Page 15 of Wench

Marian bristles. ‘How kind.’

Little John shifts with a grunt as he gestures toward the narrow path that winds upward through the trees.

Allen clears his throat. ‘Best come along before you find more trouble.’

Marian hesitates, glancing back toward the faint shimmer of morning mist between trunks at the forest’s edge. But the way Little John’s golden eyes track her makes it clear that even the forest itself would not let her go.

So she follows.

The path winds higher, roots and stairs woven together. The deeper they climb, the more the light shifts from ordinary dawn to something softer, dappled through leaves that seem to breathe.

Allen walks a few paces ahead, every movement loose and unbothered, as if the world bends to make room for him. ‘Keep close,’ he calls over his shoulder. ‘The bridges can be tricky if you don’t know where they end.’

The air grows warmer the higher they climb, carrying the scent of sap and herbs. When they reach the top, she takes in the entirety of her surroundings.

A fae village suspended above all of Sherwood.

Marian swallows. ‘I-I-I had no idea any of this existed.’

Allen glances back at her and smiles, a flicker of pride in his eyes. ‘That’s rather the point.’ His boots thud softly against the timber, and Marian follows him across the footway.

Every structure is different. Some are squat and round like woven baskets, others slender and tall, spiralling up trunks. Everywhere she looks, the trees are part of the design. Not obstacles to be trimmed or avoided, but partners. The trunks grow through walls, split staircases in two, anchor roofs and porches. Rope pulleys and hanging baskets rise and fall between levels, carrying goods from kitchen to forge, from weaver to apothecary.

Marian slows to take it all in. Her bruised pride, her fear, her questions – everything quiets beneath what swells in her chest.

She’s walked through castles carved of stone and cold silence. But this is something else. Something older. Wilder. Beautiful in a way that feels almost impossible. It’s as if the trees welcomed the inhabitants and grew into their needs.

This isn’t just a home – it’s a haven.

‘Come on,’ Allen calls out, ‘we’re late enough as it is.’

Heat creeps up Marian’s neck as she falls in step beside him. Allen strums his lute lightly as they walk, his fingers coaxing a jaunty tune that makes heads lift and mouths split wide in smiles as they pass. Fae glance up from their work; some grin politely, others narrow their eyes at Marian before looking away. Allen dips his chin to them, his melody smoothing edges her presence cannot.

‘Welcome to Elswyth,’ he hums.

‘Elswyth,’ she echoes softly, the word strange on her tongue.

They walk further along the platform. The rope handrail creaks beneath her touch as she steadies herself.

Marian swallows, the sound loud in her own ears. ‘There are so many of you.’

‘Not normally,’ Allen answers. ‘Each village sends a few members alongside their Elder to ensure they’re protected.’

Marian glances at a cluster of fae gathered near a bridge, their hands moving with quick, emphatic gestures. The tension between them is visible even from this distance. One of them jabs a finger into the other’s chest, who then responds with a swift slap.

‘Vicious even among yourselves,’ she mutters.

Allen’s hand stills its strumming, the cheerful tune faltering into silence. He looks at her sidelong, one brow arched, though his expression is more wounded than offended. Following her line of sight to the arguing fae, his laugh is short, but without mirth. ‘What you see there is not malice. It’s passion. We fight when the stakes are high, because we care enough to sharpen our words on each other’s spines.’ His gaze lingers a moment on the cluster ahead, then flicks back to Marian, voice softening. ‘Any danger we face comes from the arrogant humans who wander too deep, with blades held high, and think the forest will bow.’

Heat prickles at the back of Marian’s neck, shame rising swift and hot. She keeps her gaze fixed on the walkway boards, her cheeks burning. ‘I didn’t mean anything by it,’ she lies, shaking her head. ‘I’m sorry.’

They pass a cluster of children darting between roots and platforms, their hair threaded with feathers and their laughter clear as bells. One of them pauses to gape openly at Marian, before being pulled away by a taller youth whose ears glimmer with tiny bronze cuffs.

Marian studies them. ‘They’re so . . .’ She trails off, unsure of the word.

‘Don’t be fooled by their wide eyes and quick smiles – mischief and beauty are two sides of the same coin around here,’ Allen offers lightly, watching her out of the corner of his eye. ‘Pixies are fae tricksters at heart, but they mean no harm. Their idea of play is confusing mortals with illusions and riddles, until you don’t know which way is north. Keep your wits sharp and they’ll respect you for it.’

A flutter of wings draws her eyes upward. Above them, two figures with pale skin and hair the colour of river foam float between branches. Their gossamer wings shimmer faintly in the beaming sun. One tips forward, dangling upside down with a bubbling giggle, before darting away in a blur of motion. The other tosses a cascade of flowers that scatter across Marian’s path.