The Watchtower

least I think not. Probably not.” The roots that made up Jean Robin’s body writhed with discomfort. “The stories of another way are most certainly rumors.”
    “What rumors?” I asked, plucking a fairy out from the inside of my T-shirt. The little creatures were becoming quite intrusive.
    “Well, as I mentioned before, the boat people … er … the fées de la mer, that is … reportedly come from the lost kingdom of Ys, and some believe that Ys was part of the Summer Country. So it makes sense that the door to the Summer Country might have been created by the sea fairies—”
    “Ouch! I think one of your little friends just bit me!”
    “Oh, no, they don’t have teeth—thank God!—but they do like to sew, and they’re sometimes rather clumsy with their needles. Anyway, as I was saying, if anyone could tell you a shortcut to the Summer Country, it might be one of the boat people.”
    “And how do I get in touch with them?”
    “Well, that’s the problem. They’re not exactly … welcoming. Especially to foreigners. Ironic, since they themselves are immigrants, but that is often the way, don’t you think? The more established immigrants are mistrustful of the more recent arrivals.”
    “Yes, I’m sure,” I said, trying to cut off another lecture, “but isn’t there any way to talk to one? Surely there must be some sort of go-between.”
    “Why, yes! How astute of you to think of it! There are channels of communication between the more enlightened of each nation of fairies—an academic community, so to speak. I suggest you speak to my old friend Monsieur Lutin at the Jardin des Plantes. He can usually be found at the Labyrinth. Tell him that Jean Robin sent you. He might be able to get you an introduction to one of the boat people.”
    “Monsieur Lutin at the Labyrinth. Okay. Just one more question—”
    “Um, far be it from me to stifle anyone’s intellectual curiosity, but I’m afraid you’d better be going. If you intend to ever go at all.”
    Jean Robin slanted his eyes meaningfully toward my feet. Following his gaze, I was shocked to see that a fine network of roots had been sewn over them. Light fairies were darting back and forth, knitting the roots into a pair of tight stockings. When I tried to extend my hands to shoo them away, I found they were bound together in my lap. It took all my strength to break the finely stitched bonds. I kicked off the roots from my feet and stood up, scattering an infuriated flock of lumignon.
    “I apologize for my friends. They saw how much I was enjoying your company and thought you’d make a nice companion for me.”
    I was about to reply angrily, but then I saw that the gleam in his eyes had grown and spilled down his cheeks in long, resinous streaks. “No harm done,” I said, shaking the last of the root threads from my hands. “I’ll send your regards to Monsieur Lutin, then?”
    “Yes, please!” Jean Robin said, brightening. The lumignon had already swept away his sap-filled tears with their wings. “Ask him to send me some samples from the Alpine Garden. I would love to see some edelweiss again as a reminder of my journeys through the Alps.”
    I told him I would deliver his message.
    “Good luck to you, Garet James. It has been a great pleasure making your acquaintance. Please don’t hold it against the lumignon that they tried to detain you. They did it for love of me.” His rooty lips twisted into a rueful smile.
    “Yes,” I said, smiling back. “I can see they do love you very much.” I said au revoir then and turned away, thinking as I climbed back up the stairs that if this was what came of being loved by the fey, then I’d rather do without their love.

4
    The Party
    Will Hughes was too concerned about his father’s troops possibly waylaying him on the road to London to immediately follow the poet there. Instead he fled west to Cornwall, to the tiny Roman fishing village of Marazion. There he concealed himself for a week, mostly in the cellar of Stephen Fawkes, whose son Charles, a year Will’s junior, he had once befriended at a fencing competition and corresponded with occasionally.
    His cellar days were gloomy and tedious, mostly spent reading by the light of a dripping candle, and he had to constantly remind himself how awful it would be to be brought back to Swan Hall in shackles as an alternative, mistreatment he knew his father to be capable of. He lived that week only for the brief time when dusk was