Sous-Faerie Soufflé

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entierly coincidental.

Copyright © 2022 by Allie Leigh

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.

First Edition

Cover Design by Miss Vie Book Designs

ISBN 978-1-7780431-0-9 (paperback)

ISBN 978-1-7780431-1-6 (hardcover)

ISBN 978-1-7780431-2-3 (ebook)

Published by Allie Leigh

Contents

Dedication

1.In Which Two Souls Discover the True Depths of a Well, and a Kind-Hearted Drachling Cheats at Differenty-Doo

2.In Which One's Magical Prowess Is Momentarily Questioned

3.In Which You Shouldn't Talk to Strangers, and a Magical Stick Is Acquired

4.In Which Panic Spreads

5.In Which Desille Insults Some Skeletons, and Our Heroes Are Drawn Together

6.In Which the Twins’ Location Is Desperately Sought

7.In Which No One Can Agree on Anything, and a Pair of Twins Live a Life of Crime

8.In Which a Phone Rings

9.In Which Riddles Are Hard, and Ghosts Resurface

10.In Which a Bog Bear Becomes a Photographer

11.In Which Journeys Begin, and Histories Are Shared

12.In Which More Calls Are Made

13.In Which Lost Children Are Found

14.In Which a Gift Is Given

15.In Which All Roads Lead to a New Quest

16.In Which Frantic Hearts Betray Their Hosts

17.In Which No One Gets a Good Night’s Sleep, and Donnell Makes a Scene

18.In Which a Bog Bear Is Rudely Awoken

19.In Which Fears Are Revealed

20.In Which Poor Decisions Are Made

21.In Which Bacon’s True Worth Is Revealed, and the Validity of Skinny Dipping as a Recreational Pastime Is Highly Contested

22.In Which No One Enjoys Staff Meetings, and an Alternative Stream of Revenue Is Explored

23.In Which a Kidnapping Occurs, and That Which Is Missing Is Revealed

24.In Which Some Things Are Lost, and Others Are Found

25.In Which Desille Dons a Dashing Coat and Sings Her Heart Out

26.In Which Flames Are Fanned

27.In Which the Properties of Portals Are Explored, and the Evening News Is Upstaged

28.In Which a Positively Frightful Train Is Boarded

29.In Which Secrets Are Revealed, and Desille Finds Her Courage

30.In Which a Frog Is Flabbergasted, and Playwrights Are In a Pickle

31.In Which a Deal Is Struck, and Promises Are Sweeter Than Cake

32.In Which Death Sees All

33.In Which Difficult Truths Are Spoken, and Very Little Regard Is Given to the State of Borrowed Property

34.In Which Maude Is Never Alone

35.In Which Love Is Greater Than Loss, and a Plan Unfolds

36.In Which a Stolen Heart Beats Anew

37.In Which a Radiant Song Is Sung

38.In Which Many Hearts Bid Farewell

39.In Which a Tender Heart Begins to Grow

40.In Which Our Journey Comes to an End

41.A Brief History and Many Thanks

42.About the Author

To family and friends,

who believed for years that a boy could be turned into a beagle

and a bear could operate a smartphone.

Sometimes in stories, heroes are brave and powerful. Descended from a noble lineage, they are but one in a long line of souls whose deeds are known throughout the land. They train to uphold this tradition and walk through life with a certainty that they are destined for greatness. How else could anyone hope to explain their natural prowess in all that they do—their quick wit, their charming smile, their ever-perfect hair? Sometimes, heroes are made like this.

Other times, they’re well-meaning city kids who ventured too close to the edge of a well.

Gerald! Desille called as she struggled with the bucket of water. The weight of it sent bolts of pain up her arms. Just latch your bucket, fill it up, and let’s go! Moms are waiting!

Hang on, I’m trying to listen. To her ever-so-slightly younger brother, listening meant positioning oneself headfirst into the well, with one’s ear pressed towards the inky darkness. Desille sighed as she looked at him. His task forgotten, his bucket sat near his feet, which weren’t even planted on the ground. He was practically asking to fall in, whether from his own imbalance or a swift kick in the butt.

To what? Didn’t you listen to Auntie Rita? The only things that live down there are frogs and snails.

It doesn’t sound like frogs or snails, or snail-riding frogs, or frog-riding snails. Or even some kind of mutant frog-snail hybrid. It sounds like a person.

The only person who’s going to be in that well is you if you don’t stop sticking your head inside it.

