The trunk gates were wide open. Inside, beyond the through way, cavernous stairs wound left, going up, and right, going down. They were carved around the central, living core of the tree and worn with the footsteps of generations of plodding Dendrans. The smell of hot pies wafted up the nearside stairwell, reminding Ark he hadn’t eaten all day. Of course, now he could hardly go back to his job and ask for his wages. Ghosts didn’t usually get paid, as far as he knew. Anyway, he consoled himself that he’d always doubted that the advertised one-hundred-percent-pure-goat pie contents was strictly honest. Fifty percent dog and other unsavory leftovers was far more likely.

He ignored the fast-food stall, shoehorned into a dark alcove of the trunk, and wearily trudged on down the steps toward the lower levels. This way took him past the inner doors and windows of apartments hollowed out into the heartwood: prime property for the rich, but far out of reach of a plumber’s income. The steps continued, winding down and down the central trunk, and the crowds eventually began to thin as he descended to the lower levels. Finally, a poorly patched-up gate swung open, revealing his local branch line. He stepped out into a land of shadows. The twilight had problems reaching this far. Night came earlier for the poor. But in the darkness Ark felt safe for the first time that day. Home was the only thought in his head. In the distance, he could see the gaslighter reaching up with his flare pole to spark the first evening lamps.

“Wot are you doin’ ’ere?” The voice boomed in his ear as a meaty pair of hands grabbed him in a viselike headlock.

Ark’s heart faltered. So close to home and he’d been found. Why had he come back? Of course they’d look for him here.

“Get off!”

And amazingly, instead of strangling him, the hands did as he asked and let go. Then, before he turned around, it hit him. The voice. “Mucum, you big overgrown lump!” Ark hissed as he faced his workmate.

The boy he confronted fit the description perfectly, his tatty sheepskin waistcote barely able to contain a thick trunk, legs, and arms solid as oak as they almost sprouted out of his mud-colored hose stockings. The eyes, under a bright orange fuzz, stared at him amused.

“And keep your voice down. I’m supposed to be dead!”

“Yeah, right. That toilet must have been a real killer, huh? Looks like you fell in it! Yer soakin’! Didn’t drown, did yer?”

Ark looked around frantically. “It’s no joke. I’m in danger. I can’t go home, can’t go back to work, can’t do anything.” At that moment, Ark burst into tears, the tension of the last hour finally spilling out.

“Don’t be such a girl!” said Mucum.