‘You can’t get through there. I’ve already tried,’ said Callie as Lancelot stopped before the tallest oak of all.
He pulled a golden dagger from a pouch at his waist and reached up to cut a sprig from the dense green tangle of mistletoe wrapped around the tree. He laid the sprig in a stone bowl at the base of a standing stone beside the tree and knelt before it, beckoning Callie to kneel with him.
‘Can you read the language of the trees?’ he asked as he traced a series of lines and cross-hatches cut into the stone directly above the bowl.
‘No.’ Callie squinted at the lines that bore no resemblance to the alphabet as she knew it. Yet she’d seen this sort of writing before, in a book about druids. This was the Ogham alphabet, the secret writing once used in ancient Britain.
‘You must rem
