Jean-Baptist had indeed been busy. He had buried the ends of all his tools in the four walls. Hammers, chisels, saws, picks, files—everything was sticking straight out from wood so the room resembled an inside-out hedgehog.

The air was electric with energy and as soon as Cocot stepped past the threshold the tool handles started to vibrate. Hair on her neck and arms lifted.

"Coquelicot." Soufflé's voice hissed a warning.

A whisper from the corner repeated her name. "Coquelicot."

"This is not a good idea," Soufflé said.

"Wait here." Cocot readied the key to the trap door in her clammy hand. It took four running leaps to reach the door.

Go!

She ran. The tools in the walls began to shake. She slid the last foot to the door. A hammer fell with a clatter.

She jammed the key in the lock and twisted it open, yanked the door up and reached for the lamp.

A hard-soled boot thumped on the wood in the corner.

Biting her lips closed, she tried to strike a spark. Two chisels shook loose from the walls, arching into the room. Another boot heel cracked. A saw leapt free and scraped over the floor towards her.

Hands trembling, she struck the flint again, frantic. If she could light the lantern she would be safe. The spark landed on the wick!

A cold breath blew across her fingers and extinguished the tiny flame.

He was right behind her.

"Coquelicot!" Soufflé shouted.

Icy fingers brushed her throat.

She screamed. She swung the lantern at empty air, lashing out wildly. The world turned sideways. She was falling. She tumbled downwards into the cellar opening. The ladder scraped her back and she grabbed for it. She hit the rocky floor with a bone-jarring thud. Lightning flashes of pain seared through her head.

The square of blue at the top of the cellar darkened to black. The trap door slammed shut.

It was pitch black. As black as a tomb.

"Soufflé!" Cocot screamed and pulled herself upright using the ladder. "Soufflé!"

Above, the table bumped and knocked on the workshop floor as though someone was moving it.

Jean-Baptist meant to bury her in here. The mildew filled space of the cellar closed in on her. The cellar was too small, too tight, too black. She was trapped. She could die in here.

"Hurry, Coquelicot, you have to get out now!" Soufflé yelled. "Hurry!"

She jumped upwards to push open the door. The lantern. The bottle of evil. She scrambled back down and swept her hands over the dirt and rock floor. There! The piece of steel, the brass lantern and the flint.

She struck two sparks before the wick caught and a flame sprang to life. To her eyes, it was pure gold. Molten gold that flooded the whole cellar.

"Can you hear me, child? Hurry!" he urged.

The table hit the trap door above her, rattling it in its wooden frame. She had to get out of there. She had to go now.

Her keys lay under the bottom shelf and she shoved them in her pocket. Lifting the lantern high, she climbed the ladder one handed.

At the top shelf, she reached for the bottle. The darkness in the cellar was crowding around it—thick and tangible. She tried to swallow, but her mouth was dust and leather.

She pushed her hand through the darkness and found the glass bottle. It was warm. It was alive.

Stop it. She freed it from the clinging shadows, bringing them into the lantern's gold light where they dissipated like smoke. Both of her hands were full now. She put the bottle in the crook of one arm and pushed upwards on the trap door. It wouldn't budge.

"Soufflé," she called. "Soufflé, what do I do? Can you hear me?"

"Push harder! Harder! He's gone and tipped the table over. I can't—"

Cocot set the lantern and the bottle aside to press with both hands. Several heavy footsteps passed over her head. She cringed.

"Soufflé?"

He did not answer.

Which would be worse—to be buried alive alone in the cellar or for Jean-Baptist to come down there?

"Open the...door," hissed a razor edged voice through the cracks of the trap door.

She startled, almost losing her balance again. She clung the ladder rungs, clenching her jaw against screaming. He had trapped her here and then told her to open the door for him. He would drive her as mad as he was.

So long as the lantern burned no evil could harm her. Her mother had promised. The lantern was burning, he could not hurt her.

Three knocks rang loudly. No, they weren't knocks, they were Hector's hooves in the workshop. The horse walked across the room and then snorted.

