‘I’m starting to understand why people avoid this place,’ Spinner whispers.
‘Yes,’ I say with false joviality. ‘Cold, silent and distinctly off-putting. It’s little wonder Sheen looks right at home.’
My attempt to lighten the mood does not go as planned, however, as the sound of a twig snapping close to my ear causes me to emit a high-pitched yelp of terror. Sheen lets the broken pieces fall from his hand with a smirk. I feign innocence, turning to stare at Spinner as if she were theone who’d screamed. She only raises an eyebrow at me, unimpressed.
We soon reach a small clearing. The forest floor is spongy and almost entirely covered with leaves.
‘This seems as good a place as any to set up camp,’ I say.
Spinner nods, but Sheen, standing a few paces ahead, frowns curiously at the ground then shakes his head. I sigh. Of course he’d find fault with my suggestion. I grab Spinner’s hand and push roughly past him.
‘No,’ he hisses, lunging for us.
But it’s too late.
At that moment the leaves beneath our feet quiver, grow still, then shoot upward in a rapid flurry alongside the large net they were concealing. I cry out as the three of us are ensnared, our heads knocking together.
We’re now dangling several feet above the ground, swinging gently from side to side, limbs sticking out of the net at various angles.
I make a face. ‘Oops.’
‘Oops,’ Sheen repeats, his expression livid. ‘What were you playing at?’
‘How was I to know?’ I protest.
‘Did it not strike you as odd,’ he spits, ‘that there were no leaves on any other part of the forest floor but here?’
I grimace. Truthfully, no. I just thought he was being a prick.
I’m suddenly all too aware of how close we are, our faces mere inches apart, legs intertwined. After weeks of hiking across moors, how does he manage to smell thatgood? Crisp and clean, like fresh snow.
I clear my throat. ‘Look, I’ll get us out of here, all right?’
‘And how do you propose to do that?’ Sheen growls.
‘Where’s your knife?’ I ask Spinner.
‘At the bottom of my satchel.’
‘Which is …’ I follow the direction of her gaze down to the ground. ‘Ah. Well, anytime either of you feels like flitting, just let me know.’
‘Harglade –’
‘Alternatively, I could always try and … I don’t know … chew through the rope?’
‘Flint, shut up, would you?’ Spinner’s eyes are on Sheen, a finger pressed to her lips.
That’s when I hear it – a low three-note whistle. I can’t tell where it’s coming from. Above? Below? Inside my head?
The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end as the signal is answered. More whistling fills the air, shrill and eager. I struggle frantically in the net, but only succeed in further entangling myself. All I can do is raise my head to watch as our captors approach, moving soundlessly through the forest. They’re so shrouded in shadow that for a moment I wonder if the stories are true, if there really are spirits come to trap our souls for eternity.
One by one, they step out of the trees.
I blink, taken aback. For these are no spirits – they’rechildren. Two dozen of them at least. Some look around my age, while others are as young as Renly, yet all are armed. Their clothes are ragged, their feet bare and grimy. They stare up at us, excited, suspicious.
‘Well, would you look at what we have here,’ says a tall girl, grinning as she thumbs the hilt of her gleaming cutlass. ‘Talk about easy pickings.’
Spinner shrieks as yet more children swing down from the branches overhead. One of them begins rifling through her satchel.
