The sense of well-being that normally met him up here was missing today. He was no longer soothed as he swung back and forth high above the world. His head filled with family; the look of surprise on Petronio’s face; the chase that had ended in his so-called death; the image of Arborium chopped down and burned. The weather sensed his mood, the sharp wind pulling at his clothes, making his eyes water with its promise of winter. The sun lay low, hidden behind the clouds, as if ashamed at the treachery soon to take place far below. Ark circled the platform, carefully holding on to a waist-height rail that banded the trunk. This was stupid. He needed to get going, meet Mucum, work out a —

A black flash caught his eye. For a brief moment, the clouds parted and the sun caught a reflection off the lip of the platform. “What’s that?” Ark muttered to himself. The lip of the platform was ridiculously low. As he leaned out over the edge, he tried not to look down. This platform reared out of the woods like a single, slightly crooked finger. He was hundreds of feet above Arborium. Normally, he felt at home in the trees, but they might not feel the same for him. The glint caught his eye again, resting in the crook of a branch, just out of reach.

Ark tried to hook his feet around the door frame and lean over the edge of the platform, trusting that ancient carpentry would hold his weight. Infuriating! His fingers brushed the edge of the object. With the wind now blowing so hard, his eyes filled like cruck wells and he could hardly make out what lay in front of him. Just one more stretch. One more and …

As Ark reached toward what resembled shining black treasure, as he leaned out over the edge of the platform, the wooden door frame began to creak and groan. The wind joined in, howling with invisible strength as it bent the branch forward until Ark was no longer horizontal but facing almost straight down.

A voice called out, “Ark! “

His head whipped around. No one. A trick of the screeching wind.

“Oh … dear,” said Ark. The frame, devoured by centuries of woodworm, cracked and splintered, unhooking Ark’s feet and toppling him over the edge to plunge headfirst toward the forest like a stone.

8• A FALL FROM GRACE

This time there was no rope, no backup plan. As Ark plummeted toward the forest, he wondered vaguely what would happen first. If he was lucky, his neck might be snapped by a passing branch. If he hit a woodway, every brittle bone in his body would be crushed. The thought should have terrified him and yet he felt strangely calm as the ever-nearing woods spread their green arms ready to envelop him.