بخش 02

“Right. I want to ask you a few questions.”

The man had been picking at his teeth with one of the beetle’s legs, but now he sat up, running a hand down his beard, and put on an eager-to-please smile. He was crazy, Michael thought, but he appeared to be nice-crazy, and not I’ll-kill-you-I’ll-kill-you crazy.

“Happy to talk. Love having visitors. Bert hasn’t had any in, well, ever.” He spoke in choppy, heavily accented English. “Oh, Bert’s very sorry about the whole”—he mimed hacking at them with an imaginary sword. “He thought you were elves.”

“Yes, well, that’s certainly understandable,” Michael said. “No one wants elves sneaking about.” As he spoke, Michael was mentally reviewing passages from The Dwarf Omnibus about the art of interrogation (the Omnibus, as Michael had often reflected, really did touch on everything). He remembered that G. G. Greenleaf suggested first establishing rapport with your subject. He also said that when the subject’s guard was down, the interrogator should “whack him in the head with a club. He won’t see that coming! Ha!” Michael wasn’t planning anything quite so violent, but considering how skittish the man was, building rapport seemed like a good initial step. With that in mind, Michael tried to make his tone as chummy as possible. “So tell me, friend, you’re one of the Order of Guardians, aren’t you?”

The man shook his head. “No, no! Bert’s not one of the Order—”

“But you’ve got the symbol on your—”

“Bert’s not one of the Order! He’s all of the Order! He’s the last there is! Beginning, middle, and end!” He thumped his chest proudly.

Michael thought of the silent, deserted fortress and decided the man was telling the truth.

“What happened to the others?”

“Gone,” the man said quickly, in a way that told Michael there was more to the story. “Bert’s been alone for a very, very, very, very long time.” And he popped another beetle in his mouth.

“But you’re not completely alone. I mean, there’s a dragon here.”

The man jerked forward, his voice dropping to a whisper. “You’ve seen the dragon?”

“Yes. In the forest.” Then, as if it were the most casual thing in the world, Michael asked, “Just out of curiosity, where is the dragon now?”

The man raised a finger to his lips and pointed toward the volcano, whispering, “… Sleeping … best not to wake.”

Michael was taking note of the things he would return to later: the dragon, what had happened to the man’s comrades.… He decided it was time to come to the key issue.

“What can you tell me about my sister?”

The man’s eyes widened. “That’s your sister? Oh. Oh no.…”

“What do you mean, oh no? What’s happened to her?”

“Well, she’s frozen, isn’t she? Thought that much was fairly obvious.”

“I can see that!” Michael felt his let’s-be-friends mask slip for a second. “But what froze her in the first place? Dragons don’t freeze people. It’s not in any of the literature.”

The man began nervously braiding his beard. “Hmm, well, Bert didn’t know she was your sister. Dragon just dumped her in Bert’s lap! She was very loud. Lots of threats. About how a certain fellow was going to cut off Bert’s head! Shouting, shouting, shouting. All these years alone, Bert isn’t used to so much yelling. And she kicked Bert in the shin—hard! Bert will have a bruise tomorrow!”

He began rolling up the cuff on his pants.

“Stop that. What did you do?”

“Do? Oh, nothing … much.…”

Michael gave his best glower. He was honestly rethinking whacking the man in the head. The deranged Guardian seemed to get the message. He reached into one of the pockets of his cloak and drew forth a folded patch of cloth.

“Bert used to be quite the hand at potions. They taught us magic, the wizards did. Long ago.” He unwrapped the cloth and displayed a scorched needle. He began murmuring, like someone repeating a recipe, “Two parts dragon’s blood. Three parts deathshade. Ground-up sloth tongue, not too fine. Water from an untouched stream. Add salt. Heat. Then one quick prick”—he made a jabbing motion with the needle—“and silence.”

“You drugged her?”

The man nodded, then reached into another pocket. “Beetle?”

“I don’t want a beetle! Is she”—Michael had to swallow before he could find his voice—“is she alive?”

“Oh yes, yes. Still alive. But the life has been stopped within her. Like a frozen river. Quite a powerful little potion. One prick.” He jabbed the air with the needle again.

“So how do we fix her?! She’s my sister! I’m supposed to be looking out for her.”

All of Michael’s relaxed, rapport-building demeanor was gone. He wanted to grab the man by the beard and shake him.

“Can’t.”

“Can’t what? Can’t tell us? Because my friend here—”

“Can’t fix her. No antidote. At least, none Bert has. But she doesn’t look that bad. And you could put her somewhere nice. She would really brighten up a room.”

“My sister is not a piece of furniture!”

“Of course, of course,” agreed the man, “but she’s not going to be much good for conversation anymore, you do realize that, don’t you?”

“I’m going to cut off his head,” Gabriel growled.

The man’s bottom lip began trembling, and he let out a low moan.

“Oh, stop it!” Michael snapped. “You’re supposed to be the last of an ancient order of warriors. Have some dignity.”

As the man pulled his cloak over his head in an effort to hide, Michael took a moment to regroup. This wasn’t going well. There seemed to be no quick way of restoring Emma, and the more time that passed, the more likely it was that the dragon would wake up, and then what? As much faith as Michael had in Gabriel’s strength, a dragon was, after all, a dragon. And he still didn’t understand the relationship between the Guardian and the dragon. Was the man the creature’s master? It didn’t appear so. But clearly there was something between them, or the dragon would have killed the man long ago.

Michael found that he was unconsciously rubbing the blue-gray orb that hung around his neck. Could the glass marble possibly help? Should he just smash it, as Emma had suggested? What if it had been sent by their enemies? With Emma frozen, smashing the orb seemed too much of a risk. Michael slipped it back inside his shirt.

Plan B, Michael thought. We leave now. Before the dragon wakes up. Gabriel carries Emma back to the plane. We find Dr. Pym—assuming he’s still alive—and he fixes Emma. Then we all come back for the Chronicle.

Reviving Emma had to come first.

But Michael also knew they couldn’t leave without hearing the deranged Guardian’s story. There was no telling what might help them when they returned for the Chronicle.

“I want you to tell us everything. How you came here. What happened to the other Guardians. Where the dragon came from. Start at the beginning. But be quick.”

“And if you lie to us,” Gabriel said, “I will most certainly chop off your head.”

They had not moved from atop the tower, and as the man spoke, Michael glanced now and then at Emma. Part of him kept expecting her to start laughing and announce that she had been playing a practical joke and wasn’t frozen at all.

But she stayed just as she was.

Don’t worry, he promised silently. I won’t leave you like this.

“Four thousand years ago,” the man began, “when the world was a very different place than today—much dustier, for starters—there was a council of big-brain wizards in the city of Rhakotis on the coast of the Mediterranean Sea.”

To Michael’s great annoyance, the man seemed unable to tell the story without indulging in any number of digressions, on topics as diverse as the varieties of edible fruits, the intelligence of camels, the stupidity of birds, and his own astonishing amiability. Along with all this, he made repeated offers for Michael and Gabriel to share his supply of beetles, offers that Michael and Gabriel always declined while pressing him to get to the point.…

“And these big-brain wizards decided it would be a wonderful idea to write down their greatest, most terrible, most secret secrets, the ones that concerned the very making of the world. In the end, they created three books.” The man held up two fingers. “One dealt with time. One with life. And one with death. And they were locked away in separate vaults below the city—which really was a lovely city.”

There followed a disquisition on the many charms of Rhakotis, till a growl from Gabriel prompted him to continue.

“Then the big-brains in their braininess created an Order of Guardians who were sworn to protect the Books with their lives. There were only ten Guardians at any one time, but they were versed in both magical and nonmagical combat and were supported by the power of the wizards.” He scratched his beard. “Time passed. The big brains grew soft and were perhaps not quite so big as they once had been. This is where Bert enters the story. He was a young Guardian. Bright-eyed. Zealous. Amiable, oh my—”

“Skip that part,” Michael said.

“And then everything changed.” The man leapt up and began pacing back and forth, waving his arms about violently. Michael and Gabriel moved in front of Emma so the man didn’t strike her by accident. “It was a beautiful day, the sun was shining, Bert was atop the watchtower—out of nowhere, a thousand ships materialized off the coast. Fire filled the sky. Dragons appeared in the east of the city. Sand trolls attacked from the south. It was Alexander, the boy conqueror, and the big brains were doomed. Alexander was too strong. Had too many dark wizards in his army. It was up to Bert and his brothers to get the Books out of the city. But by the time they reached the vaults, only the Chronicle remained. The other two books were already gone.”

The man’s mind seemed to drift off. He stood, stroking his beard and murmuring, “Not Bert’s fault, did his best, can’t fault old Bert…,” until Michael called him back.

“In the end, only four Guardians escaped the city. The rest died in the fighting. The survivors fled south, to the bottom of the world. There were elves living here, in the ice and snow. At first, Bert liked them. He should’ve known better.”

“Why?” Michael asked. “What’d the elves do?”

The man didn’t answer; he was caught up in his story.

“Bert and the others tapped into the power of the book. The valley became lush. They gained long life. They hid the Chronicle anew and built this fortress. More time passed. Century upon century. They had a scrying bowl that showed the outside world. So many changes. But though they searched and searched, they saw no traces of the two missing books.” The bearded, wild-eyed man faced them, grinning. “But they learned of the prophecy. The Keepers of the Books would appear. They would bring the Books together once again. Bert convinced the others it was their duty to guard the Chronicle until its Keeper arrived. Then … then …”

His energy abruptly ran out. He slumped onto the tower wall. Michael and Gabriel had to wait several moments for him to continue.

“Men are not meant to live for thousands of years. The minds of the strongest become dry and brittle. One of Bert’s brothers decided that he was the Chronicle’s Keeper, and Bert and the others were keeping it from him. Brother slew brother! O murder! O treachery! The blood! Terrible! Terrible!” He covered his face with his beard and spoke through the matted hair. “Bert’s false brother was finally slain, but then only Bert and one other remained. Not enough to defend the Chronicle. Bert’s last brother ventured forth, in an attempt to find the true Keeper. Poor, brave soul! Poor Bert, all alone!” And the man began bawling once more.

