Screech!

The mouse and I look at each other. The firebird is on its way back. We get the string unwound, and I rush to the side of the nest and begin to climb over. The mouse doesn’t follow. I look back.

“I can do a lot of things, but I’m not big on heights,” it mumbles. “Plus, I don’t have my wand with me, and I get vertigo. I’m not sure I can make the climb down. Physically I can, of course, but—”

Screech!

Did that mouse say it had a wand? I don’t have time to ask why. I grab the mouse’s hand and yank it to the side of the nest. “There’s a first time for everything. It’s climb or be firebird breakfast.”

“Devin!” Logan cries. “We’ve got to go!”

I lift my leg over the side. “Come on.” I offer my hand.

The mouse climbs over on its own. “I can do it. I don’t want to, but I can.”

For the love of Grimm. This mouse is more difficult than a three-hundred-pound troll. “Then follow me,” I say, stepping down to the first branch. Then I climb lower and feel a yank. My dress skirt is caught on a vine. I yank it free, and the branch gives a snap.

“You know, ball gowns aren’t the best attire for life in the forest,” the mouse says wryly.

I grit my teeth. If I had my way, Marta, the Royal Academy tailor I adored, would have hidden pants in this gown too. Wouldn’t the mouse have been surprised when I tore off my skirt! But no. I got caught up in the Royal Academy Rules and followed Rule 16. (“A princess shall only be seen wearing pants if there is absolutely, positively no other garment available.”) “I’ll remember that,” I tell her. “Just climb.”

We follow Logan’s descent branch by branch through the darkness of the leafy treetop. We’re more than halfway down when I hear the firebird screech again. It’s close now. Too close.

“It sounds mad. I think it knows we’re gone,” Logan says worriedly.

“Keep going,” I say. “It’s only a few more—”

CAW!

We look up and see the firebird’s beak poking through the leaves, squawking angrily at us. It pecks at the tree, sending some of the branches swaying.

“I’m going to fall!” Logan cries.

“So am I!” says the mouse.

“Hold on!” I shout as a flaming arrow shoots past my face. Then another. And another. I look down.

Heath, Sasha, Raina, and the two remaining mice have a quiver of arrows and are lighting them up and sending them into the sky.

“Devin, Logan, watch out!” I hear Raina cry.

“Where does she expect us to go?” Logan ducks as another arrow shoots past us.

“Just keep going,” I say, climbing faster. I pull the mouse along with me as the tree sways. I can hear the firebird cawing angrily, but I can’t make out a word it’s saying. (It’s definitely not looking for coconuts.) I climb faster, reaching the ground before the others. Logan jumps down seconds later, but the mouse, somehow, is still above us. She’s holding on tight, refusing to let go. Above her, I see the tree ignite. The firebird sees it, too, and shakes the branches harder. The mouse wobbles, then starts to fall.