about keeping a baby hidden. What would the king’s guards and the Circle know about it? If anyone could find Linty, she could, and Linty would trust her. At sunrise, she’d go out on her search. Young Sepia might help. Sepia was gentle and trustworthy, but also young and small, and would be better at wriggling through tunnels and climbing trees and cliffs than she was herself.
    In the Gathering Chamber, Sepia was helping Thripple to tidy up. There wouldn’t yet be any great ceremony to admit Urchin and Needle to the Circle. All the draperies and garlands could come down, robes could be brushed and put away. None of that would be needed now. Hope and the new baby, Mopple, had fallen asleep in a makeshift nest of scraps of old fabric and leftover garlands.
    Crispin balanced on the highest branch of the highest tree in a copse near the Tangletwigs, turning right and left, gazing as far as the night would let him see. He had climbed in and out of every hollow in every tree in this copse. The sensible thing to do would be to go back to the tower and find out if there was any news, though his heart urged him to keep searching.
    “Heart keep her,” he prayed. “Heart bring her safely home.”
    He was King Crispin the Swanrider, but his own child was missing, and he was unable to help her. On his swaying treetop perch in the deep, dark night, he was utterly alone.
    “Back to the tower, find out what’s happening, then get out again,” he muttered as he sprang down. “Hold on, Catkin. We’ll find you.”
    He would not give in. He would hunt, he would use every power of thought and strength, knowledge and courage, until he dropped with exhaustion, and when he woke, he would go on searching though the sun burned him, and the Tangletwigs tore him to shreds. He would not stop to imagine Catkin crying for her mother and father in the dark, and wondering why they didn’t come. He could bear hardship, but not