Michael glanced at Gabriel. They were thinking the same thing. The other Guardian, the one who had left, had to have been the skeleton that Michael and Dr. Pym had discovered in Malpesa.

“So where’d the dragon come from?” Michael asked. “And what did the elves do that you don’t trust them? And would you please stop crying?”

The man dropped his beard and laughed, slapping his knees in joy. “Yes! Yes! The elves! It was when Bert was alone that the elves showed their true colors. Tried to steal the book! But they didn’t know that Bert and his brothers had brought a dragon’s egg from Rhakotis! Bert hatched it in the heat of the volcano! Bonded it to the Chronicle. When the elves marched on the fortress, well …”

“Ho, ho, ho,” Michael chuckled. “I’ll bet they weren’t expecting that!”

Then he saw Gabriel scowling and dropped the smile.

“And that”—the man clapped his hands, apparently pleased with himself—“is that! Now”—he leaned forward, peering at Michael—“tell Bert the truth. Have you come for the book?”

“Well … yes—”

“Ha! Knew it! But the real question, the big question …”

The man came closer, his breath rasping through his beard. He placed a trembling hand on Michael’s shoulder.

“… Are you the Keeper? The one Bert has been waiting and waiting for?”

Past the dirt and matted hair, the man’s face was unlined. Only his eyes betrayed his age. They were eyes that had lived with one single purpose for nearly three thousand years; they were asking: Is it over? Is it finally over?

They were the saddest eyes Michael had ever seen.

“Are you the Keeper?”

It should have been a simple question to answer. Michael had been told he was the Chronicle’s Keeper by Dr. Pym. And then he’d felt the book calling to him through the snowstorm. Still, saying it, acknowledging it, was somehow different.

But there was no hiding from the eyes.

He said, in a whisper, “Yes. I am.”

The madman nodded and took his hand from Michael’s shoulder. “I suppose we’ll soon see, won’t we?”

“Wh-what do you mean?”

“You want to restore your sister, yes? The screaming shin kicker?”

“Of course—”

“And you’ve seen the forest. That was once ice and snow. What do you think called it to life? The Chronicle! It will revive your sister! Awaken the life sleeping within her! It is the only way.”

“Then let us waste no more time,” Gabriel said, and started for the stairs. “We know it is in the volcano.”

“No!” The man jumped to block him. “The dragon will kill you!”

“But don’t you control the dragon?” Michael demanded. “You said you hatched it from an egg!”

“No, no, no! The dragon doesn’t obey Bert! The dragon serves the Chronicle! Bert is suffered to live because Bert serves the same purpose. However”—once again, he leaned close to Michael—“the Chronicle is hidden in the volcano, yes, and the dragon will kill any who enter. Even Bert. But the true Keeper can pass unharmed.” He gripped Michael’s shoulder. “To save your sister, you must go into the volcano and face the dragon—alone.” Not surprisingly, Gabriel wanted to go in Michael’s place. He said that the Guardian’s warnings were meaningless.

“Why should we take the word of a madman who eats beetles as candy?”

“Says him,” muttered the Guardian. “He hasn’t tried them.”

“At the very least, we should go together.”

They were still atop the tower. Emma was still frozen. Only the sky had changed, softening from inky black to a deep, dark blue. Michael held firm.

“We can’t both go. What if we’re killed? There’d be no one to look after Emma. And if you went alone and got killed, I couldn’t carry her out of here. I have to go, and you have to stay. That’s all there is to it.”

“And if the dragon doesn’t obey you?” Gabriel said. “What then?”

He means, Michael thought, what if I’m killed.

“Then you take Emma to Dr. Pym.”

“Let us go and find the wizard now, and return when your sister is well. There is no need to take such a risk as this.”

Michael shook his head. They had no way of knowing what had happened in Malpesa after they’d left. What if Dr. Pym had only slowed Rourke down? The bald man could already be on the trail of the Chronicle. Michael had been willing to risk abandoning the book when there was no other way of saving Emma. But now getting the book also seemed to be the surest, fastest way of waking up his sister. It was a chance they had to take. Even if it meant Michael going into the volcano alone.

And after all, he’d figured out the potions in Malpesa—he could do this!

In the end, Michael won, as he was right, and Gabriel knew it.

Gabriel knelt and pulled a knife from his belt. He said it had been a gift from Robbie McLaur, the king of the dwarves near Cambridge Falls. The blade was a foot long and surprisingly light and would cut through bone as easily as paper. It would also, both Michael and Gabriel knew, be useless against a dragon. Still, Michael thanked him and tucked it into his own belt. He felt better for having dwarf steel at his side.

“We have a saying among my people.” Gabriel laid a heavy hand upon his shoulder. “… A man can die only once.”

Michael wondered if this was supposed to be encouraging.

“I guess that’s … good to know.”

“You remember that first morning in my cabin? After I saved you from the wolves?”

“Yes.”

“You had betrayed your sisters to the Countess in hopes that she would help you find your parents. Do you remember?”

Michael stared at the ground. Did he remember? The memory haunted him. It was the single worst thing he’d ever done. By his own weakness and stupidity, he’d nearly lost what was most important to him—the love of his sisters. He couldn’t think of it without pain, and yet, in the eight months since Cambridge Falls, Michael had replayed what he’d done over and over, hating and cursing himself, and ending always with the promise that he’d never let Kate and Emma down again, no matter what.

“Look at me.”

Michael raised his eyes to Gabriel’s.

“Each day, by our actions, we decide who we are. You are no longer that boy. Your sisters are fortunate to have you as a brother. And it is an honor for me to call you a friend.”

Michael’s throat was too thick to speak. He could only nod his thanks. Then, wiping his eyes, Michael hugged his sister, crushing her thin arms against her sides, whispering, “I’ll be back soon,” and turned and followed the last Guardian down the stairs.

In the large ground-floor chamber, Michael stared at the mouth of the tunnel while the Guardian turned a crank fixed to one of the columns. A chain clanked, and the iron gate began to rise.

“She’ll know you’re coming.”

“She? The dragon’s a girl?”

“Oh, yes. Now, you’ll be safe as long as you’re the true Keeper. She serves the book, and the book serves the Keeper.”

“Okay.”

“If you’re not the true Keeper, she’ll most likely eat you.”

“Okay.”

“She might roast you first.”

“Okay.”

“Or just gobble you up.”

“I got it.”

The gate was up. Michael stood there, feeling the heat wash over him.

“Don’t close the gate,” he said, and started down the stairs.

It was just as in his dream.

The long tunnel …

The red glow in the distance …

The brutal, throat-scorching heat …

The difference being this was no dream, and Michael knew what lay ahead.

The tunnel had turned a few yards past the gate and now ran straight on and down. The porous black rock was warm to the touch, and there was a sulfury sourness to the air. At first, Michael kept his feet moving with thoughts of Emma, frozen atop the tower; but with each step, the pull of the Chronicle became stronger, and soon it alone was drawing him on. Then the tunnel began to climb, and there was a new smell, one Michael had never encountered, and he could think only that it was the stench of dragon.

Knowing he was close, Michael knelt down and, with trembling hands, pulled out The Dwarf Omnibus. There were several passages where G. G. Greenleaf had written about dragons, and Michael quickly found the relevant sections:

Dragons are notable for their lust for gold—not a bad quality taken in moderation!… Dragons are immune to fire, obviously.… All dragons are terrifically vain; indeed, as to who is more vain, a dragon or an elf, I would not want to be the one to decide (hint: an elf!).… A dragon should never be engaged in conversation, as they are inveterate liars and tricksters, though if you’re actually talking to a dragon, you’re pretty much toast anyway.… Never, ever call a dragon a worm, no matter how much they’re asking for it!

Michael snapped the book shut. He did not feel any better. He was about to rise when his thumb felt the stiff edge of the photo that Hugo Algernon had given him. He pulled it out, and there was his father, smiling up at him from deep in the past. Michael felt a hard knot of sadness in his chest. Would he ever actually meet his father? Would the day ever come when they would sit down, as Michael had often imagined, and talk about their love of all things dwarfish? When his father would tell Michael how proud he was of him? Crouching there in the reeking, sweltering cave, yards from a dragon’s lair, Michael thought that day seemed very, very far away.

Michael slipped the photo into the book and then, on a whim, flipped through and opened to a different page:

In the spring of that year, the goblin hordes marched into dwarfish lands, burning and pillaging everything in their path. King Killin Killick raised an army and rode out to meet the monsters. A young squire, riding alongside the king, asked what was the secret to his long and successful reign. King Killick replied, “A great leader lives not in his heart, but in his head.”

It was the quote that Hugo Algernon had said his father loved. It was the quote that Michael loved and tried to live by. He read on:

“Emotions cloud the issue,” the king explained. “The one who can see most clearly will always triumph.” Unfortunately, the day was fine, and Killick had chosen to ride without his helmet, and just then a goblin leapt from a tree and split his noble head in two. But let us take comfort that though the goblins routed the army, razed the countryside, and renamed Killick’s capital Goblin-Town (showing, thereby, their typical goblin flair with names), the great king’s words live on and are a lesson to us all.

Michael closed the book and stood, feeling fortified. He slid the Omnibus into his bag, making room for it beside the gold circlet he’d taken from the sculpture of the elf girl. He adjusted his glasses. It’s time, he told himself.

Twenty-seven nervous steps later, he entered the cavern.

Gabriel stood atop the tower. He had cleaned the mud from Emma’s cheeks and the last bits of fern from her hair. He couldn’t stop wondering if he’d done the right thing in letting Michael go into the volcano alone. Would the wizard have approved? After all this time, had he made a mistake when it mattered most?