"Coquelicot?" Souffle shouted.

"Yes, I'm here! Get me out!"

"Be ready. I'm going to try and get this behemoth to move the table," he said.

Then all she heard was Hector walking. Then a loud crack. He must have kicked the table or shoved it with his head.

"Again!" Soufflé urged the horse. "Be ready, child!"

Crack!

Cocot pushed open the trap door as the table slid off of it. Chilling tendrils touched her cheek. She grabbed the lantern and held it high. Gold undulated through the workshop. Juggling the lantern and bottle, she was out of the workshop in a flash.

"Hector! Hector, come on!" she cried.

Electricity hummed and crackled. The tools in the walls shook, rattling the windows and walls. The horse snorted, rolling his eyes.

"Hector!" she yelled and finally the horse shoved himself through the narrow doorframe. The tools ripped free. She slammed the door.

The keys! She had too many things in her hands. She reached for her pocket, but nearly dropped the bottle of evil.

"No time for that," said Soufflé when he saw what she was doing.

"The lock, the charm—he'll escape if I don't—"

The door jolted from being hit. The handle rattled.

"Go! Just go!" the fairy yelled.

"Wait, I have to lock it." Cocot thrust the key towards the lock, but her hands shook so hard that she couldn't control her fingers. The handle turned.

"Too late, child!"

She stumbled backwards, gathering bottle, lantern, keys, and bag before hurtling for the gate. Her feet stirred a cloud of white ashes of the fallen field fairies.

"Open!" She pointed to the gate and it flew open. Hector trotted faithfully behind her. "Go to the field, Hector—the field!" she ordered, pushing his head in the other direction and slapping his rump to make him go.

Then she sprinted down the lane, Soufflé at her shoulder. Under the trees, it was night already and the lantern light bounced crazily. But she didn't need the light to see the road; she needed it for protection.

She reached the moss stairs and took them two at a time to the top. Her breath was growing ragged and burned in her chest. But she couldn't stop.

She raced through the woods, shadows curling towards her before fleeing from the lantern light. For several minutes her breathing was the only noise. The woods were unnaturally silent, her feet hitting the ground muted.

The strains of a lone violin reached her ears. She was almost to the bend. The great fairies were preparing their festival for the full moon.

"Stop!" whispered Soufflé, circling her head once. "Stop here or she'll see the light. You must put it out."

Cocot shook her head, mouthing 'no.'

"There's no choice, or you won't reach the door."

"I can't. Not with the bottle, not with Jean-Baptist out there—I can't."

"If you want to reach the door, then you must," Soufflé said.

Cocot shook so hard, it doubled her in half. Did she want to reach the door and go under the hill? Was this the only way to be free of the wretched bottle and her promises to her mother? "The king banished me. Can I even open the door?"

"You still have the key. The hill will let you in, but you must be faster than the witch. I will go first and distract her. Then you have to find Wenslar, and only Wenslar to give him the bottle. Then you will run. You will run and never stop. Ready?"

"Wait," she gasped. "Wait. If I do this, if I get rid of the bottle will you and Daniel...will you both be safe from her? Will she leave you alone or will she try to kill you anyway?"

"I don't know. I will do my best to protect the boy," he answered gruffly.

"Maybe I should keep it. Take it with me and make her follow," Cocot breathed.

"No! Not that! She'll kill anyone and everyone she can if you do that and she would find you. Now that the bottle is free from Fanchon's hiding place, the witch will sense it and follow its trail."

"Then this is my only choice. This is the only chance I have to set things right. Say it."

"This is the only choice," he said. He faltered and started to fall to the ground.

She caught him on her palm. "Then I'm ready."

He took several breaths, recovering. "Give me to the count of twenty. After that, do not stop."

She tilted the lantern to blow out the tiny flame inside. For a moment, she was drowning in the darkness. Her eyes adjusted, and the feeling passed. She crept silently to the edge of the bend.

Soufflé nodded at her and darted away.

Cocot began to count.

*** The fairies danced under the hill. ***