1 Chapter 1

Billie read the sign. Twice. Then another time for good measure.

Each time, it said “Privit. Futparth Cloesd. No Trespisers. That Meens Yuo.” Not a very friendlymessage, Billie thought. Distinctly unwelcoming, in fact.

And annoyingly inconvenient. She’d been using this short-cut through the copse for months now. It was the quickest way from her house to Pixies’ Cupcakery by about half a mile. If she went the long way around, she’d probably end up using more calories than she gained from her mid-morning treat, and that didn’t seem very cost-effective. She folded her suntanned arms and stood there, tapping one sandal-clad foot and scowling at the sign. Annoyingly, it didn’t take fright and scurry away into the trees.

Then again, neither did it turn into a rabid Rottweiler and start snapping at her slender ankles. While neither outcome would have been verylikely, one did read about all sorts of odd things happening in the Mirkwood Gazette.

Hmm.

It was quite likely, Billie mused, that the path had been closed for a reason. Perhaps some local teenagers had been getting in and leaving litter, or starting fires, or holding naked sabbats, that sort of thing? So they’d closed the footpath to stop that happening. Now, Billie knew she wasn’t going to be starting any fires. Or leaving litter, or picking bluebells—partly because it was July and the bluebells were long gone, yes, but mostly because she just wouldn’t do things like that. She was a firm believer that wild flowers should be enjoyed where they grew, and left in peace for others to do likewise. As for naked sabbats…no, she really wasn’t into those. Quite apart from the whole unleashing-the-demonic-forces-of-hell thing, going sky-clad in the woods could lead to midge bites in some very uncomfortable places.

So technically, really, the sign didn’t apply to her. Only to hypothetical teenage litterbugs and arsonists-cum-nudists.

Giving a satisfied nod—that was proper, grown-up logic, that was—Billie tossed her golden curls and ducked through the newly-built fence, making sure to hold the thin cotton of her sundress away from any rogue splinters. She set off down the path, whistling a little as she walked through the trees—only a very little, mind, because she’d never quite got the hang of it, and she had a strong suspicion any birds within earshot might be sorely tempted to alight on a nearby branch and laugh themselves silly at her efforts.

It was cool here in the copse, the dappled shade teasing her eyes with a natural strobe effect, making her feel as if she walked through some eerily silent sylvan nightclub. The ground was soft beneath her sandals, the baking sun never reaching so far through the trees, and twigs and fallen leaves crackled at her pink-nailed toes. Billie breathed in the rich, earthy scent of the woods and smiled as pollen tickled her nostrils.

Coming to a footbridge across a stream whose clear waters crept shyly over pebbles and tree roots, she placed one confident, well-pedicured foot on the narrow plank.

Which was when it all went just a tiny bit pear-shaped.

Because even as the last echoes of her gentle footstep shivered among the leaves, up from nowhere jumped the largest woman Billie had ever seen. This stranger could have played Madame Maxime in the Harry Potterfilms with no CGI whatsoever. The top of her wild raven curls brushed the treetops, which must have confused the squirrels no end, and her waist was level with Billie’s head. Breasts as large as boulders swelled the contours of a plaid shirt that could have kept an entire Highland clan in kilts. To call her statuesque was to overlook the fact that statues, on the whole, would pale into lichen-clad insignificance beside this behemoth of the brook.

She was, all in all, a rather larger woman than one might have expected to be able to conceal herself under a very modest footbridge. Billie strongly suspected there was magic afoot. And very probably both ahead and a-body as well.

Fire flashed from the troll-woman’s eyes (not literally; that would have been hazardous in a forest in summer) and fists the size of footballs rested on denim-clad hips a Shire horse would have been proud to own. If, that was, said Shire horse was in the habit of wearing rather fetchingly fitted straight-cut jeans, which admittedly very few of them were.

“OI!” the mountainous maiden shouted in a voice that, although not precisely discordant in tone, had more of Wagner in it than of Mozart. “What part of ‘private’ did you not understand, Tinkerbell?”

Although far from offended at the comparison to a fairy, Billie couldn’t help suspecting any flattery was unintentional. She considered her options. It took a worryingly short time. “Um, sorry?” she said, trying to keep her tone calm and soothing. “Tell you what, I’ll just nip across here and I’ll be on my way, how about that?” She smiled sweetly in the manner a former girlfriend had told her was utterly irresistible.