Rosalie Vezina had lived three hundred years, and she still could not fly. She sat at the breakfast table, small and barefoot, her pink dress bunched under her knees. She was three years old. She would always be three years old. Her wand lay beside her plate while she chewed a mushroom cap and stared out the round window at the clouds. "I want to touch them," Rosalie said. She pointed her sticky finger at the sky. "Today. With a real flying spell." Her mother set down her book. Catherine Bisson wore her green dress, her frizzy brown hair loose around her shoulders. She looked at her tiny, ancient daughter the way she had a thousand mornings before. "Flying is old magic, Rosalie. The forest keeps that spell. It doesn't give it to just anyone." "I'm not just anyone." Rosalie grinned. "I've been tricking this forest since before you were born." Catherine almost smiled. "Then go see Simeon. He knows the old words better than I do." She tapped the window. "But his cottage is deep past the great oak. You'll have to cross the whole forest on your own feet." Rosalie slid off her chair. Her blue baby dragon uncurled from its warm spot by the door and shook out its small wings. Her rose-colored cat lifted its leafy tail and blinked. "Stay," Rosalie told them both. "This is a long walk." The dragon huffed but curled back down. Rosalie stepped outside. Glowing mushrooms ringed her cottage, and fireflies drifted around the warm windows. She waved her wand once, more from habit than need, and marched into the trees. The forest was thick and dim. Roots caught her bare toes. Twice she stopped to trick a talking beetle just for fun. But the path kept twisting, and every tree began to look the same. Rosalie realized she did not know the way anymore. Then she saw it. The great oak rose ahead, its trunk wider than her whole house. Bell-shaped fruit hung in its branches, each one glowing soft and gold. She had seen this tree before, long ago. Simeon lived past it. She had found her marker. Rosalie ran to the oak and pressed her hand to the bark. The bells above her chimed, low and warm, as if they knew her. She laughed and looked past the trunk. A narrow trail wound down into a hollow. At its end, tucked under ferns, sat a small cottage with a crooked chimney. She had made it. She had crossed the forest alone, and Simeon's home waited just ahead. But as Rosalie stepped toward the trail, the golden bells above her went dark all at once. The warm chime stopped. The forest fell silent. From inside Simeon's cottage came no light, no smoke, no sound. Rosalie stood at the edge of the hollow, her wand tight in her fist. Something was wrong at her friend's house.

Rosalie stood at the edge of the hollow. The bell-tree behind her hung dark and silent. Simeon's cottage waited below, its windows black, its chimney cold. No smoke. No light. She gripped her wand and started down the trail. Something had chased the life from that little house, and she meant to find out what. The cottage door hung open. Rosalie crept inside on bare feet. A chair lay tipped over. A cup rolled slow across the floor. Simeon's supper still sat on the table, cold. She touched the bowl. Fresh. He had left in a hurry, and not long ago. Then she smelled it. Wet moss and rot. A thick, sour breath from behind the cottage. Rosalie went to the back window and looked out. A troll stood among the ferns. Green moss covered its huge grey shoulders. Its mouth hung open, full of yellow teeth, and thick spit dripped from its jaw. In one fist it held Simeon by the back of his coat, like a doll. The old man kicked and shouted, but the troll only sniffed him and grinned. Rosalie's heart pounded. She was three years old and knew a hundred tricks. She needed one now. She slipped out the door and ran to an old stone shrine half-buried in the moss. It was carved like a sleeping giant, its stone face calm and closed. Rosalie had an idea. She raised her wand and tapped the shrine three times. "Wake up!" she squeaked, loud as she could. "There's a thief in your woods!" Her magic was small, but it was enough. The shrine's carved eyes flickered with a faint white light. Deep in the ground, a low rumble rolled out. Birds burst from the trees. The whole hollow shook. The troll froze. It stared at the shaking shrine, then back at Rosalie. Its little eyes went wide. It thought the stone giant was rising to punish it. With a frightened bellow, the troll dropped Simeon in the ferns and crashed away into the forest. Branches snapped. Its heavy steps faded into the dark. Rosalie ran to Simeon and helped him sit up. He was old and thin, his beard full of leaves. He blinked at the tiny girl with the wand. "You," he wheezed. "You tricked a mountain troll with a rumble." "I trick everything," Rosalie said. She grinned. "Now you owe me. Mama says you know the flying spell. The old words." Simeon coughed and laughed at once. He looked at the shrine, still glowing faint. Then he looked at the far trees where the troll had fled. "I'll teach you," he said. "But not here. That thing will smell its own fear and come back angry. We must reach my other place, deeper in the wood, before dark." Rosalie helped the old man to his feet. Simeon was safe. The spell was close now. But the troll was still out there, and the forest was growing dim.