Hey! This prompted him to pull back and earned her a glare. Are you going to push me in?

"Of course not. I’m not keen on souring our family vacation with a visit to the hospital. But with your track record of chasing things, it wouldn’t surprise me if you launched yourself down there."

I’m serious, Desille. He met her eyes with a steady gaze. Most of the time, it was hard to take Gerald seriously. Her brother went through life wearing an effervescent smile, sporting a demeanour so aggressively cheery, it made even the toughest news easier to swallow. What he chose to fixate on, however, did him no favours. He’d often claim to be serious about things as irrational as the ethical dilemma of squashing the line of ants who had been making a mess of their front yard with their many hills.

Yet, in this moment, his eyes looked as they had the day he’d first spotted the adorable feline who was now their pet, Wilton. The poor thing had been weeping, abandoned, with burrs pulling at his orange fur. Gerald had said he was serious when she questioned his intent to free the then-stray from the shrub that had tried to claim him. He had gotten several scratches that day—from Wilton, as well as the thorns—all of which Mama had cleaned and bandaged. The three of them had spent an evening curled by the fire. Wilton purred in their laps as she and Gerald had worked to remove the burrs from his fur and fed both them and his troubles to the flames.

She’d never forget that look in Gerald’s eyes—a look of longing to save someone who had been forgotten for far too long. It was the same look in his eyes right now, and it was this look which caused her resolve to fold. She sighed, her arms thanking her as she placed her bucket on the ground and walked towards the well.

He scooted over to make room for her. Lean your ear in a little.

There’s no way I’m sticking my head in this thing.

But—

Shh. Most of her dark, wavy hair was trapped in a long braid, though she pushed a stray wisp behind her ear. Her heels lifted off the ground as she leaned forwards and strained to listen. There was something below. A faint murmuring or bubbling perhaps?

"Are you sure it’s a person?"

No, Gerald admitted. "But does that matter? If there’s even a chance, we’ve got to help them! We can’t leave a maybe person to die in a well!"

I guess you’re right. Desille sighed as she backed away. "But there’s nothing we can do right now. We should head back to Auntie Rita’s and get some rope or something. Maybe call the police, someone with experience dealing with this sort of thing. Not us, she stressed. We are not diving headfirst into this well. Do you understand?"

Yes, yes, no crazy well diving. I’ve got you, sis. While Gerald’s words implied he understood, the smile plastered on his face made her pause. She narrowed her eyes as she appraised him, though she eventually turned away. She’d have to trust that her brother could avoid doing anything too foolish.

What a day to forget my phone, she muttered, patting the pockets of her dress. Do you have yours?

Yeah, but . . .

But what?

I maybe, sort of . . . forgot to remind Moms about getting a travel package before we left. He scratched the back of his head, laughing as Desille’s eyes narrowed. "I don’t think they would appreciate the roaming charges, and Auntie Rita’s place isn’t that far away . . ."

Wait here, she said, her voice monotonous and firm. See if you can let them know help is on the way. I’ll be back soon. Gerald nodded and returned to his post. This time, his feet remained planted on the ground as he peered over the edge into the well’s dark depths. It was some improvement, at least. Convinced he would survive in her absence, she turned and picked up the bucket, her arms protesting once again. She might as well bring it with her; Auntie Rita would probably shout at her more if she didn’t.

She was only ten feet away when Gerald called her back.

Uh . . . Desille?

What? she groaned as she spun towards him. Her bucket fell as her hands flew to her mouth.

Admittedly, she had never seen a well before. That was the whole reason Auntie Rita had sent them out here.

Life in the city has spoiled the lot of you! Her aunt had thrown her arms up in a huff as her parents remained occupied over a bubbling pot of curry at the other end of the kitchen. Never drawn water from a well! When I was your age, I made five trips a day! Kept me nice and strong, it did. Let me beat all the foolish boys away. Desille’s eyelids fluttered, and she recoiled as Auntie Rita had smacked the back of one hand against her palm. Look at you with your noodle arms! You’re not beating any fools back with those!

"We don’t have wells in the city, auntie, she’d tried to reason. I’m starting to play sports, though. I like track."

Running does not help! her aunt shouted. "The women in our family are strong! We don’t run from our problems, we beat them back! And don’t try to get technical—you’re a Chaudri at heart, just like me!" She grabbed a wooden spoon from the counter, and Desille had felt a great deal of concern for any man who had ever tried to court her aunt.

