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“You’d stink if you’d been stuck in a bog and about to be eaten by bog monsters,” groaned his brother. “But how did I get here?”

I was wondering the very same thing.

“You wished him here,” I said, suddenly understanding what had happened. “You wished Jory was here, and then you wished for the lamp to light!”

“ ’Tis a magic lamp!” cried Jack. “We can wish for anything!”

“No,” I said, clutching the lamp protectively. “Faerie boons come in threes. Remember the stone faerie and the three questions?”

“We could wish ourselves back home with the lady Rose!” cried Jack.

I considered this. Would it work? What if it didn’t? What if only the person holding the lamp was magicked back home? That would be worse, for I would never find my way back again to seek for Rose.

“No,” I said firmly. “It’s too risky.”

I ran my mind over all Mother had told me regarding fae wishes. They varied in strength. Royal magic was more powerful than most, but it could still be resisted, unless it was dark magic that overpowered another’s will.

Jory could not have been transported to us by magic if he had not wished for his brother to call for him. There had been a delay of some minutes before Jory had appeared, although the lamp had responded to the wish instantly; Jory must have put up a little resistance to begin with.

“Don’t suppose you could wish him clean?” said Jack, holding his nose.

Bog marsh mud was certainly vile. Jory clambered unsteadily to his feet, and a waft of malodour overwhelmed me .

“No,” I said, my voice muffled as I covered my mouth and nose. “We must keep the last wish for a matter of life and death.”

“I’d say it were a matter of life and death,” said Jack. “ ’Tis a stink strong enough to kill a fellow or raise one from the dead!”

“Now that is a good idea!” I said. “Jory, come and speak to Sir Oswain!”

“Where is he?” said Jory, still shaky from the effects of the magic and from whatever misadventure he had just endured.

“Here, on the ground.”

“What’s he doing on the ground?”

Jory wiped a glob of black mud from his eyebrow and blinked. I held up the lamp to illuminate the unconscious Sir Oswain.

“Is he dead?”

“Dead drunk,” said Jack.

“From what?” said Jory, coming unsteadily toward the inert body. “Could do with a drink myself after what I’ve been through.”

“You wouldn’t want what he’s had,” Jack assured him.

“Lean over him,” I said. “Tell him to wake up.”

“You think the sound of my voice will be irresistible to him?”

“No. I think the smell of you will work as well as burnt feathers.”

“I see you’re as charming as ever, Miss Lily.” He glanced around. “You haven’t found your sister yet.”

“Thank you for remembering her. If we can waken Sir Oswain, we can be on our way to find her.”

Jory dropped to his knees and leaned over the inert aristocrat. “Hey. Sleeping beauty. Time to wake up. ”

“Lean nearer,” I urged when there was no response.

Jory tried again.

“His eyelids flickered,” I said, moving the lamp nearer, then withdrawing as another whiff of bog mud reached me.

Jory lifted Sir Oswain by his coat collar to shake him soundly.

“That will do,” I said, when Jory slapped Sir Oswain’s cheeks.

“That’s how I wake Jack when he’s being a lazy dog,” said Jory, giving up and sitting back on his heels. “Have you any victuals? I’ve not eaten for two days.”

“You ate all that wayfarer bread?” marvelled Jack, fishing out the leaf-wrapped bread and the flask of water from his sack.

Jory sighed after a long draught from the flask. “That tastes good.”

“From the fountain in the queen’s summer garden,” Jack informed him.

“You made it to the queen, then?” Jory spoke with a mouthful of bread. “Mmm. Tastes good.”

“Tastes like honey cake, don’t it?” said Jack, watching his supply of faerie bread being quickly devoured.

“So good,” said Jory, closing his eyes as he savoured the satisfaction of food. “I lost my pack to a thieving fellow on a wagon. One of those roamers.”

“And where’s your bow and quiver?” asked Jack.

“Used up my arrows on the horde of boggarts that drove me into the bog.

I was sinking fast. The black mud was over my nose, and I thought—well, Jory, son of Jago, this is it.

After all these years of trying to hustle a living to take care of your little brother, this is how it ends.

At the bottom of a bog. Unless those boggarts pull me out and eat me.

“And I thought of you, Jack, and hoped you’d be a better fellow than I’d been, and I was glad you weren’t there sinking in the mud beside me.

And as the blackness covered my eyes, I heard your voice—heard you say, ‘ I wish Jory was here ’—and then I felt myself sucked upwards, and I thought, well, this is it—I’m about to get eaten—and then I felt very strange, and I wasn’t sure if I were still in or out of my body, and then I saw a bright yellow light, and I felt something spit me out, and I fell to the ground, and thought I heard your voice, and, what do you know, it really was you. ”

Jory broke off from his story as his voice grew ragged. Two white streaks appeared under his eyes.

“Thought it was the end,” finished Jory. “You saved my life, Jack.”

Jack also had tears running down his cheeks and moved as though to embrace his brother, but drew back again as the smell repelled him.

“Right,” said Jory, wiping a hand across his nose and getting to his feet.

“You’ve lost your boots,” said Jack.

“Got sucked off in the mud.” Jory looked down at his black feet.

Jack hesitated a moment, then began tugging at his own boots. “You can have your old ones back.”

“Nay,” said Jory. “Keep ’em on. I’ve a better idea.”

And he bent down to tug off Sir Oswain’s leather boots.

“You can’t steal his boots!” I protested.

“I’m not stealing. I’m borrowing. He’s not using them.”

When he’d stomped his newly shod feet a few times and admired his footwear, he took hold of Sir Oswain’s arms and heaved him up.

“Give us a hand, Jacko,” he grunted. “Right. Where are we heading?” he asked, with Sir Oswain slung across his shoulder.

“Are you sure?” I said. “He must be heavy.”

“If a good bounce don’t wake him, nothing will,” said Jory. “Lead on!”

I snatched up the supplies and led the way across the meadow, my lamp lighting our path as I followed the line of flattened grass left by Sir Oswain’s drunken trail.

The lamp soon attracted a little cloud of fluttering fireflies, which made a welcome accompaniment to our procession.