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footprints extended back in a thin line into the woods. And then the forest floor became packed with them. Thousands upon thousands of prints, winding between the trees—her small ones, and the faery butler’s long, narrow ones—going back and forth and round and round, trampling one another and never arriving anywhere.
    A tangle of footprints under the very same trees.

CHAPTER III
    The Sylph’s Gift
    G OBLINS were in the walls of Wyndhammer House—two of them, hurtling down the servants’ corridor that hid behind the polished paneling of the ballroom. They streaked under fizzing oil lamps, quick as winks in the dimness. The corridor was hot, narrow, barely wide enough for the goblins to run in single file. Spools of wire lay on the floor. Iron bells lined the ceiling. It was an old precaution, meant to frighten off invading faeries, but it had been for naught. The wires had all been snipped.
    The goblins were breathing hard, gasping as much from the thick air as from excitement.
    â€œDid you see their faces?” the shorter one exclaimed, in a sort of breathless chuckle. His skin was cracked and brown like the bark of a tree, and he wore a red leather jerkin with copper bottles clinking all along the belt. The bottles were labeled such things as Soldier Illusion, Needlewoman Illusion, Weeping Waifs Illusion. . . .
    The other goblin grunted. He was gaunt and pointy, the precise opposite of the short one. “Made ’em scared right enough,” he said, leaping a tangle of wire. “It’s what we came for. If’n we get out of here before the servants come, it’ll all be a good night’s work.”
    The short goblin chuckled again, then wheezed. “A good night’s work, he says. A good night’s work. I should say it was a good night’s work. All those puffed-up pigeons, all pinned up with bottle caps. Won’t be going off to battle so happily, will they be? Not so happily at all.”
    The goblins skidded around a corner and pounded down a flight of steep, worm-eaten stairs. The walls went from brass and gleaming wood to damp, mossy stone. At the bottom of the stairs was a long, dripping cellar, disappearing into blackness.
    The short goblin wouldn’t stop talking. “The Sly King’ll be very pleased with us, don’t you think? Don’t you, Nettles? Most all of London’s up there. All the important parts, at least. All frightened so bad the wax in their whiskers melted. Shouldn’t wonder if the Sly King pays us a small fortune when we get back. Shouldn’t wonder.”
    The goblins dashed to the end of the cellar and into a vaulted room, footsteps echoing. Wine barrels lined the walls. Somewhere high above in the house, they could hear a commotion, banging and thuds and raised voices. Then screams.
    â€œOh, the Sly King, the Sly King, in his towers of ash and wind,” the short goblin sang under his breath. “How much d’you think he’ll pay, Nettles? How much d’you—”
    The goblin named Nettles spun and knocked the shorter one firmly on the head. “ Don’t count your frogs before they’re hatched. Nobody knows what the Sly King’ll do. Nobody sees. We’ll know what we get once we’re safe on our way. Milkblood? ” His voice was suddenly loud, booming under the stone vault. “Milkblood, get us out of here!”
    Slowly a small, hunched shape slid out of the shadows.
    â€œHas all gone well?” it whispered. “Will he be pleased with us?”
    Knuckly branches grew from its head instead of hair. At first it seemed to be a child, all bones and huge, hungry eyes. But as it approached, the lines became visible around its mouth, the grooves in its corpse-white skin. It was an old woman. An ancient Peculiar.
    The short goblin shuddered in disgust. Even Nettles darkened, his brows pinching.
    â€œNot if we’re caught,” he growled, and opened his