I don’t have those sorts of problems.

You’re what, thirteen? It will start soon enough.

No, I mean—

Go! Auntie Rita commanded, pointing her spoon towards the door. Take the path behind the house. There’s a well not too far from here. Draw me some water, turn those noodle arms into something less noodle-y. And take your brother with you.

Fearing what would happen if they lingered, they set off. Despite her inexperience, she was certain the scene unfolding before her was not normal.

The well was glowing.

Where there had been only darkness before, a bright purple light now shone from its depths. It poured over Gerald, whose hands still rested on the edge. He had taken a tentative step back, though he lingered beneath the light, close enough for a faint wind—which now blew up from the well—to ruffle the loose curls in his hair.

Gerald, get over here. Now.

Yeah.

Her brother pulled away, and as he did, the wind whipped itself into a frenzy. It howled, ripping the leaves from nearby trees, its strength and ferocity decimating the clearing. Gerald’s hands shot up to cover his face as he struggled to steady himself against its force. The light spilled over the edge of the well, molding itself into brilliant ribbons. They twirled as they flowed towards him, their lonely ends inviting.

Gerald! she yelled as she saw what was about to unfold. Her brother did not have time to react. The ribbons of light wrapped themselves around his feet and jerked him forwards. Gerald yelped, his hands flying away from his face as he lost his balance. The light, at least, was somewhat kind. It sent additional ribbons out to catch his head as he fell, so it did not smash against the stone as he was pulled in.

Better judgment would have said that she should stay away from the well. Better judgment would have sent her fleeing back to town, searching for someone with actual qualifications and life skills, who might have been able to make sense of what she had just seen. Desille liked to think she had good judgment. She liked to think she was growing into a responsible teenager—if such a thing existed—and that despite what people thought about those her age, she made good life choices.

When matters concerned her brother, she most certainly did not have good judgment. As the ribbons of light pulled him from her sight, her feet sent her sprinting in the last direction she should have gone. Her fingers gripped the cold stone as she leaned over the edge of the well. A brilliant purple vortex greeted her as new ribbons shot forwards. She barely had time to flinch before they wrapped themselves around her wrists, piercing her skin with prickling electricity as they dragged her in.

She screamed as she fell, but her terror did not carry through the clearing. No birds or squirrels ran away in fright. They stayed nestled safely within their homes—dreaming about work, dinner, and what they were going to do on their birthdays—completely unaware that two teenagers had been stolen from the world.

As the light and wind subsided, two curious squirrels scampered forth, prodding at the abandoned buckets—now the only proof the twins had been there at all. These did not interest the squirrels, who had been hoping to claim some tasty treats, and they rushed back to the safety of their tree.

Life in the clearing went on completely as normal, undisturbed by the vanishing which had taken place.

Do not fear, dear reader. Our precious twins were well loved and would not soon be forgotten. However, as in any story, things take time. Events cannot transpire all at once, though we may yearn to stretch our legs and catch of glimpse of what lies ahead. For the twins, this meant that their absence would not be questioned until Wilton, hungry as ever, began to cry for his afternoon snack.

Sometimes in stories, champions are fighters. They devote themselves fully to their craft, training day and night without pause. They believe this diligence sets them apart and seldom allow themselves a moment’s rest—for in the heat of competition, a reflex born through years of training could be the key to clinging to their title. Sometimes, champions are made like this.

Other times, they’re soft-hearted drachlings afflicted with a bizarre medical condition, granting a significant, unintentional advantage in a popular regional sport.

Sassafrass sat at her usual spot on the counter of The Floating Hippo, the hearty city of Clay’s most trendy and happening gastropub. It was packed, as usual. Its proximity to CEHAH—Clay’s Elite Hero Academy for Heroes—meant that the many booths and tables were consistently filled to the brim with students, prospective or current, who required fine nourishment to fuel their heroic endeavors. She gazed at the carvings beneath her white-blue feet, a depiction of blowing snow she had slowly scratched into the counter over multiple visits. Chef, the bright pink, heliophant proprietor of this fine establishment, had not been so fond of her absentminded vandalism. He also hadn’t appreciated her argument that Clay, nestled in the middle of South Faerie’s largest desert, needed to experience the joys of winter. If heliophants—the rotund, brightly coloured elephants who alternated between soaring through the skies and floating through life, never touching the ground—had not been so notoriously good-natured, and had she not been certain that retreating into her dark blue, domed shell would protect her from any oncoming attack, she may have feared for her safety. As it was, a temporary ban was what she faced. In order to remain a welcomed patron, she’d promised to pay to have the counter refinished when she received her first heroic reward. Which, given her charm and ability, was certain to happen any day now.

