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“What’s those?” asked the little troll

“A Changeling, ed, a bit of a riddle, a bit of an explosive, and altogetherhich is always! Think of it as an acadeerent belladonna Like the banshee apprentice your uncle Monkshood hired when you were just born”

“How did you know about Uncle Monkey?” exclaiobbled up his cry

“I happened to be perfor my summer ablutions just then She had on a suit of birchbark armor; you were all swaddled in salamander skin She and your industrious uncle built quite a sturdy windmill that day” The Red Wind scowled darkly “Harsh Airs have excellent s that have tried to capture them”

Hawthorn looked out into the brilliant ruby clouds of the skies between Fairyland and the Other Place the Panther meant to take him

“Fairyland is not unlike your cradle,” said the Red Wind kindly, herto cli, and e have slipped the bars and snuck out the nursery door, we shall be in another place entirely, which is to say, the hu now”

“What’s a human? Is it like a toad? Can I ride one?”

The Red Wind pondered “A huht there was nothing special about the way it behaved and then forgot ic ever existed in the first place And you should most definitely try to saddle one up”

“But what if I want to go home?”

“Don’t worry, ets a chance to choose Or else where would irony come from?”

And indeed, in the rippling red clouds above everything, a great nuan to peek out They were all very tall and very lush: great u together, cupolas of orange and fuchsia flowers, obelisks of braided beanstalks, huge domes like the ones Hawthorn had seen in his picture book about Pande bananas and iridescent turquoise bubbles that would not pop, even when they tumbled into thorns Just the sort of place where the wind stills, grows sleepy, turns around in a few lazy circles, and settles down for a nap in a sunbea was hot and wet and alive, like the inside of a summer raindrop

“Welcole, where the Six Winds spend their holidays”

Hawthorn thought his Toad would very much have liked the place He liked it himself, but decided not to tell

The Red Wind and Hawthorn entered the Rhy extra careful not to jostle the landing They soared down the Sestina Shunpike, where inged haiku-hawks darted and sang: five trilling notes, then seven, then five again The Panther of Rough Storht rushed and rippled down the paths of the forest the way rivers run through the cities you and I have seen

“Why is it called the Rhyle can’t rhyive the Red Wind the satisfaction of being impressed