Ark ran, aware of the time, his fall from the platform retreating behind him as he descended endless sets of steps into the forest gloom. Maybe he’d imagined it. How could he fall that far and escape only with bruises? But the feather was real enough. As he sprinted along the woodways, it wormed its way through the stitching of the bag to scratch at his skin.

He finally reached the meeting spot out of breath, tucking the feather back inside his bag. The day before, they’d agreed to rendezvous at this quiet corner off the main woodway. He was late, but Mucum as ever was even later. Their workplace lay cradled among the leaves barely one hundred yards away.

This local sewage station was one of many dotted around the country. They were the underbelly of Arborium, hidden deep down in the undercanopy, like dirty washing at the bottom of a basket. Where there’s Dendrans, there’s squit, and where there’s squit, there’s business! went the company motto. The profits obviously hadn’t been spent on this long, misshapen shed and the platform it balanced on. The building was made up of leftover planks and iron, cobbled together and hugging the side of the trunk. Raw sewage, channeled by gravity from all over the neighborhood, poured into the station via various pipes and wooden channels. Being so badly built gave it at least one advantage. The wind that whistled into every corner provided much-needed ventilation and carried off the worst of the smells. Not that Ark even noticed the stink anymore. You get used to anything, given time.

“Pssst!”

Ark nearly fell off the edge. “That’s not funny. Do you always creep up on people like that? “

“Only the dead ones! Who’d ever thought I could scare a ghost?” Despite his bulk, Mucum could move as silently as a timber goat. “How’d yer sleep?”

“What do you think?” Ark kept silent about his trip to kirk. Mucum had no time for the mumbo jumbo of Holly Woodsmen. And if he saw the raven feather, he’d probably run a mile. “We need to see the King.”

“Spot on, mate. I already thought of that.” Mucum scanned the treescape nervously.

“And stop acting like a villain!”

“But I am!” protested Mucum.

“Fine. Can you steal me some tools, then? I lost mine, remember?” Ark without his gear was like a raven without a beak. Unnatural.

“Yeah. Anyways, Jobby Jones is out for the count. Come and get some yerself.” Their boss, Mr. Jones, was always asleep. It was one of the perks of the job.

Ark followed Mucum across a perilously swaying rope bridge.

Mucum briefly looked back. “You look a bit shaky to me. Sure you’re oakey-doakey?”