This afternoon, more than just the regular host of CEHAH students filled The Floating Hippo. This afternoon, a very special event was taking place. It had garnered a crowd of spectators who shoved and elbowed one another as they fought to keep sight of a singular circular table around which two frogs and a drachling sat, with three scrolls laid out between them.

Differenty-Doo was South Faerie’s official sport. At its core, it was little more than a glorified, needlessly complex game of Spot The Difference. To a foreigner, the lavish praise afforded to its champions bordered on insanity, but to a denizen of South Faerie—a land where the absurd and impossible were as commonplace as the sparkling, often-times sentient grains of sand which filled its many deserts—those able to look beyond the obvious were held in high regard.

This was no ordinary match, either. This match pit the current reigning champion, Oar—or Jason, as she more casually knew him—the long-time amphibian recipient of all her best jabs and japes, against Razz, an up-and-coming drachling who had ventured far from her storied tower. No one in South Faerie had ever even heard of her. No one, except for Sassafrass.

The smallest gnome, third from the right. In one image, the tag on his hat shows fourteen stars, while in the other, it’s fifteen, Razz said. The crowd drew a collective gasp as the adjudicator, an aged frog with lenses as thick as buttermilk pancakes, inspected his scroll. It, like the pieces of parchment lying before Razz and Jason, was magical. All three had been enchanted to change every day, ensuring no two games of Differenty-Doo were ever the same. The adjudicator’s scroll was especially unique, written as it was in a code only certified adjudicators—having completed years of rigorous training—could decipher. This rendered cheating in Differenty-Doo nigh impossible, for even if one could get their hands on an adjudicator’s scroll before a game, it wouldn’t do them any good.

It did not, however, have any effect on the biological oddity which afforded the dragon-like creature a distinct, unintentional advantage.

Correct, the adjudicator said. One point to Razzmatazz. This brings our score to an even fourteen-fourteen. Only one difference remains.

A murmur passed through The Floating Hippo as a second-hand shiver crawled up Sass’s spine. The crowd was under the impression that this match was nail-bitingly close, and Sass took a large sip of frosty milk to conceal her grin. While Razz and Jason had been playing for nearly an hour, she was certain the drachling’s unique way of seeing the world had decided the match within the first three minutes.

"I’m pretty sure you’re going to be really good at Differenty-Doo, Sass had said, mere hours before. Your eyes are going to make this a cinch."

If you say so. Razz had removed her glasses and placed them inside her bag. She alternated between squinting and widening her eyes, as though she were struggling to bring Sass into focus.

"No, I mean really, really good. Too good, almost. The guy you’re going up against, Jason, is sort of a big deal. He’s the reigning champ, and you’re a total unknown who’s never played before. It’s going to seem suspicious if you trounce him. We won’t be winning any popularity contests. Actually, we might get run out of town."

So, you’re saying I should be good, but not too good?

Exactly. Sass smiled. She appreciated how on the ball Razz was. If she had to have only one friend, at least she had an intelligent one. We still want to win. Just make it close enough that it’s believable.

Razz had done just that. She had matched Jason point for point the entire game, never pulling ahead. Until now.

Jason opened his mouth as though to speak, but Razz’s next answer was already on her lips.

The third mountain goat from the left. His right horn has one extra twist in it and points an extra five degrees to the right.

No one in the crowd dared to breathe. The sweat glistened on Jason’s green brow as his eyes bulged from his head, waiting on the adjudicator’s reply.

Correct, the adjudicator said as he rolled his parchment into a tight scroll. Game and point to Razzmatazz.

The crowd erupted into chaos.

I can’t believe it.

Someone beat Oar?

How did she do it?

For a moment, Sass feared that despite the care Razz had taken, they might incite a riot after all. Her friend was trying to shrink into her large, bulky cloak, as though it could shield her from the crowd’s unwanted attention. Across the table, Jason sat frozen in place, his mouth agape. Then, surprise and shock turned to something else, and his mouth curved upwards into a smile. He rose from his chair and reached his hand across the table. Razz’s blush faded as her posture softened and she returned the gesture. The crowd’s riotous shouts turned to hushed whispers, and those who had gathered dispersed. Sass smiled and took a long sip of blissfully ice-cold milk.

