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emerald rain. I ducked, sure that the whole ceiling was about to crash down on my head, but when the first shard of glass hit me, it had all the force of a dandelion puff. I held out my hand to catch another. An amber droplet landed in my palm and looked up at me with the face of a Botticelli angel. I looked up again, gasping. The entire ceiling--of a room as large as Sainte-Chapelle--was made up of live fairies, each one glowing like a Christmas bulb.
    "Light sylphs!" I exclaimed, recalling the creatures I'd glimpsed the night I'd spent with Will Hughes in Fort Tryon Park.
    The little creature hissed and threw up its hands. A torrent of unintelligible speech, accompanied by expansive hand gestures, shrugs, and much expressive rolling of the eyes, issued forth. I had the distinct impression that it was not pleased.
    "The light sylphs ... are their ... American cousins," a gruff voice from the far end of the hall laboriously croaked. "These creatures prefer to be known as the lumignon."
    I turned in the direction of the voice. At the far end of the hall I saw a throne elaborately carved out of the same dark wood as the twisted columns. An empty throne. Was the voice coming from behind it?
    "The word ... has an inter ... esting derivation," the voice rasped. "From the Latin lux, of course ... meaning 'light' and the Old French mignon ... meaning a 'favorite' or 'darling,' perhaps ... originally from the Celtic min, meaning 'tender, soft.' So, 'tender lights.' They aren't always so ... tender, though."
    A deep rumbling noise came from the throne. The wood creaked and groaned. The twisted columns on either side of me shiverwrithed like live snakes, and the black tracery between the panes of light trembled. I saw now that the hall was all of a piece--a giant root system. The black lines between the lights--what would be lead joinery in stained-glass windows--were tiny roots, the columns were thicker roots twisted together, and the throne was the thickest root of all: the taproot. But where was the voice coming from?
    I took another step forward. "But then you would know that, Garet James." The voice came more fluidly now, as if it had only needed a little exercise to get it working. "You've already had some experience of our friends the fairies, haven't you?"
    I stopped, midway down the nave, frozen to the spot. "How do you know my name?"
    The rumbling sound began again, this time louder. It shook the tiny lumignon from their perches in the high roots so that they fell in a colored rain all around me. He--it?--was laughing.
    "Ah, the name of Garet James, Watchtower, travels far. It's true I can't exactly go abroad any longer, but I have my ... informants. You could say my roots in this world and yours run deep ." Again the creature's laughter shook the hall.
    "And what do they say about me?" I asked, approaching the throne while stealthily trying to get a look around it to see where the speaker was hiding.
    "They say you come to the church of Saint-Julien-le-Pauvre every day, sometimes twice a day. We've seen your kind before, waiting for a sign to set off on your quest for the Summer Country. Indeed, we saw another one--one who could only come after dark--quite recently."
    "A man?" I asked, hating the eager hope in my voice. Hadn't I decided earlier today to give up on Will Hughes once and for all?
    "Not exactly. A man once ... but now a creature of the night ... a..."
    "Vampire, yes, I get it," I said irritably despite my relief at the news. I was beginning to find my interlocutor's speaking style annoying. And his game of hide-and-seek. I made a quick feint to my right and then dashed left around the wooden throne. There was nothing there.
    Peals of gruff laughter shook the hall--and they were coming unmistakably from the throne. I came around and stood in front of the huge mass of carved wood--only it wasn't carved, I saw now. The root had grown into the shape of a chair, twisting itself into arms and legs, swelling into rococo