Fifteen years earlier, Gabriel had almost died while fighting in Cambridge Falls. King Robbie McLaur’s dwarves had found him and saved his life. Later, while he’d been recuperating in his village, the wizard Stanislaus Pym had come to see him. He’d told Gabriel about the Dire Magnus and his hunger for the Books of Beginning and what it meant for the children.

“The enemy knows the children will lead him to the Books. He will hunt them.”

It had been autumn, the air cool and crisp, and Gabriel had just begun walking without crutches. The wizard had gone on:

“Our only hope lies in finding the Books first. I will do all I can, but I need someone strong at my side. Someone who cares about the children.”

Gabriel had been about to answer that he could depend on him, but the wizard had laid a hand on his arm.

“Understand what I’m asking. A war has begun. It will go on for years to come, and I will need you every day of that time. For all your strength, you are a man, with a man’s span of years. This is the time you would find a wife, start a family. Know what you would be giving up.”

Standing there, in the forest above his village, Gabriel had thought of the life that could be his. Then he’d thought of Kate, Michael, and Emma, especially of Emma, who had touched his heart in a way he’d never thought possible.

“You are sure that finding the Books will keep the children safe?”

“Yes.”

“Then I am yours to command.”

He had never once regretted his decision. His only fear had been that he would somehow fail in his duty. And it was with that in mind that he turned to go down into the volcano, to seek out Michael and help however he could, when a crushing blow struck him across the back of the head.

The cavern was roughly circular in shape, perhaps fifty feet across, with a ceiling that rose into darkness, and a large pool of lava that occupied most of the cavern floor. A narrow ring of black rock ran around the base of the walls. On the far side of the pool, Michael could make out the mouth of another tunnel. There was no dragon to be seen.

Michael stepped to the edge of the pool, his eyes watering from the heat and fumes. He stared down at the bubbling surface and thought:

You’ve gotta be kidding.

The book’s pull was stronger than ever, and the source was, without question, within the pool of lava. The Order had put the book in a pool of lava! He almost couldn’t believe it. Indeed, he wouldn’t have believed it if the force pulling at him hadn’t been so strong. And he had to admit, it made a crazy sort of sense. Assuming the lava didn’t damage the book—which had to be the case—the Guardians must’ve planned for the molten rock to serve as a final line of defense.

Great, Michael thought. But how am I supposed to get it out?

He started looking around for a long stick.

“Hello, Rabbit.”

Michael stumbled backward, tripping, skinning the heel of his hand on the rocky floor. A deep, feline chuckle echoed around the cavern walls.

“My, what a clumsy little rabbit you are.”

Michael jerked his gaze upward. He had an idea where the voice was coming from, and he could just make out a large silhouette against the darker rock of the ceiling. The dragon was hanging upside down like a bat.

“St-stay where you are! Don’t come down here!”

“The rabbit comes into my home and starts giving me orders? Where did you learn your manners? Also, you have a very funny nose. I can see it from here.”

This last was, undoubtedly, a strange thing for a dragon to say, but Michael was scrambling to his feet and didn’t notice. He’d had time now to take several deep breaths and remind himself that the dragon had to obey his commands. And as his initial panic subsided, a phrase of G. G. Greenleaf’s came back to him: Dragons are immune to fire. In a flash, Michael realized how he was going to get the Chronicle—the dragon was going to get it for him.

Good old G. G., Michael thought, always there when you need him.

“You’re right,” he said, softening his tone. “I’m sorry. You just surprised me, was all. I should introduce myself … my name is Michael P— Wibberly.”

“Puh-Wibberly? What an odd name.”

“No, just Wibberly. No P.”

“Well, Michael Just-Wibberly. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I don’t get many visitors.”

“Really?” Michael said. “It’s their loss.”

He was gaining more confidence with each second and, indeed, felt that he was carrying himself remarkably well. Look at me, he thought, just standing here talking to a dragon. He decided that after he got the Chronicle, he would have the dragon pose for a picture with him. He glanced around for a rock on which he could prop the Polaroid.

“Thank you, Michael Just-Wibberly. I want you to know that I’m going to remember how polite you were after I’ve eaten you.”

Michael said, “… Excuse me?”

“I said, I’m going to remember how polite you were after I’ve eaten you. That is the plan, you know.”

Don’t panic, Michael told himself. It doesn’t know you’re the Keeper.

“I’m afraid”—he was trying to maintain his confident tone—“you can’t eat me.”

“Aren’t you the cutest rabbit? But you’re wrong. I can and I will and I must. I don’t really have much choice in the matter.”

Michael heard the sound of iron-hard nails scraping on rock, the metallic slithering of scales. The great lizard was uncoiling itself from the ceiling. Michael felt suddenly, incredibly small. The idea arced across his mind that perhaps Gabriel had followed him into the tunnel and would now leap out to protect him.

Don’t be silly, he thought. You’re alone. Gabriel wanted to come, and you told him not to. Your own fault for being such a top-notch debater. Just stay focused.

“Listen, dragon”—it was time to adopt a sterner tone, such as one might use with a willful puppy—“there’ll be no eating me, you hear? You can’t! So just put that out of your head! I’m the Keeper!”

“The what?”

“The Keeper! I’m the Keeper of the Chronicle! That’s why I’m here! You’re supposed to get it for me!”

“Really?” The dragon seemed genuinely surprised.

“Yes! I need it to help my sister!”

“That was your sister I snatched from the clearing? I thought I noticed a family resemblance, though she seems to have escaped the tragedy of your nose. Now, do you prefer to be eaten raw or should I roast you a little first?”

“But you have to do what I say! The man—the Guardian—he said so!”

Laughter rolled about the cavern.

“That man and his lies! Let me ask you something, Rabbit. Did he tell you what happened to the other members of the Order? Did he say why he’s alone here? With only me for company?”

Michael’s neck was starting to get sore from staring upward.

“That’s neither here nor there!” he said irritably. “Just hop down and get me the Chronicle; then we’ll take a quick picture—”

“Did he tell you how he became convinced the Chronicle was his, and then murdered two of his comrades in the dead of night?”

Michael didn’t move. Despite the cavern’s overpowering heat, he felt a chill settle upon him.

“That’s … not what happened.”

“Oh, it is, I assure you. Only one of his comrades managed to escape, and my master has long feared that he will return with allies to claim the book. That, of course, is where I come in. To help him defend his blood-drenched prize.”

“No, that’s—no! One of the other Guardians went crazy! And you’re here to protect the Chronicle from the elves! That’s why he hatched you. The Order, they brought an egg all the way from Rhakotis! He told us!”

Michael commanded himself to remain firm and not fall for the dragon’s tricks. Though it didn’t help that the creature’s laughter was filling the cavern.

“Protect the book from the elves? Why would the elves want some silly old book? And he didn’t hatch me from any egg, I’ll tell you that.” The dragon became strangely somber. “But you are right; the elves will not trouble him. Would you like to know why?”

“I’m not interested in more of your lies.”

The dragon murmured, “Those bad manners again,” but went on, as if Michael had asked to hear the story.

“You see, Rabbit, after killing and driving off his comrades, my master was not in his right mind. He saw enemies everywhere. And the elves were close by and strong. He convinced himself that they coveted his treasure. So one day, he surprised the elf princess in the forest—it is her kingdom at the far end of the valley. He tricked her, placed a curse upon her, and has kept her captive ever since. You will not see her, but she is here. The elves do not dare attack.”

“And they didn’t even … want the book?”

“No. So my foolish master is safe from an enemy that was not an enemy and his treasure is safe from a people who never wanted it. Is that not madness? And now he’s tricked you into coming here. Poor, doomed Rabbit.”

“You’re lying. That’s what dragons do. They lie.”

“Well, let’s do a little test, shall we? Give me an order, and let’s see if I have to obey it. This will be fun.”

Michael was beginning not to like this very much. He wanted to get the book and be done. He decided he would forgo the photo.

“I’m waiting, Rabbit. Give me an order.”

“Go … go get me the Chronicle.”

“Hmm, no.”

“I said”—Michael was trying, and failing, to keep the panic from his voice—“go—get—the—Chronicle!”

“I heard you the first time, Rabbit. No need to shout.”

“So go get it!”

“You go get it.”

“Stop it!”

“Stop what? Stop going to get the Chronicle? Or stop talking?”

“Stop talking!”

The dragon laughed. “You’re very cute when you’re angry.”

Michael was trembling all over. His fists were clenched tight, and his eyes burned with tears of frustration. It couldn’t be true; it just couldn’t.…

“But why would … why—”

“Why would he lie? Why send you down here? From what I gather—I can’t read his thoughts exactly, but I do feel what he’s feeling, we’re connected, you see—he’s nervous about a companion of yours, some big, strapping fellow, and wanted to put you both at your ease. So he had you meet Bert.”

“But … he’s Bert … isn’t he?”

Michael could see the shadowy form of the dragon moving across the ceiling. The creature was even larger than he remembered.

“Yes. And no. He’s also Xanbertis, murderer and oath breaker. And he wants me to kill you. So I’ll ask again—and please stop looking toward the tunnel, you’re not going anywhere—do you prefer to be eaten alive or roasted? I say roasted. Less to clean up after.”

Michael heard a growl that he was almost sure came from the creature’s belly.

“Li-listen,” he stammered, “don’t do anything rash.…”

As he spoke, Michael’s hand was rummaging in his bag, searching for anything that might convince the dragon not to eat him. His fingers fumbled with his pocketknife, compass, camera, The Dwarf Omnibus, the badge proclaiming him Royal Guardian of All Dwarfish Traditions and History—all useless, all worthless.

“If you’re being held here against your will, I have a friend who’s a very powerful wizard.…”

Running was pointless; the dragon would catch him in an instant. But there had to be something, anything—

“Wait! I’ll give you this!”

Michael’s hand had closed around the golden circlet he’d taken from the sculpture of the elf girl. It wasn’t much; indeed, it was very little with which to bargain for his life; but it was all he had—and G. G. Greenleaf had said that dragons suffered from gold lust and G. G. Greenleaf had never been wrong.