Victory for a snortoise, she thought. What a job well done.

You’re amazing, Jason said. He was too starstruck to meet Razz’s gaze, so he fiddled with the dainty lace napkin sitting on the table before him instead. At his request, they had traded one crowded locale for another. They had left The Floating Hippo’s dim, candle-lit room in favour for A Taste of Henrietta’s—the most popular chain of bakeries in all of Faerie—bright, soft, pastel-coloured walls.

I’m really not. Razz blushed. She had put her large glasses back on, though she had to continuously readjust them as they slid down her purple snout.

But you are! Cutlery clattered against plates as he pressed his hands against the table and looked up at her with adoration. Sass swayed back and forth as the table teetered, and she grabbed hold of a large, puffy roll with her mouth as she struggled to regain her balance. Though delicious, the fluffy pastry was not the most effective counterweight. Even for a seasoned player, Differenty-Doo can prove to be an overwhelming mess. But you saw through all that with such clarity.

I . . . am good at seeing things. Razz struggled to explain her unexpected skill without coming too close to revealing what they had done. As far as Sass was concerned, it wasn’t technically cheating. Razz should feel no shame or regret about putting her unique skill set to use. Yet, from the deepening red of her scales and the way she squirmed about in her chair, Sass could tell she needed to save her poor friend from her misery. It was time to move this show along.

Hey, Jason. The frog’s eyes snapped up to her, still wide, though no longer filled with stars. How about you make good on your part of the deal?

Oh, right. Jason fiddled with the red bow tied around his neck. Now, these are only rumors, mind you. You hear a lot of strange things on the river, meet a lot of strange folk. Not me, though! he exclaimed, throwing his hands up in the air as he turned back to Razz. There are the strange river folk and the pleasant river folk. I promise, I’m one of the latter!

I never thought otherwise, Razz said, and Jason’s stress melted away with a sigh. Sass groaned and rolled her eyes, drawing Jason’s attention back towards her.

Anyway, the word on the river is that there’s been a new artefact found that will help lead to Theodin the Destroyer. Now it was Sass’s turn to be starstruck.

Where?

It’s being safeguarded by some theatre folk. That’s how the word travelled across the river in the first place. It was common knowledge that in Faerie, the rivers hosted a veritable fleet of theatre ships. Jason had always wanted to be a part of one, but he was plagued by a terrible, persistent case of stage fright.

Where? Sass repeated.

It’s not . . . Jason’s eyes darted around. "It’s not in the most accessible of places. And you’re not going to like the reason why it’s there."

Where. Is. The. Artefact.

Sous-Faerie? Jason gulped as a series of nervous croaks escaped his throat. "The word on the river is that it’s being housed in the concert hall in Tournesol. But I don’t see how that helps you. None of the entrances to Sous-Faerie around Clay are close to Tournesol. Besides, the theatre folk have a plan for it. They’re not just going to give it to you."

It helps, Jason, Sass said. She vibrated, her body buzzing with excitement. She hoped Razz appreciated her efforts to maintain her composure—conversations regarding Theodin the Destroyer usually ended in passionate declarations detailing how discovering the mystical hammer would change both of their lives. The fabled artefact was precious to Razz as well, and if the drachling could remain cool and collected in the face of an actual lead, so could she. It gives us a goal. We’ll take care of the rest once we get there. But you, my friend, are going to help facilitate this.

I am?

Yes. A maniacal grin spread over Sass’s face. That was part of the deal, wasn’t it? ‘If you win, I’ll help you in your quest to find Theodin.’ Well, Razz won, and while the information you provided was helpful, there’s still more that we need from you.

Such as . . .?

A lift. It’s time to hop onto that boat of yours. We’re making a trip to Sous-Faerie.

Sometimes in stories, villains are devilish. They hold no regard for anyone but themselves, and care not which wicked deeds they must commit to achieve their goals. Their hearts are little more than shrivelled husks—void of any emotion, hosts only to their dark desires. Confrontations with their kind are best avoided, for they cannot be reasoned with and will show you no mercy. Sometimes, villains are made like this.

Other times, they’re empathically challenged young girls with far too much time on their hands and an affinity towards magic.

Such was the case with our young villain who, despite her unwavering confidence in her magical prowess, had just accomplished what should have been impossible.

