He’s right. I’d have lost an eye if I hadn’t twisted my head as the unicorn lunged at me. Instead he hooked my T-shirt on to the end of his horn, then ran around the clearing, tossing me from side to side before hanging me on a stubby branch.

And that’s where I am now, dangling a couple of meters off the ground, with Win stuck on a branch next to me. We’re not sure why the unicorn decided to hang Win up too, but it might have had something to do with him rolling around and laughing until he cried.

After eating the apples Win dropped, Ronaldo trotted off into the forest without a backward glance.

We could slip out of our T-shirts and fall to the ground, but just below us are some particularly jagged pieces of burnt wood—the remnants of the Lost Girls’ toolshed, according to Win—and we don’t want to get speared.

“Win, can you do some magic to get us down?” I say.

“Good thinking,” he says, then he squirms around until he’s pulled his wand out of his pocket.

He gives it a practice swish, then points it at the splinters of wood. “Zoo fog!” he shouts. A few flakes of snow flutter from the end of his wand and settle on the ground beneath us. “That’s not right,” he mutters. “Caribou log!”

This time he waves his wand with such enthusiasm that it slips out of his hand and falls to the ground. It lies there oozing pink goo.

“Whoops,” says Win.

“Never mind.”

For a while we just dangle and stare into the forest. “Hey, Arthur,” says Win, breaking the silence. “Do you remember when you massively disrespected that unicorn?”

“Yes,” I say, and we fall back into silence. If I wasn’t strung up on a branch I might be enjoying this. Beyond the entrance to Treetops the forest is looking dark and magical. The lit-up buds flicker, strange birds call to each other, and vines sway in an invisible breeze. Far away I can hear running water . . .

. . . and something else.

Twigs snapping. And footsteps.

My chest squeezes tight. “Win . . . can you hear that?”

He listens for a moment, then looks at me with big eyes and nods. Suddenly I feel very exposed dangling on this branch. “Maybe we should try jumping down,” I say. The footsteps have stopped, but I’ve got the overwhelming feeling that somewhere in the dark trees, someone or something is watching us.

“Yeah . . . maybe,” Win says.

But neither of us move. Those bits of wood below us really are very sharp. Instead we stay where we are and listen for the brush of feathers or the crackle of straw. And we look for a pair of blinking button eyes.

“There,” says Win, pointing into the gloom. “I can see someone!”