Even so, Michael was unprepared for what happened next.

The moment the crown cleared his bag, the dragon gave a roar so fierce, it was like a wind striking Michael’s body. He saw a blur of gold fly toward him, a flash of fangs and claws. Michael turned away in terror. Without thinking—and this was the action that no doubt saved his life—he held the golden circlet out over the pool of lava.

“I’ll drop it!”

The dragon landed a foot behind him, the impact shuddering through the rock. Michael could feel the creature’s breath, like the hot blast of a furnace, crinkling the hair at the back of his neck. Up close, the dragon smelled of burnt metal and sulfur and something else that Michael couldn’t place, almost like … perfume?

For a long moment, neither boy nor dragon moved or spoke.

“So drop it,” the dragon said finally. “I don’t care.”

“Yes, you do!” Everything about Michael—his hand, his legs, his voice—was shaking terribly. “The lava will melt it in a second! I’ll drop it, and you’ll never get it!”

“Do that,” the dragon said, “and I’ll kill you.”

“Aren’t you going to kill me anyway?”

“True. But since you have to die, at least give me the crown. Don’t be a poor loser.”

Michael’s arm was already growing tired. He looked down and saw one great talon only inches from his right foot. To Michael’s surprise, there was a gold band, almost like a bracelet, clasped tight around the dragon’s foreleg. Was that why it wanted the circlet so badly? So it would have a matching set? G. G. Greenleaf was right; dragons were certainly vain creatures.

“Come now, Rabbit. Give me the crown, and I promise to make the roasting very quick and even.”

“Wait! I want to see the Chronicle! I’ve come a long way. If I’m going to die, I want to see it at least once. You have to give me that!”

“And then you’ll give me the circlet?”

“Yes.”

“You swear?”

“Yes.”

“What will you swear on? What’s most important to you?”

“My sisters,” Michael said without hesitation. “I’ll swear on them.”

“Then, Rabbit, we have a deal.”

Michael heard the rasp of talons pushing off rock, and he turned to see the dragon launch itself into the air. For an instant, it hung above the pool, its golden scales reflecting the red glow from the lava, leathery wings outspread, armored tail whipping this way and that, and Michael gasped, for the creature was, despite all its fearsomeness, stunningly beautiful. Then the dragon dove and disappeared, seal-like, into the bubbling lake.

Michael dropped the circlet onto the rocky floor and ran.

He ran as he had never run before and never would again. Indeed, in that strip of tunnel between the dragon’s lair and the fortress, Michael Wibberly, who had never won a single race in school, who was always picked last for every team (and then only if the other team accepted some handicap, like having a turtle play first base), for that brief stretch, was the fastest boy in the world.

For all the good it did him.

Rounding the last corner, he stopped dead in his tracks, staring in horror. The gate over the mouth of the tunnel was closed.

Michael threw himself against the bars. “Gabriel! Gabriel!”

A pair of boots hurried down the steps into view.

“What’re you still doing alive?”

Michael felt all his strength desert him. The Guardian stood on the other side of the gate. In every way but one, the man looked exactly as he had when Michael had first seen him atop the tower—the same mismatched rags, the same wild hair and beard. The single difference was that Michael could discern not a trace of madness in his face; there was only a gleeful, greedy triumph.

The man brandished a wooden club.

“That friend of yours had a very thick skull. I had to give him three hard taps before he finally stayed down. Now, where is that dragon—”

Just then there was a shriek of fury from deep inside the mountain.

The Guardian smiled at Michael, and chuckled, “Uhhhhhhoh …”

“Let me out! Please! Let me out! She’ll kill me! You—”

The man’s hand shot through the gate, seizing Michael’s shirt.

“Boy, the Chronicle is mine! I’ve guarded it for nearly three thousand years. For its sake, I’ve taken the blood of those I loved most in the world! Neither you nor any other will ever have it! You understand? Never!” He leaned closer, staring into Michael’s terrified face. “I always wondered who my old comrade would send against me. I’ve imagined wizards, warrior elves, troops of armored dwarves marching here to steal my treasure! And after all this time, he sends a pair of children! You were his great champions!”

The man began cackling, and Michael found himself revising downward his opinion of the man’s sanity. He could hear the dragon’s footsteps thundering closer.

“You know something?” Michael said. “You’re an idiot.”

The man stopped laughing. “What—”

That was all he managed before Gabriel—who had been creeping silently up behind the man—cracked him across the head with the butt of his falchion.

And then Michael was shouting, his words a panicked jumble of “dragon” and “gate” and “hurry” and “hurry, please,” and Gabriel was staggering up the stairs, turning so that Michael saw the blood covering the side of his face and head, and there was a crackling in the tunnel, the sound of air catching fire, and the gate began to lift slowly, slowly, and Michael was crawling under it, yanking free the strap of his bag as it caught on one of the spikes, feeling the ground beneath him start to tremble; and then he was through, scrambling over the body of the Guardian, shouting, “Close it! Close it!” and sprinting up the stairs as an echoing roar told him the dragon had rounded the last corner.

To Michael’s surprise, the creature did not crash into the gate. It did not rend and tear the metal in a fury to reach him. Michael lay on the stone floor of the chamber, gasping for air, his heart racing, listening to the sound of the dragon breathing just inside the mouth of the tunnel.

And then, the dragon laughed.

“Rabbit, you really are making things very difficult! If you weren’t so cute, I’d almost be angry. I suppose you know this gate is enchanted. Otherwise, I’d have torn it apart long ago.”

“Of course,” Michael panted. He’d known no such thing.

“Unfortunately, even though my master is unconscious, his order to kill you still holds. And you don’t really think that after two hundred years I haven’t found another way out of the volcano, do you?”

Michael was up instantly. He could hear the dragon racing back down the tunnel.

“Gabriel, we—”

But Gabriel was unconscious on the floor, the wounds he’d received from the Guardian having taken their toll. After checking to make sure that his friend was breathing, Michael raced for the tower stairs. He had no plan. All he knew was that he had to get to Emma. As he climbed, he cursed himself for going into the volcano. He’d been stupid! Arrogant! It was Cambridge Falls all over! He’d thought he was smarter than everyone else, but he wasn’t, and now his sister would pay the price! The fact that he would die as well never entered Michael’s mind. He only knew that he had let down Emma, and let down Kate—again.

As Michael emerged from the stairs into the open air, he saw Emma, exactly as he’d left her, motionless and staring into space. There was a shriek from above, and Michael spun about and saw the dragon, red streams of lava dripping from its wings, erupt from the mouth of the volcano. The dragon turned, a creature of fire, burning against the blue-black sky, and, with an eerie, graceful slowness, dropped down the side of the mountain. Michael seized Emma in his arms and struggled with her stiff body to the stairs, managing only a few awkward steps before he tripped and the two of them rolled in a tangle to the landing below. Michael’s nose was bleeding, his whole body was bruised and banged, and he was kneeling over Emma, repeating, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” as the top of the tower was suddenly ripped away. Michael looked up and saw the dragon banking in the air to come back for another pass. He threw himself across his sister, but the dragon didn’t ram the tower; it hovered there, using its great tail as a mace to knock away the remaining stones. In moments, the stairway was open to the sky, and Michael felt the dragon settle upon the wall.

Something landed beside his feet.

“There, Rabbit. I promised you a look at the Chronicle, and I keep my promises.”

Michael leapt up, putting himself between the dragon and Emma, and drew the knife Gabriel had given him. Though it was crouched on all fours, the dragon still towered above him, all armored muscle and claw and fang. Michael was nothing next to it. Not even a rabbit. But he stood his ground, even as his legs shook beneath him.

The dragon regarded him through narrow eyes the color of blood.

“I really don’t want to eat you, Rabbit. In another life, I think we could have been friends. But I can’t disobey the will of my master.”

“I’m not—” Michael stammered, “I’m not afraid of you.”

“Yes, you are. But you’re trying not to be, and that’s what matters. Because of that, I’ll give you one free tickle with your needle before killing you. Come closer.”

Michael took one trembling step forward. He could feel the heat coming off the creature’s body. The dragon was right; he was scared. But also angry. It shouldn’t be ending this way: he and Emma separated from Kate. Emma not able to fight for herself. Him all alone.

“You don’t know anything!” he shouted, tears now streaming down his cheeks. “You don’t know anything about us! Me and my sisters, why we’re doing this! You’re just—you’re just a stupid worm!”

“That’s it, Rabbit. Let your anger flow. Your death will be so quick you won’t even know it. Strike.”

The dragon’s breath was steaming Michael’s glasses. But as he raised the knife above his head, he saw, once again, the golden bracelet around the dragon’s foreleg. It stopped him. If the bracelet was gold, shouldn’t it have melted in the lava? Unless, Michael thought, the bracelet was enchanted in some way. Just as the iron gate had been enchanted. Suddenly, the song the elves had sung in the clearing came back to him:

For deep below that nasty hide

There’s a princess hiding still.…

Please come back, oh please come back,

Change your gold band for this one.

The dragon had said that a curse had been put on the elf princess.…

And the Guardian had said the dragon was a girl.…

But was it possible? Was it actually possible?

“Strike, Rabbit! Now! Strike!”

There was no more time to think. Michael swung down with all his might. He felt the knife cut neatly through the golden band and into the dragon’s leg. The dragon shrieked in rage and reared up, claws raking the sky. Michael closed his eyes and waited for the talons to rip through him.

I was wrong. I’m dead. Emma’s dead. I’ve killed us both.

And he was aware of an enormous, crushing sadness, greater than any fear of death, because he knew that he had failed his sisters.

Then he heard a sound like a moan, and something struck the landing. Michael opened his eyes. The dragon was gone. In its place, a golden-haired elf girl, the living, breathing image of the sculpture in the clearing, lay amid the ruins of the tower. A severed bracelet was beside her. And beside that, a glowing red book.