She recognized this fact; she understood it. Portals, while a thrilling and enticing prospect, could not be created within Faerie.

This hadn’t always been the case. She’d reviewed records which told of a time when portals had allowed for expedient travel, along with the ability to wreak all kinds of havoc upon unsuspecting citizens of the Human Realms—including pranks, curses, and the kidnapping of children. It all sounded infinitely more amusing than slogging around in a swamp. She’d wanted to try.

She was aware her efforts would likely be in vain. The same records showed that no one had created a portal—within Faerie or leading out—in five hundred years. It wasn’t for lack of trying. People had attempted to will them into existence, but the magic had refused to answer their call. Picking at damp moss in the middle of the swamp had quickly lost its appeal, however, so she’d thought she’d try anyway.

She hadn’t expected it to actually work.

Whether it had worked as intended was another matter altogether. She had willed the portal into existence, felt the magic surge through her, yet the results of her labour could not be seen. The portal, if it had opened, had not led where she had wished. The dimly lit area of the swamp in which she stood remained unoccupied, save for herself, without any signs of the souls she had lured in.

She shook her head. What was she thinking? Of course, it had opened. Magic was merely unpredictable, and the swamp, ever desperate for company, had a mind of its own. She may have to search for those poor fools, but that was no reason to question her magical prowess.

She opened her eyes. A tingling surge of power rushed through her, and a mystic light changed her grey irises to a brilliant purple. She clenched and unclenched her fists as she shook out some excess power. Willing oneself to change was always more intense than performing magic on someone or something else. Any discomfort, however, was offset by the magnitude of what one could accomplish. The possibilities were limitless—provided one’s desires and convictions were strong enough.

Fortunately, she was nothing if not stubborn. For the moment, she channeled her unrelenting will into the desire to enhance her regularly unspectacular eyes. She squinted as they adjusted to their fresh sight.

Before her, the swamp lit up like a brilliant, starry sky. Dots of light littered her field of vision as each lifeform gave off a glow relative to its size, visible to her eyes alone.

Most of the glowing forms were small in stature, but she still recoiled from the sheer scope of the stellar web spread out before her. Her spell was not blocked by shrubs or trees, and the glowing forms of two humans—a true rarity in the Swamp of Misdirection—stood out among the rest.

Perfect. She jumped from her perch. Welcome to Faerie, my foolish friends. Allow me to be your reception committee.

There are some places in life you do not wish to go—your grandmother’s stuffy basement, filled floor-to-ceiling with dust, old knick-knacks, and terrifying dolls; the dentist’s office, stocked with fearsome implements for use on unsuspecting victims; and your ever-so-slightly younger brother’s three-hour dance recital, in which his only role was to leap across the stage dressed as a tree because, as he revealed on the car ride home, he didn’t enjoy dance that much after all.

While these places seem terrible, a silver lining can sometimes be found. You can discover that your grandmother stockpiles candy—along with soulless dolls—and that she is more than willing to share. You can be inspired by your brother’s recital and offer to attend the lessons in his place.

Some places, however, are as terrible as they appear and, like the dentist’s office, have no redeeming qualities. The Swamp of Misdirection was one such place. Unfortunately for our dear twins, instead of being dropped into one of the nicer parts of Sous-Faerie—such as the brilliant city of Tournesol, or the mellow forest of the balloobees—it was into this murky swamp that they fell.

Desille groaned as she pushed herself up from the moist, malleable muck. Dark, sticky mud caked the entire left side of her body. She gazed down at her dress, the dark blue of her skirt now thoroughly soiled. It probably wouldn’t stain, but it was also too much of a mess for her to clean at the moment. With a grimace, she wiped her face and shook her hand, the bit of mud she’d removed sailing towards the ground.

Gerald! she called into the great unknown. Just where on earth was she? It had been midday before, but it was now as dark as dusk. She craned her neck upwards, expecting to see a thick canopy of trees or the setting sun, but she found neither. The leafy foliage was not thick enough to block out the sky, but she wasn’t convinced it was the sky she was seeing. There was something dark that stretched above her, but it lacked any sort of gradient or depth of colour. Whatever it was, dots of orange light littered it like stars, casting their glow on the land below.

She was sure she was in a swamp. Thankfully, she had landed on one of the dryer patches. Shallow water covered much of the surrounding area, and while being caked in mud was inconvenient, being sopping wet would have been much worse. Trees encircled her, along with