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ground, not a mass of forest and marble and reticulated roots all
twined and flowing at the slightest of angles.
    A squeeze of her fingers reassured her staff was to hand. The
carved ribbons pressed into her palm tingled with glamour. She had
not natural glamour, but over the years Faery had seeped into her
being, imbuing her with a latent glamour that could be briefly
utilized.
    Gossamyr touched her hip belt, clasping a narrow arret string.
Scanning the ground she sighted within the brushy grass bright red
toadstools dotted with white warts, closing her into a complete
circle. Amanita muscaria; long ago her mother had taught her
the strange name for the mushroom; Latin, she'd named the identifying
language.
    Names possess power. A litany fed to her every day since
she could remember. Use that power wisely.
    The toadstool circle had risen up below the castle tower
overnight. Gossamyr had marveled that the peacocks had walked a wide
berth about it. She had been standing in the tower immediately above
the circle—indeed, a Passage.
    A copse of pendulous cypress rose to her left, shadowing the thick
grasses with a silky gray lacing. Pine and earth and grass flavored
the air in a pale mist. Gossamyr drew in a breath. Gone, the sweet
aroma of hyacinth. Shinn did not stand beside her, his hands clasped
before him. The glimmer in her father's violet eyes was but a twinkle
in the air, a breath of fée dust shimmering to naught.
    She reached out, grasping at the absence of all she knew, all she
had come to depend upon—Faery. Opening her palm upward, she
spread her fingers. Gone.
    But still there.
    Faery was neither here nor there but betwixt and between. Though
she could not see him Gossamyr knew Shinn could see her. I will send a fetch. She looked about, but sighted not a
hovering spy.
    According to what she had read in Veridienne's bestiary, mortals
did have ways of peering in to Faery.
    Indeed?
    A mischievous tickle enticed Gossamyr to test that theory. Tilting
her head forward, she peered back through the corner of her eye.
Swiftly, she jerked her head the opposite direction and narrowly
stretched her gaze.
    Hmm. Not a glimmer or vibration in the sky. No flutter of
iridescent wings, not a single flicker as fellow fée twinclianed elsewhere.
    A trickle of panic tittered in Gossamyr's belly. She rubbed her
palms up and down her bare arms—the quilted pourpoint stopped
at hip and shoulder—and turned about, eyeing the ruffled canopy
of treetops. Grapelike clusters of bright yellow laburnum flowers
speckled the greenery. 'Twas clearly the edge of the same forest that
limned her father's castle. There! She recognized the hollowed-out
yew stump—a youngling's favorite hiding spot. But this forest
edge was no Edge. There was no risk of falling to a crush of bones
amidst the marsh roots should she step off the Edge, for the land
beyond this forest stretched on. The Bottom. Everywhere.
    Gossamyr gulped. The Bottom was a dangerous place. But where there
were no marsh roots there would be no kelpies. No kelpies meant no
werefrogs. Blessings.
    But what situation was she in now?
    She had asked for this mission. And wonder upon wonders Shinn had
relented. What was once forbidden now lay before her. The Otherside
was hers to explore.
    But not to forget: the fate of Faery relied on her success.
    A decisive nod stirred courage to her surface.
    "Champions are made. I will return to Faery the victor."
    Until then—"Achoo!"
    Spreading her arms to adjust her balance, Gossamyr settled a few
steps from where she had landed. "Achoo!"
    What tickled her senses?
    Sniffling, she thought briefly her watery eyes were tears. Tears
were a sign of weakness, of unfettered emotions. One could not Be
amidst a fury of conflicting emotion. She had once cried enough tears
for a lifetime, so it surprised now there should be any left.
    Mayhap they were tears caused by the mortal atmosphere?
    "It is merely the dust." For indeed motes of dust
floated, and