Well, Michael thought, look at that.

And then he collapsed. “Separation. That’s their word for it. Surrender is more like it. Cowardly. Base. We are lions fleeing before rats. Nature revolts at the very idea. Cigar?”

Rourke produced a leather case from inside his fur coat and flipped open the top, displaying four cigars lined up like missiles. The carriage was rumbling along the cobblestone streets, and Rourke, sitting across from Kate, had stretched out his great legs so that his feet rested on the seat beside her. He seemed a man very much at his ease.

“No, thank you,” Kate managed.

“Well, sick to my stomach it makes me, and that’s no lie.”

Rourke bit off the end of his cigar and spat the nub out the window with such force that it knocked off the hat of a passerby. He chuckled and lit a match with his thumb. Soon, sweet cigar smoke filled the carriage.

“I’m not denying that something had to be done. How the nonmagical vermin have been multiplying, the abuse and oppression of our kind. But nature teaches the rule of the strong. Let me tell you a story. Do you know Ireland at all?”

Kate gave a small shake of her head.

“My home, it is. And a beautiful and tragic place. I grew up in an orphanage outside Dublin run by the Sisters of Sweet and Enduring Charity. Never knew my parents. Though I was told that my mother was half giant, which is not difficult to believe, given the eye-boggling size of me. As it was, I was regarded as a freak. A thing not wholly human. And treated accordingly.”

Kate said nothing. She was only half listening. She was searching through her pockets. It had to be there. She couldn’t have lost it.…

“By the tender age of nine, I was larger than any man in Dublin, and was sold by the good sisters to a fella who owned a quarry. He chained my leg to a spike and I spent twelve hours a day hammering big stones into smaller stones. But I wasn’t yet finished growing, was I? Got bigger and stronger every day. Finally, my own master came to fear me. Indeed, so great was his fear, he plotted to kill me. Luckily, I discovered his sanguinary intentions, broke free, and, with the very hammer he gave me, smashed that empty head of his to pieces. Ah, a great day that was, dark and bloody and beautiful.”

He smiled at the memory and exhaled a cloud of smoke.

“Sure, I was caught easy. Too stupid to run. And sentenced to hang as soon as rope could be found strong enough to hold me. But the night before the sentence was to be carried out, I’m sitting alone in me cell, and suddenly I’m not alone. He’s there with me.” The man leaned forward eagerly. “And what did he say? ‘Declan Rourke, you are not human. Their laws cannot condemn you. If I free you, will you serve me faithfully?’ And how did I respond? ‘Brother,’ says I, ‘if you get me out of here, I’ll clean the mud from your boots.’ And didn’t he take me away and make me the man I am? Opened my eyes. Gave me power. A great, great man. And now, lass”—the bald giant smiled, leaning back—“you’re about to meet him.”

The carriage passed through a pair of iron gates and into the courtyard of a large four-story mansion set in the middle of a block of mansions. An Imp stepped forward and opened the door. Rourke peered at Kate through the smoke.

“You all right, lass? You do look awful pale.”

“I … lost something,” Kate said. “It was in my pocket.”

“And what was it? I’ll send an Imp back to search for it. Must’ve fallen out when we collided.”

Kate imagined one of the Imps picking up her mother’s locket, touching it. She realized she’d rather never see it again.

“It’s not important.”

“In that case”—he gestured with his cigar—“my master awaits.”

“We’re not blaming you.”

“You should!” Abigail cried, pointing a finger at the two boys. “Ain’t they the ones that threw those snowballs? Hadn’t been for that, those kids never would’ve chased us and the Imps never would’ve gotten her! It’s their fault!”

Beetles and Jake were both uncharacteristically quiet. They stood, side by side, twisting their caps in their hands. They were gathered in the belfry atop the church, arrayed in a line before Henrietta Burke’s desk. Rafe stood to the side. The old magician Scruggs, wrapped as always in his shabby brown cloak, sat against one of the pillars. The sun was low in the sky, a dull smudge visible through the clouds. It would soon be dark.

“And it was definitely Rourke who took her?” Henrietta Burke asked.

“It was him,” Beetles said quietly. “There ain’t no mistaking him. They put her in a carriage and took her to their mansion uptown. We followed ’em. Ran the whole twenty blocks behind the carriage.”

“Yeah, you’re a coupla real heroes,” Abigail sneered.

“Enough,” Henrietta Burke said. “You children can go.”

Abigail, Jake, and Beetles headed toward the trapdoor. The boys paused at the top of the ladder and looked back at Rafe.

“We didn’t mean nothing to happen,” Jake said. “We liked her.”

“Yeah,” Beetles said. “We’re real, real sorry.”

Rafe nodded. He was clenching something in his right hand. As soon as the boys were gone, he turned to Henrietta Burke.

“I’m going to get her.”

The woman shook her head. “She was never our responsibility, and now that is doubly so.”

“Didn’t you hear? She got caught trying to protect them! We owe—”

“Our duty is to those here! All day there have been reports of human mobs attacking magical folk. The humans sense that something is happening. I need you here. The Separation is only hours away. The girl is on her own.”

“No.”

Henrietta Burke had already gone back to her papers, but now she looked up sharply. Even Scruggs, who had been chewing his fingernails, took notice.

“Excuse me?”

Rafe stepped close to the desk; his voice, his whole body, was trembling with emotion. “Scruggs’s spell keeps the church hidden. You don’t need me. You just don’t want me going there. Ever since the Imps showed up, you’ve tried to keep me clear of them. Why?”

“Because there is nothing to be gained by feuding—”

“That ain’t it. I know Rourke’s looking for me—”

“How do you know that?”

“It ain’t important. Tell me what he wants!”

Henrietta Burke stared at him. Her face gave away nothing. Finally, she said, “It is not Rourke who hunts you. He is merely the right hand. It is his master. A being whose power is beyond any of us.”

“Whoever he is, if he needs something from me, I can bargain. I can get him to give up the girl—”

“He will never give up the girl. And if you enter that mansion, you will not emerge from it.” Then her gray eyes appeared to soften. “I know you want to save her. But you cannot sacrifice yourself.”

“What aren’t you telling me?” The boy struck the desk. “What do they want from me?”

Henrietta Burke glanced at Scruggs, looked back at the boy, and shook her head.

Rafe stepped away. “Fine. But I’m going to get her.”

“Why? What is it between you and this girl? Why would you risk so much?”

For a moment, Rafe was silent. He was no longer trembling. He opened his hand and glanced at the golden locket Beetles had given him. The boys had picked it up from the sidewalk after Kate had been taken. He said, “You have your secrets. I have mine.”

He’d started to turn when Scruggs spoke.

“Wait.” The old magician shuffled to his feet. “There is a way to save her and still escape. You just have to enter without being seen.…”

Kate had expected to be taken to the Dire Magnus immediately. But after entering the mansion with Rourke, she found herself engulfed in a flurry of activity. Imps in their shirtsleeves were moving about furniture, carrying crates of champagne, iced platters of salmon and oysters, large bouquets of flowers; there were small, wizen-faced creatures—gnomes, Kate learned—polishing floors, cleaning windows, spitting on and wiping down anything brass.

“We’re having a bit of a do tonight,” Rourke said as he led Kate up a wide set of stairs. “You certainly picked the right time to drop in.”

Still gripping her arm, he led her through a pair of double doors and into a ballroom. Kate had only ever been in one ballroom, the one in the mansion in Cambridge Falls, and this one dwarfed the other. The floor was a shining expanse of blond wood. To the right, French doors gave onto a balcony that looked out over the street. To Kate’s left, a wall of mirrors reflected the snowy scene outdoors. Red-cushioned chairs were being placed along the walls by a crew of Imps, while in the center of the room, an enormous crystal chandelier, with twisting, briar-like arms, had been lowered till it hung a foot off the floor, and three gnomes were using long metal tongs to fix white candles into dozens of holders.

Rourke stopped Kate beside the chandelier.

“Mistress Gnome.”

One of the tiny creatures turned. She was three feet tall, with a face wrinkled like an old apple; she wore a gray dress that went to her toes, and she had a faded red kerchief covering her head.

“This young lady is here for an audience with our master. Clean her up a bit, won’t you? There’s a dear.”

The little creature set down her tongs, snapped at a female gnome who was polishing the floor, and seized two of Kate’s fingers in her small, rough hand.

“I’ll be seeing you very soon,” Rourke said.

The gnome led Kate out of the ballroom and down a dark-walled, portrait-lined hallway, with the second gnome trailing behind. Kate thought that this was her chance to get away—she was, after all, nearly twice the size of the gnomes—and when they reached a stairway and the gnome matron had started up, Kate tried to jerk away her hand, intending to bolt down the stairs to freedom.

“Ahhhh!”

Kate fell to her knees as the gnome bent her fingers to the point of breaking. The second gnome thudded into her back with both feet, so that Kate was slammed flat onto her face. The first gnome kept bending and twisting her fingers while the other jumped up and down on her back, cackling gleefully. The red-kerchiefed gnome peered into Kate’s face.

“Now, Missus Big-Shoes,” she said in a high, squeaking voice, “are we going to have any more kerfuffle from you?”

“No,” Kate cried as the other gnome dug her doll-like fingers into Kate’s hair and yanked.

“Ah, but big-shoes is all liars, ain’t they?” And the wrinkle-faced gnome gave Kate’s nose a painful wrench.

“No! I’m not lying! I promise!”

“Hmph,” said the tiny creature, releasing Kate’s fingers and nose and nodding to the other, who let go of Kate’s hair and leapt off her back. The lead gnome started up the stairs, and Kate, her fingers, scalp, nose, and back aching, followed obediently.

She was bathed in a tub of scalding water. Her skin was scrubbed raw. Her hair washed. Her chewed-up nails filed down evenly. One of the gnomes raked a hard-toothed comb through her hair, pulling at the tangles with such fury that Kate was sure that by the time they finished, her scalp would be bald and bleeding. They yanked her into undergarments, like a dress, and then into a long-sleeved, high-collared ivory dress that had intricate lacework across the breast. And finally, one of the gnomes buckled Kate’s feet into a pair of leather boots with dozens of hooks, while the other tugged her hair this way and that in a complex braid.

