Suddenly, the woman slid over the edge to land feetfirst right in front of him. As she towered over him, Ark saw a body bent with age, clothed in a cloak of raven feathers and long black petticoats. A dead fox curled round her neck, perhaps waiting to wake up.

In total terror, he scrabbled away from her to the farthest part of the nest.

“I speak, and yet your mouth does not respond. I say again, what have we here?” The eyes stared, unblinking, like an owl’s.

“Why do you care?” said Ark, as boldly as he could muster. He felt sure he had heard the voice before. And the eyes were strangely familiar, the way they bored into him.

Who was this shadow woman with her tumbledown nest of raven-black hair? Was he still dreaming? Perhaps the tales his mother had told him when he was little were true. Could this really be Her? Impossible! Stories didn’t come to life.

A hand reached out and gripped him by his jerkin, pulling him up to eye level as if he weighed no more than a button. Her arms were bare, muscles tight as grasping tendrils. “It speaks.” Now there was amusement in her eyes. “My children brought you to me. Not many survive. So once again I ask you what you are.”

A rush of air raced around his system, his nerves spread like nettle rash across his body. Ark knew he was awake and that this was no normal Dendran. He stared at her in shock. The hand that held him suspended in midair was all wrong, fingers and fingernails fused together to make a honed set of sharpened claws. One swipe with her other hand and Ark was sure his head would be sliced from his body.

And what the holly did she mean about her children? Ark felt compelled to answer. “A boy.”

“Yes. Indeed. And one who drops coins in shrines, trying to buy hope with mere metal.”

He shivered. “How do you know that?”

The woman didn’t bother answering, finally dropping Ark back onto the floor of the nest. “Tell me more, boy,” she said.

“My name is Arktorious Malikum, a plumber’s apprentice, son of Mr. Malikum.” And here, up high in this strange tree, he was out of place. His panicked eyes briefly took in the wood that soared above the nest, still wreathed in dawn mist. The branches that crisscrossed the sky were gnarled and twisted like arthritic fingers, the leaves spotted as if autumn had already infected them.

“Your words cover up truth. You are a sewage worker, a delver in dark places. I thought I could smell something foul.” The taunting tone reminded him of Petronio.

“It’s a job.” His hands clenched and unclenched.