ONGPAW AND THE FASTEST OF THE squirrels flew through treetops, bending the tips of firs, shaking the cones, carrying in one paw or in their teeth the leaves bearing King Crispin’s clawmark. Otters twirled through the water, whispers ran through tunnels and burrows, through nests and into tree roots. From the windows of the tower, trumpets flashed in the sunlight with a sharp, shrill call. Animals heard the message and ran to tell one another until the whole island knew that Urchin had been taken away, the real Heartstone was missing, and Crispin would not be crowned until they were both returned.
Animals wept, raged, ran to the tower to learn more of what had happened, cried out their prayers to the Heart. Ripples of rage and indignation spread through the woods, hills, and shores. Squirrels scrambled up the highest trees to gaze out to the mists. “He’s OUR Urchin, how dare they?” “Heart keep him, where are they taking him?” “And who had the nerve to meddle with the Heartstone?” “Whatever happened to it, you can be sure it was to do with Husk.” But even more than they cared for the sacred stone, they cared and fretted for Urchin. And everyone asked, where was Apple, and who was going to tell her?
On Crispin’s orders, Apple had been one of the first to know. Longpaw had dashed through the woods to search for her, and found her watching a group of squirrels practicing their dances for the coronation party. Apple, fanning herself with a fern, had just chosen a pleasant young squirrel to bring to Crispin’s attention, when Longpaw gave her the message. Attended by Longpaw, she stood up, paws on hips, to march to the tower and hear everything about it.
The day lengthened. Late golden light fell on the water, where little boats bobbed near the mists, and now and again a sleek round head would rise to the surface. On Crispin’s orders the otters were keeping watch from the sea, as members of the Circle watched from the turrets of Mistmantle Tower. Needle, with little Scufflen falling asleep in her arms, sat miserably on the jetty, kicking her paws. Sepia sat beside her, keeping quiet because there was nothing worth saying. Fingal swam listlessly around the wharves. Every time Needle kicked the jetty, Scufflen opened his eyes and squeaked, until Sepia, who had always wanted a younger brother or sister to look after, lifted him from her paws and cradled him herself, singing lullabies.
“I’m still thinking about the Heartstone,” said Needle. Scufflen’s eyes opened and shut again, and Fingal bobbed up beside them to see if anything interesting was happening. “I know what it looks like, I’ve seen the copy. I can describe it so we all know what we’re looking for. The thing is, it could be anywhere on the island.”
“Who’s ‘we’?” asked Fingal.
“Won’t it be wrapped up in a box or something?” said Sepia.
“It might not,” said Needle, still kicking her heels at the jetty. “If anyone found a stone in a box, they’d know it was something special. Husk would need a box or a bag or something to carry it in, but he could tip it out. If he never wanted it to be found, he’d have to have thrown it on the beach, maybe, where nobody would notice it in all the other pebbles. Or drop it down somewhere nobody could ever find it.”
“Difficult, on this island,” said Fingal. “I should think he threw it out to sea, so it would get washed away.” He turned a somersault in the water. “But it would get washed back again.”
“Couldn’t it sink to the bottom?” said Sepia quietly, not wanting to disturb Scufflen.
“Or be swallowed by a water snake?” said Fingal cheerfully. “Shall I kill one for you and see if it’s eaten the Heartstone? Oh, but if it swallowed it, it couldn’t hold on to it, could it, so I suppose the poor old water snake would—”
“Oh, please, Fingal!” said Sepia.
“We should start by beachcombing,” said Needle, as they didn’t seem to be taking this seriously enough. “We’ll divide up the shore between us and whoever else will help. Crackle will. And all your musicky friends, Sepia, you can get them to help. Fingal, you’ll need to get some otters.”
“What, to kill water snakes?” he asked.
“No, for beachcombing,” said Needle with irritation, and stretched up to watch a young squirrel running from the tower. “There goes Gleaner!”
“Oh, get her to help, then,” said Fingal, splashing on his back in the water.
“Certainly not!” said Needle. “She can’t be trusted. She used to be Lady Aspen’s maid.”
“So?” said Fingal.
“She was devoted to Aspen, and Aspen was as bad as Husk,” said Needle. “And before that, she was always a mean little squirmyfur.”
“She’s not so bad now,” said Sepia. “She’s very grateful to Crispin because he didn’t send her into exile or shut her in a dungeon for years. We could invite her to help.”
“No, we couldn’t,” said Needle. “But I wish I knew where she’s off to. You can’t trust her. I’ll organize beach patrols and talk to Fir.”
“You do like organizing, don’t you?” said Fingal.
“I’ll look in my song cave,” said Sepia thoughtfully. “There are always pebbles there. Some are very pretty ones. It might be among them.”
“How would it get there?” asked Needle.
“Spat out by a water snake?” said Fingal.
“I wouldn’t need to know how it got there,” said Sepia gently. “I’d just have to find it.” She spoke dreamily as if to herself, rocking and patting the sleeping baby hedgehog in her arms. “It’s a good place for singing. You run down Falls Cliffs to get in around the side, where it’s driest, and there’s a small entrance to squeeze through, and you come out into a cave behind the waterfall. The waterfall makes a noise, but when you go farther, it opens into the loveliest high chamber with a place that lets light in, and it’s—oh, it’s like nowhere else. The walls glow and there’s a little rock pool and a spring and then…”
“Yes?” said Fingal.
“…and then you sing,” she finished simply.
“You mean, you sing,” said Needle.
“And it sounds so strong, because the echo brings it all back to you,” said Sepia earnestly. “It’s like—like somewhere holy, and the music is all around.…”
She stopped. It was too precious, too special, to tell them that she felt as if she rode in the night sky when she sang in her cave. It was just the sort of place where something as magical and wonderful as the Heartstone might turn up. The thought of her song chamber made her yearn to go there.
“Find some squirrels,” said Needle, bringing her back down to earth. “Fingal, you can—”
“Find a water snake and do it in?” he asked hopefully.
“Organize the otters,” she said. “I’m going to tell Fir what we’re doing.” She took Scufflen from Sepia’s paws and hurried away as he blinked sleepily over her shoulder.
Fingal shook his head. “Hasn’t anyone told her?” he said. “You can’t organize an otter.”
“Sh!” said Sepia. “Somebody’s calling.”
“Fingal! Fingal!” It was a cry from an old voice, a cry strained with anxiety and distress. Sepia sprang up and ran to meet the elderly squirrel hobbling toward them.
“Mistress Damson!” she called. “What’s the matter?”
“Have you seen Juniper?” demanded Damson quickly. “Fingal, have you seen Juniper? You two being friendly, I thought you might know where he is. Only he never came back last night, and I haven’t seen him all day, and neither has anyone! Have you seen him, Fingal? Have you seen him?” She clutched Sepia’s paw tightly and turned to her with a look of desperation. “Sepia, have you seen Juniper?”