It was then the door opened, and Rourke entered.

“Ah now, I knew there was a young lady hiding under all that dirt.”

The red-kerchiefed gnome jerked Kate to her feet and dragged her before a mirror. Kate hardly recognized the girl staring back at her. In the old-fashioned, high-necked dress, she looked like a girl from a book or a movie. There were pink blushes on her cheeks. Her dark blond hair shone, and it had been pulled up and braided in a way that showed angles of her face that Kate had never known existed. She looked down at her nails and saw that they had been trimmed and filed so that the evidence of her constant worried chewing was nowhere to be seen.

“Yes,” said Rourke, “you’re ready to meet him.”

He led her up another set of stairs. Unlike the rest of the mansion, this floor was quiet and still. She and the man walked along a dimly lit hallway, the wooden floor moaning under Rourke’s weight, and Kate glanced out the window and saw that it was growing dark. Evening was falling, and it was snowing again.

And then, halfway down the hall, she heard the sound of a violin.

Kate stumbled, the heels of her boots folding beneath her.

“Steady there,” Rourke said, and lifted her by the elbow.

This was not Rafe’s song, the mournful, gray-toned winter song he’d played that morning. This was the song that Kate had heard on the Countess’s boat, the one that was somehow both manic and haunting. It was the song that would play as the world burned. The Dire Magnus was near.

An Imp stood at the end of the hall, and as Kate and the bald man approached, the creature opened a door. Unobstructed, the music poured forth, and Rourke placed a hand in the small of her back and she was propelled forward, as if she were dinner chucked into an animal’s cage, and she heard the door slam shut behind her.

Kate staggered to a stop. The violin was silent. She was standing on a narrow gravel path and seemed to be surrounded by jungle. All about her were oily, fat-leafed plants, tall, spiny-stalked palm trees, fan-fronded ferns, plants with orange and red and yellow and purple flowers clustered in tight profusion. The air was warm and humid. Kate glanced up and saw the glass dome of the greenhouse. The heat had steamed the panes, obscuring the world outside.

The gravel path wound away, and a voice spoke from deep in the jungle:

“Come here, child.”

Kate shuddered; she knew that voice. It was the voice of the being that had possessed the Countess; it was cold, and ancient, and savage.

“I am not accustomed to asking twice.”

Very slowly, Kate stepped forward, her new boots crunching the gravel. She held her breath, tensing for her first sight of the speaker. Then, as she came around the bend, the jungle opened, revealing a gravel cul-de-sac at the end of the greenhouse, and there, surrounded on all sides by a tropical forest, an old man sat in a wooden wheelchair, a blanket across his lap.

He was the oldest person Kate had ever seen, almost more skeleton than man. His flesh seemed to have been sucked away, and his body had begun to collapse upon itself, though his head and hands were both strangely, grotesquely large. His skin was loose and scabbed and had a rotten greenish tint. He looked like something that had crawled its way out of a grave. He raised his lumpy head, and Kate saw that the old man’s eyes were clouded with cataracts. He flicked two fingers, and a chair appeared across from him.

“Sit.”

When Kate didn’t move, there was a hiss, and she felt herself pulled forward and forced into the chair.

“Better.”

Oddly, his voice was still the voice she remembered from the Countess’s boat, full of energy and fire. But could this gnarled, shrunken creature really be the Dire Magnus? Kate had built the Dire Magnus up in her mind as a force of almost unimaginable power and malevolence, not this shattered wreck with milky eyes.

The old man grinned, displaying a mouthful of yellowed and broken teeth.

“You are wondering how this wasted thing before you could be the Dire Magnus? How could he lay claim to such power? Inspire such loyalty and terror? One might ask how a young girl, little more than a child, could contain within herself the ability to reshape time. One must not be misled by appearances. Power is power. While an outward appearance”—he flicked his fingers again—“is quickly changed.”

A mirror appeared in the air, and Kate saw, staring back at her, a silver-haired crone whose face was so wrinkled that her skin seemed to be melting from her bones. Gasping, Kate raised her hands and saw her knuckles were swollen, her nails thick and clawlike. Before she could cry out, the old man waved his hand again, and Kate looked in the mirror and saw her face returned to normal.

“Do not place your trust in appearances, child.”

Kate’s heart was pounding as the old man chuckled wetly. She tried to force herself to remain calm. Even if he really was the Dire Magnus, he couldn’t know anything about her. It was a century before they would meet on the boat in Cambridge Falls. She just had to stay quiet. She could get out of this.

The old man cocked his head, as if hearing some far-off tune.

“We’ve met before, haven’t we? Or not yet. In the future.”

Kate said nothing. Was the man reading her thoughts?

The old sorcerer went on speaking.

“The Keeper of the Atlas. Of course, I knew the moment you arrived in the city. I couldn’t say exactly where you were, but I felt your presence. And how auspicious that you should be here this night of all nights. Tell me, child, do you know why tonight is so important?”

“The … Separation,” Kate said, relieved to be talking of something where she could give nothing away. “The magic world is disappearing at midnight.”

“Yes. We are going into hiding. Ceding the world to the nonmagical for no reason but that they hate us for our power and outnumber us ten thousand to one.”

Kate didn’t know how to respond and so said nothing.

“They say, those who wish us to retreat, that the age when magic ruled the world is long past. That Separation, retreat, hiding like scared children, is our only hope for survival. In part, I agree.” The man’s wheelchair crawled closer. “It is pointless to live on equal terms with those not touched with magic. We are not equal and never will be. But magic can rule the world once more. All that is required is will and power. I have the will. And soon, very soon, I shall have the power.”

Kate had been thinking only of protecting herself, giving away as little as possible. Now, suddenly, she was beginning to understand.

“I foresaw this all long ago. I saw that magic would fade. That our kind would be swallowed by the rising sea of humanity. I tried to make others listen. But magician fought magician. Elf fought dwarf fought goblin fought dragon. None would face the true enemy. And the power we needed was there. It had even been gathered together into one place, as if waiting for me to take it.”

“The Books of Beginning,” Kate whispered.

“Exactly so. But the wizards of Rhakotis, for all their learning, were fools. They had written the Books merely to have the world know that they had written them, never to actually use them. Still,” the old man wagged his monstrous head, “the council was powerful. For centuries, they were too strong to attack. But my day finally arrived, and I helped the warlord Alexander to conquer the city.”

“You partnered with a lowly human,” Kate said, unable to resist the jab. “I thought you hated them.”

The Dire Magnus shrugged. “War makes for unlikely bedfellows, and I killed him soon after.”

“But you didn’t get the Books, did you?” Kate said.

The old man moved his white eyes toward her, and Kate felt an invisible weight settle upon her chest. The man’s face showed no emotion. The weight became greater. Kate was determined not to scream or ask for mercy, but the weight pressed harder and harder and finally, while she still had breath, she cried, “Stop! Please!” The weight lifted, and she gasped quietly.

“You are right, child,” he said, continuing as if nothing had happened. “The Books had vanished by the time I arrived at the vaults of Rhakotis. For twenty-five hundred years, I searched for them. And all the while, humans grew stronger, and the magical world grew weaker. Now, what is the great solution? We will hide. Only I have not given up. I will yet find the Books, and humanity will tremble. Your coming is only the first sign. Tell me, where are the other two books?”

“I don’t know.”

He laughed. “I don’t think you’re being entirely honest.”

He crooked one gnarled finger, and Kate felt the magic rise inside her. She tried to push it down, but the man was too powerful. The greenhouse vanished, and Kate was somewhere else entirely. And then—Kate barely stopped herself from crying out his name—she saw Michael. Fire swirled about him. He clutched a book with a red leather cover. She knew she wasn’t really there, that Michael couldn’t see her. Then, just as quickly, Kate was back in the greenhouse. She felt the magic settling inside her.

“You see, child, you do know. That was the Chronicle, the Book of Life. And holding it … your brother?”

Kate gripped the arms of her chair and said nothing.

“We will look into this later. We have other, even more pressing matters.” His wheelchair crept forward another inch, and the man brought his giant head close. “For the Separation is not the true reason why tonight is significant. Tonight is significant”—and again he showed his jagged yellow grin—“because I am going to die.”

“What?”

It was all Kate could manage to say. She was vaguely aware of a large red snake slithering through the jungle to her right. The old sorcerer chuckled.

“You’re surprised? Perhaps you thought the Dire Magnus was immortal? But death is the sea to which all water flows. Elves might live for thousands of years. Dwarves a few hundred. Wizards and witches are too close to humans. We might survive a century or two. After that, if we wish to continue living, we must resort to more … forceful measures. As you see me here, I am three hundred and forty-one years old, and tonight, finally, I will die.”

“But … I don’t understand. I met you … in the future.…”

“You met me, yes. And yet you met another. What happens when a king dies? A new king rises to take his place, taking on all the titles and powers of the old, wrapping himself in the dead man’s office. The Dire Magnus is one man, but also many men.

“I am the ninth Dire Magnus. I was chosen as a young boy. I had no knowledge of who I was, what my destiny would be. I was called. And when I awoke to myself, I took on not just the title of the Dire Magnus, but also the powers and memories of the eight who preceded me. Just as when I die tonight, I will also be reborn, as I pass on my power and memories to my successor. He will carry us all forward. He will be the greatest of us. The most powerful. He will also be the last. It will fall to him, the duty of turning the world back as it is meant to be. And he will not fail.”

Kate shook her head; the heat in the room was making her thickheaded.

“There’s … another? Another Dire Magnus?” Even as she asked the question, a terrible thought occurred to her, and she felt a stab of dread. “Who is he?”

