“Oh?” There was a world of patience in his deep brown eyes. It gave me courage to voice the absurd.

“Tourists come to Pemkowet looking for wonder,” I said. “And your people are among the most wondrous. We’re asking that some of them reveal themselves. At, um, regularly scheduled times and places. This is Sinclair Palmer,” I said, indicating him. “He’s proposing a . . . a tour bus route.”

Sinclair got to his feet and offered a stiff bow. “I have a map,” he added faintly.

The Oak King stood motionless for a long time. At last he lifted his gaze to the sky, then glanced around the meadow, settling it on the clustered fairies. They huddled closer together, wings vibrating ever so slightly. “There is too little wonder left in the world,” the Oak King said in a thoughtful tone. “It should be cherished and protected. I realize that this requires the cooperation of mortals, who are so often quick to destroy what they fear. These smallest of people are not always mindful of this.”

My tail twitched hopefully. “Does that mean you’ll help?”

He looked at Sinclair. “Let me see this . . . map.”

Sinclair pulled it from his pocket, unfolded it, and held it out in one trembling hand. “I’ve, um, marked the spots I thought might be suitable, Your Majesty. And, uh, tours would leave every hour on the hour between ten a.m. and four p.m.”

The Oak King took the map from him, and I swear to God, it turned into a parchment scroll in his hand. He studied it.

I held my breath.

“Yes,” he said at length. “In these times, I find this to be a reasonable request.” He returned the scroll to Sinclair, whereupon it promptly turned back into a map. “I will see to it. It will be done.”

I let out my breath.

“Thank you!” Sinclair’s voice was joyous. “Thank you, thank you!”

The Oak King held up one hand. “I make no promise in perpetuity. It stands for as long as I deem it reasonable.” His gaze shifted to me, deep and grave. “Are you near unto finding justice, Hel’s liaison?”

I nodded. “Very close, Your Majesty.”

His gaze fell on dauda-dagr. “You bear a dire weapon, one that chills even my immortal soul. Hel places great faith in you.”

“I’m trying to be worthy of it,” I said humbly.

“That is well.” Unexpectedly, the Oak King reached out and laid one brown, sinewy hand on my brow. I felt a rush of warmth, rich and golden, filled with all the green, growing scents of summer. “As below, so above.” He withdrew his hand, turning it palm upward. A silver whistle in the shape of an acorn lay nestled within it. “Accordingly, I give you my own token. You have but to blow it to beseech an audience.”

I took it gingerly.

He smiled. “Well done, Hel’s liaison.”