There was a wood on the other side of the curtain through which Cal had been yanked, its thatch of branches so dense all but a sprinkling of snow had been kept from the ground, so that it was mossy and leaf-strewn underfoot. The place was dark, but he could see a fire burning some way off from him, its light welcome, its promise of warmth even more so. Of the man who'd dragged him out of the snow there was no sign; at least he failed to see anyone until a voice said:

Terrible weather we're having,' and he turned to find the monkey Novello, and its human companion, standing no more than two yards from him, camouflaged by stillness.

'It was Smith who did it,' said the monkey, leaning towards Cal. 'Him who pulled you through. Don't let them blame me.' The man threw the animal a sideways glance. 'He's not speaking to me,' Novello announced, 'because I strayed outside. Well, it's done now, isn't it? Why don't you come along to the fire? You'd better lie down before you fall down.'

'Yes,' Cal said,'... please.'

Smith led the way. Cal followed, his stupefied brain still grappling with what he'd just experienced. The Kind might be cornered, but they weren't without a trick or two; the illusion that kept this wood from sight had survived dose scrutiny. And once on the other side there was a second surprise: the season. Though the branches of the trees above him were bare, and it was last summer's moss he was walking on, there was a scent of spring in the air, as if the ice that gripped the Spectred Isle from end to end had no hold here. Sap was rising; buds were swelling; things on every side were turning their cells to the sweet labour of growth. The sudden clemency induced a mild euphoria in him, but his frozen limbs hadn't got the message. As he came within a few yards of the fire he felt his body lose its power to hold itself up. He reached out to one of the trees for support, but it stepped away from him - or so it seemed - and he fell forward.

He didn't hit the ground. There were arms to catch him, and he gave himself over to them. They carried him to the vicinity of the fire, and he was gently laid down. A hand touched his cheek and he looked away from the flames to see Suzanna kneeling at his side, firelight on her face.

He said her name - or at least hoped he did. Then he passed out.

2.

It had happened before that he'd closed his eyes seeing her, only to wake and find her gone. But not this time. This time she was waiting for him, on the other side of sleep. Not just waiting, but holding him, and rocking him. The layers of clothes, paper pulp and photographs he'd been wearing had been peeled off him as he slept, and a blanket wrapped around his nakedness.

'I found my way home,' he said to her, when he could get his tongue to work again.

'I went to Chariot Street to fetch you,' she said, 'but the house had gone.'

'I know ...'

'And Rue Street too.'

He nodded. 'De Bono came looking for me . ..' He halted, silenced by the memory. Even the fire, and her arms around him, couldn't prevent his shuddering as he stood again in the fog, and glimpsed what it had half concealed.

'... the Scourge came after us,' he said.

'And Shadwell,' she added.

'Yes. How did you know?'

She told him about the Shrine.

'So what happens now?' he said.

'We wait. We keep the rapture up, and we wait. We're all here now. You were the only one missing.'

'I'm found now,' he said softly.

She tightened her hold on him.

'And there'll be no more separations,' she said. 'We'll just have to pray they pass us by.'

'No praying please,' said a voice from behind Suzanna. 'We don't want angels hearing us.'

Cal craned his neck to see the newcomer. The lines on the face before him were deeper than they'd been, the beard a little more grizzled: but it was still Lem's face, Lem's smile.

'Poet,' Lo said, bending to put his hand through Cal's hair. 'We almost lost you.'

'No chance,' said Cal, with a slow smile. 'Have you still got the fruits?'

Lo patted the breast pocket of his coat, the modernity of which rather suited him. 'Got them here,' he said. 'Speaking of which: is the man hungry?'

'I can always eat,' said Cal.

There's food to be had when you want it.'

Thank you.'

Lem was about to depart, then turned back and very solemnly said: 'Will you help me plant, Calhoun? When the time comes?'

'You know I will.'

Lem nodded. 'I'll see you in a while,' he said, and withdrew from the circle of firelight.

'Are my clothes dry?' Cal asked. 'I can't wander around like this.'

'Let me see if I can borrow something for you,' Suzanna replied.

He sat up to let her rise, but before she did so she kissed him on the lips. It was not a casual kiss; its touch did more to warm him than a dozen fires. When she left his side he had to wrap the blanket around him to cover up the fact that more than sap was rising tonight.

Alone, he had time to think. Though he'd come within spitting distance of death it was already difficult to remember the pain he'd been in, such a short time ago; possible, even, to think there was no world at all beyond this enchanted wood, and that they could stay here forever and make magic. But seductive as that thought was he knew indulging it, even for a moment, was dangerous. If there was to be a life for the Kind after tonight - if by some miracle Uriel and its keeper did pass them by - then that life had to be lived as part of the Wonderland he'd found in Gluck's bureau of miracles. One world, indivisible.

After a dozing time, Suzanna returned with a collection of clothes, and laid them beside him.

'I'm going to make a round of the lookouts.......' she said, Til see you later.'

He thanked her for the clothes, and began to dress. This was his second borrowed skin in twenty-four hours, and it was -predictably, given its source - odder than anything Gluck had supplied. He took pleasure in the collision of styles: a formal waistcoat and a battered leather jacket; odd socks and pigskin shoes.

'Now that's the way a poet should dress,' Lemuel declared when he came back for Cal. 'Like a blind thief.'

'I've been called worse.' Cal replied. There was talk of food?'

'There was,' said Lem, and escorted him away from the fire. Once his flame-dazzled eyes had grown accustomed to the half-light he realized there were Kind everywhere; perched in the branches or sitting on the ground between the trees, surrounded by their earthly goods. Despite the wonders these people had been intimate with, tonight they resembled any band of refugees, their eyes dark and full of caution, their mouths tight. Some, it was true, had decided to make the best of what might well be their last night alive. Lovers lay in each others' arms exchanging whispers and kisses; a singer poured a lilt onto the air, to which three women were dancing, the stillness between their steps so profound they were lost amongst the trees. But most of the fugitives were inert, keeping themselves under lock and key for fear their dread show.

The smell of coffee came to greet Cal as Lem brought him into a clearing where another fire, smaller than the one he'd slept by, was burning. Half a dozen Kind were eating here. He knew none of them.

'This is Calhoun Mooney,' Lem announced. 'A poet.'

One of the number, who was sitting in a chair while a woman carefully shaved his head, said:

'I remember you from the orchard. You're the Cuckoo.'

'Yes.'

'Have you come to die with us?' said a girl crouching beside the fire, pouring herself coffee. The remark, which would have been judged an indiscretion in most company, drew laughter.

'If that's what it comes to,' said Cal.

'Well don't go on an empty stomach,' said the shaved man. As his barber towelled the last of the suds from his scalp Cal realized he'd grown his mane to conceal a skull decorated with rhymthic pigmentation from the gaze of the Kingdom. Now he could parade it again.