“A boy. It is always a boy. He is ignorant of his power. Ignorant of his destiny. But there is power in him even now. Others will feel it.…”

Kate couldn’t breathe; the heat and moisture in the room were choking her. She wanted to rip away the collar of her dress. It wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be possible!

The old sorcerer went on speaking:

“It has taken years to track him to this city. And still some magic cloaks him from my view. Rourke has hunted the boy the length and breadth of the island, yet he continues to elude us. No doubt, whoever is hiding him thinks they are protecting him.” He waved his hand, brushing the matter aside. “It matters not. The boy will come to me tonight. He will be drawn here. He cannot escape his fate. He will come, and the chain will not be broken.”

Kate felt herself gripping the arms of her chair as if she might tumble forward.

“What … what’s his name?”

The ancient creature smiled, and Kate sensed that he had been waiting for this moment.

“You ask that, child, but you have already met him. His presence is all around you. I felt it the moment you entered.” The old man’s milky eyes cleared, and Kate stared in horror, for they burned the same shade of emerald green she had seen that morning as Rafe had brushed soot over her cheeks.

“He will come,” the old man hissed. “He will come, and the Dire Magnus will live again.”

Kate was aware of the Imp entering the greenhouse and lifting her out of the chair. She heard the old Dire Magnus say, “Take her to a room and watch her. She will be my guest at tonight’s ceremony.” She felt the cold air as she entered the hallway. At the head of the stairs, she heard Rourke’s brogue, “Here now, I’ll take the lass,” and she was passed from the Imp to the huge man, and then she heard shouting coming up the stairs, and she was pulled out of her daze, for the voice that was shouting below was Rourke’s, and yet Rourke was standing beside her, and the Imp seemed to notice the strangeness as well, and then, without warning, Rourke kicked the Imp hard in the chest so that he flew crashing out of the window. Then there were boots pounding up the stairs, and Kate saw a shimmer in the air in front of Rourke, and suddenly, standing beside her was not Rourke at all, but Rafe.

“So much for that,” the boy said. “You feel like running?” Michael woke, saw blue sky above him, and, for one perfect moment, had no idea where he was.

Then a face appeared, upside down, leaning in very close to his own.

“How do you see out of these? They make everything so fuzzy!”

Instantly, Michael was on his feet. He took in the blurred outlines of the forested valley, the snow-covered mountains, the volcano, the ruined tower.…

Okay, he thought as his heart galloped in his chest, okay, I know where I am.

Then his hand went to his throat and he felt the bump of the glass marble, still hanging from the rawhide strip about his neck. Reassured, Michael reached up to adjust his glasses and realized he wasn’t wearing glasses, that they were being worn by the figure in whose lap his head had been resting just moments before.

“You don’t really need these awful things, do you?” The elf girl had taken off his glasses and was holding them as one might hold a particularly slimy piece of seaweed. “You look so much better without them. Except for your nose. Were you in an accident?”

“What? No.”

“Or cursed by a wizard?”

“No—”

“So you were born with that nose? I suppose after we’re married I’ll just make a point of not looking at your face too often so that it doesn’t frighten me.”

Michael was still groggy from sleep and struggling to get his bearings—not to mention that what the elf girl had said was so utterly horrifying—and he had no idea how to respond. He simply said, “Can I please have—” then cut himself off. “Wait—where’s Emma? Where’s my sister? And where’s the Chronicle?”

“Your overly large friend carried her downstairs. And he took that annoying book with him. As if I ever want to see it again—oh la!”

“Gabriel? He’s okay?”

“Perfectly fine. Shall I throw these away then? We’re agreed?”

She dangled the glasses off the side of the tower.

“No! I need them! Please.”

“Oh, very well.” The elf girl skipped over and handed Michael his glasses. “To the rest of the world, you may be terrifying to behold, but to me you will always be the most handsome man alive. Provided, of course, I periodically look away from your face.” She curtsied. “Princess Wilamena, at your service.”

“You’re … a princess?”

“Well, of course! Why do you think I wanted my crown back so badly?” She touched the gold circlet now around her brow. “Don’t you think it becomes me?”

“What? Oh, uh, sure. Lots.”

With his glasses on, Michael could finally see the elf girl clearly. She was a perfect living duplicate of the ice sculpture. Her hair, he decided, was the color of morning sunlight. Her eyes were bluer than a cloudless summer sky. Her nose—

Bluer than a cloudless summer sky? Michael thought. What’s wrong with me? She’s got blond hair and blue eyes; that’s it.

But even then, Michael heard himself comparing her voice to birdsong, the whiteness of her skin to new snowfall—

Stop it, he told himself. You’re being duped by some elf magic, is all.

“Oh, wonderful.” The elf girl clapped her hands. “You’ve already fallen in love with me!”

“I have not—”

“Don’t be silly! You should see the ridiculous look upon your face! By the way, have you noticed the way my hair moves?”

“Listen,” Michael said with as much sternness as he could muster, “I need to know you’re not going to turn back into a dragon. You’re not, are you?”

At this, the elf princess grew somber and reached down to pick up the severed gold bracelet from where it lay amid the rubble. Michael saw that the bracelet had shrunk down to person size, but even so, it looked large and bulky in the elf maiden’s delicate hands. Wilamena ran her fingers over the cut made by Michael’s knife.

“It was almost two hundred years ago when I came upon Xanbertis in the forest. He offered me this bracelet as a symbol of the friendship between the Order and my people. I had no knowledge then of the atrocities he’d committed. So I accepted the gift, and became his slave. Two centuries of darkness and fire. A prisoner in my own horrible body. But no more. The dragon is dead and I am saved—all because of you!”

She gazed up at him with tearful, adoring eyes.

And Michael thought, Poor thing, she’s had a rough time of it.

Then he thought, Her hair really does move all by itself.…

The elf princess clapped her hands in delight.

“Oh, you are in love with me!”

“What—no, I just—”

“Yes, you are! My own rabbit!”

“Please, don’t call me Rabbit.”

“Bunny!”

And she leapt forward and kissed him on the cheek, causing Michael to stumble back.

“Don’t do that either! I’m serious.”

He could feel his cheeks burning and a tingling where she’d kissed him.

“True,” she said. “There’ll be plenty of time for kissing later. Oh yes indeed!”

Enough of this elf nonsense, Michael thought.

“I want to see my sister. Now.”

They found Emma in the Guardian’s quarters, a low-roofed building tucked along the back wall of the fortress. The furnishings were spare—a wooden chest, a cot, a stool, a table—but considering the Guardian’s own fairly filthy appearance, the room was surprisingly clean and tidy. Gabriel had laid Emma on the cot and covered her with several blankets, and when Michael and the elf princess entered, he was sitting beside her, holding her small, lifeless hand in both of his. Michael had the impression that Gabriel had been sitting like that, without moving, for hours.

Gabriel, whose head was wrapped in a bandage, rose and embraced him.

“I am very proud of you.”

“Oh, well … you know …” Michael was suddenly tongue-tied. “… It’s no big … well, you know …”

Then Michael tried to return Gabriel’s knife, but the man refused to take it.

“You have earned it. King Robbie would agree.”

Michael thanked him and slid the knife back into his belt.

The red leather book was on the table beside the cot. Michael had felt its pull the moment he’d entered the room, and his hands itched to hold it. But as he took Gabriel’s place on the stool, he gave all of his attention to Emma. Save for the fact that she was lying down and covered with blankets, she appeared exactly as she had the night before. Her eyes stared out at nothing. There was the same crease of anger on her brow. Her mouth was still slightly open. Michael picked up the clenched hand that rested on the outside of the blanket. It was as cold as a stone.

It’s okay, he said silently. I’m here now.

And only then, finally, did he turn to the book.

It was both smaller and fatter than the Atlas. In size and shape, it reminded him of The Dwarf Omnibus, a book Michael considered to have near-perfect proportions. As Michael had predicted, the Chronicle showed no signs of having been submerged in a pool of lava; indeed, it was in far better shape than the Omnibus, whose black leather binding was scarred and worn with age. Michael did find, however, that a design had been carved into the leather cover. He couldn’t say what it was for sure, but the network of ripples and whorls made him think of tongues of flame. For a moment, Michael wondered about the significance, then filed the question away and turned his attention to the most intriguing, and unusual, aspect of the book.

Two metal hooks, fixed along the edge of the back cover, were clutching what looked like an old-fashioned pen. It was four and a half inches long, smooth and slim, and it tapered to a point at one end. It appeared to be made of bone.

“What is this?”

“That’s the stylus.” Princess Wilamena was standing behind him; and even with his back to her, Michael was frustratingly aware of her presence, and of the fact that her hair smelled of springtime and honey and—

Focus, he told himself.

“What do I do with it?”

“You silly, that’s how you get the Chronicle to work! You write in the name of whomever you wish the Chronicle to fix upon, and voilà! The thing is done! Is that helpful?”

“Yes,” Michael said. “Actually, it is. Thank you.”

“Is it worth a kiss perhaps?”

Michael ignored that. He snapped the stylus out of the brackets. It was very light; it felt almost hollow.

“And now I just write Emma’s name in the book? Seems so easy.”

The elf girl laughed. “Do you even know what the Chronicle is, you rabbit you?”

“I told you—”

“Hush! You’re about to learn something. The Chronicle is a record—you could even say the record—of all living things. Any creature that walks or talks or breathes or sings or laughs or cries or runs or blows bubbles—I do like blowing bubbles!—is listed in its pages. And the list is constantly changing as the lives around us bud and wither. By writing someone’s name in the book, you add them to the scrolls of the quick.”

“But Emma’s already alive; she’s just frozen—”

“As I was about to explain, the Chronicle is, first and foremost, a record; but the stylus allows you to focus the power of the book—the power of life itself—upon a specific being, either to call them into existence, or—and think now of your dear, sweet sister—to heal them. But all you have to do is write the name down with your little rabbit hand.” And then Michael heard her whisper to Gabriel, “He doesn’t like me to call him Rabbit, but I do it anyway because he’s such an adorable rabbit. Don’t you agree?”

Gabriel gave a noncommittal grunt.

Michael opened the book. He was not surprised to find the pages blank, although, unlike the Atlas, whose pages were smooth and white, these were rough and marked with tiny splinters of wood. Michael flipped through to the middle and flattened the book on his knee. He paused. He had the sense that this was one of the shining moments of his life. To get here, he’d triumphed over great odds and great danger. He imagined Dr. Pym learning of what he’d done, or Kate, or King Robbie, or even, one day, his father. As Michael set the tip of the stylus to the page, a smile creased the edges of his habitually serious face and, with a confident stroke, he wrote his sister’s name.

Nothing happened.

“Um, Rabbit …”

“What?” Michael said irritably.

“You will need ink. The letters won’t just magically appear.”

“Well, you could have told me that. Does the Guardian have any—”

“Oh, you don’t use normal ink.” The elf princess came forward and took his thumb in one hand and the stylus in the other. Michael was about to ask what she was doing—even as he marveled at the rose-petal softness of her skin—when she jabbed the sharp point of the stylus into his thumb.

“Oww!”

“Don’t be a baby bunny. Here, you see?” And she dipped the stylus into the drop of blood welling on the pad of his thumb. “Not only does it function as ink, but the blood also forges the connection between you and the book. A bit gruesome, but very effective. Now wake up your poor sister, we’ll all go outside, and I’ll let you braid my hair!”

Michael said nothing about this last suggestion (though a small voice in his head thought it sounded wonderful), but took a deep breath, gave one final glance at his sister’s motionless face, and touched the stylus to the page.

He jerked upright. It was as if he had jammed a fork into an outlet; an electric current was coursing up the stylus, along his arm, and out through his entire body.

“What’s happening?” he heard Gabriel demand. “Is he in danger?”

“No, he’s linked to the Chronicle,” the elf princess whispered. “Watch.”

It seemed to Michael as if all of his nerve endings, from the tips of his fingers, to his earlobes, down to the bottoms of his feet, were humming. After the initial shock, the feeling was not painful, or even unpleasant, and as Michael began to relax, he realized that his senses had become almost supernaturally keen. He saw flecks of gold he’d never noticed in Emma’s eyes; he smelled the faint oatmealy odor of the soap they used at the orphanage in Baltimore; he even heard, though this seemed impossible, the soft, fluttery beating of her heart.…

He began to write, and the letters smoked and bubbled as he laid them down, as if he were somehow soldering his sister’s name into the pages of the book; and then Emma lurched upward, shouting, “You’d better not—” She stopped and looked about, saying, “Huh? How did—” and a loud and joyful chaos broke loose all around her. Gabriel swept her up in his arms, Wilamena clapped and kissed Emma, declaring that she was so happy that they were to be sisters, and Emma said, “Huh? Who are you? Where’s that dragon?” and in the midst of this, only Michael was silent, sitting there on the stool, his hands trembling as he closed the book, his face bled white with fear.

“So there I was in the clearing, and this big, stupid dragon—” Emma glanced at Wilamena. “Sorry.”

“Oh la!” The elf princess waved her hand. “It’s nothing. We’re family, after all. Or we soon will be.”

“Huh?”

“Skip it,” Michael said.

“Well, then we flew over the forest,” Emma went on, “which was actually kind of cool, and landed on the tower, and that hairy, smelly guy jabbed me with a needle, and next thing I knew, I was here.”

Here being the Guardian’s quarters, where they were all still gathered. Emma had just been told, partially by Michael, but mostly by Gabriel and Wilamena, everything that had transpired since she’d been frozen: how Michael and Gabriel had tracked her to the fortress, how Michael had gone into the volcano alone, how the Guardian had tried to murder them, how Michael had figured out that the dragon was really the elf princess, how he’d managed both to lift the curse and retrieve the Chronicle.…

“The rabbit was quite extraordinarily brave,” Wilamena had said.

“What rabbit? There’s a rabbit?”

“She means me,” Michael had said glumly.

“He was willing to lay down his life for you. Imagine a little rabbit like that standing up to a dragon with only a puny dwarfish knife.”

Michael had felt everyone staring at him, and he’d quickly asked Emma to tell her story. When she was done, Gabriel announced it was time to think about leaving.

“It is a long journey back to the plane, and we will be hard-pressed to arrive before nightfall. Still, we cannot walk on empty stomachs. How much food is kept in the fortress?”

“Oh, quite a bit,” the elf princess said. “I can show you.”

Sensing his chance to escape, Michael said that while she and Gabriel did that, he was going to try and wash the mud out of his hair, and he hurried out the door.

Michael went directly to the keep. Slivers of light stretched across the floor of the chamber. The Guardian sat lashed to a column, his hands tied behind him, his chin resting on his chest. Michael stopped a few feet away. He was trembling; he had kept himself together ever since Emma had woken up, knowing he could come here.

“I need you”—he tried to keep his voice from shaking—“I need you to tell me how to use the Chronicle. Princess Wilamena tried to tell me, but … she must’ve missed something or not known it. I need to know what I’m doing wrong. You know, I know you do!”

Slowly, the man lifted his head off his chest and looked at Michael. Amazingly, he seemed even more ragged and wretched than before. His eyes were bloodshot, his hair was matted with dried blood, and his tunic was ripped open at the shoulder.

But upon seeing Michael, he smiled. “So you used the Chronicle to bring back your sister. What happened, boy? I want to hear all the details.”

“Just … tell me how to use it. I have to know. Please.”

“You don’t want to say, fine. I will. For a moment, you were connected to your sister. Her heart became yours. Anything she’s ever felt, you felt. And I’m guessing that you didn’t like it, did you?”

His tone was gleeful, and what he described was exactly what Michael had experienced. He had felt the power of the book rising and rising, but he’d been entranced, enchanted, and by the time he’d finally realized what was happening, it’d been too late. Like a swimmer who finds himself in a strong current and can only watch the shore recede, Michael had been carried out to sea.

Or rather, he’d been carried toward Emma. Just as the Guardian had said, her entire life had opened before him. Not just her life, but her heart. He’d understood what it had been like growing up as the youngest sibling, with no memories at all of their parents, no memories of a life that didn’t involve moving from orphanage to orphanage, no family but him and Kate. He’d understood, at a level he never had before, that he and Kate were Emma’s entire world, that Emma, the bravest person he knew, was completely governed by fear, the fear that she would somehow, someway, lose her brother and sister and then be utterly alone. And Michael had felt how, when he’d betrayed her and Kate to the Countess, the slender foundations of her world had been destroyed. And he’d understood how much it had cost her to forgive him, to trust him again, but how that sense of certainty she’d once felt, knowing that her brother and sister would always be there, had never returned.

“Just tell me,” he said, wiping the tears from his face, “what I’m doing wrong.”

“What you’re doing wrong? The only thing you’re doing wrong, boy, is imagining that you’re the Keeper.” The man leaned forward, furious now, straining against his bonds. “The Chronicle forms a connection between you and whoever’s name appears in the book. That person’s life, however awful, however terrible, however painful, becomes your life. What they feel, you feel. That is the way it is.”

“But—that’s not fair!” Michael cried, knowing he sounded like a child, but not able to stop himself. “The Atlas just takes you through time. Why can’t—”

The man laughed. “It is the Book of Life! And life is pain! The true Keeper must be able to bear the pain of the world. Is your heart that strong, boy? I don’t think so. You can scarcely carry your own pain, much less anyone else’s. The moment I saw you, I said, This boy hides from life. He’s doing everything to run away from pain. But there’s no running away from the book.” The Guardian spat, and the look on his face was pure scorn. “You wanted the Chronicle—it’s yours. But you’re not the Keeper!”

Michael found a barrel of water along the side of the keep and dunked his head, again and again, scrubbing at the hardened bits of mud still stuck to his hair and scalp. When his hair was as clean as it was going to get, he dried his face on his shirt and leaned against the barrel, taking long, slow, deep breaths.

“Michael?”

Quickly slipping on his glasses, Michael turned about. It was Emma.

“I was looking all around for you.…”

“Sorry,” he said, “I—”

“Are you mad at me?”

“What?”

“I just thought you might be mad at me. You know, for not listening to you last night and getting caught—”

“Of course not. No. How could you think that?”

Water dripped from his hair onto the lenses of his glasses, but Michael saw Emma clearly, with her muddy hair and dirt-streaked face; she looked small and uncertain.

“Only, you didn’t seem all that glad to see me, and then you just kind of ran away … and … I can’t believe the things you did.” Her eyes were shining with tears. “You fought a dragon for me, and I didn’t say it before, ’cause it’s none of that elf girl’s business, but I’ll never, ever forget what you did, never, and if you’re mad—”

“Emma, I’m not mad at you. I just …” And he knew he had to say something, so he chose something that at least was true: “I was scared. I’m sorry.”

Emma let out a sob of relief and rushed at him, seizing him in a fierce clench. “I’m sorry too. I should’ve listened to you.” They stood like that for several seconds, and Michael, who’d just barely succeeded in stitching himself together, thought he might break apart all over again. Be strong, he told himself, you have to be strong.

Finally, Emma stepped away, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.

“Hey, wait for me, okay?”

Moving past him, she went up on tiptoe and leaned over to dunk her head in the now-cloudy water in the barrel. It was midmorning, and the sun was bright and warm. Michael could feel his own hair drying. Already he was telling himself that he would never use the Chronicle again. It was enough that they’d kept it from the Dire Magnus.

When Emma was finished, she shook her head, spraying water in all directions.

“Hey, Michael?”

“Yeah?”

“Can I see the book?”

Michael only hesitated a second, then went to his bag and pulled the Chronicle from where it was nestled beside The Dwarf Omnibus. He stood there quietly as Emma flipped through the pages.

“Where’s my name? I thought you wrote my name.”

“It disappeared.”

“And you really used your own blood as ink?”

“Yes.”

“Gross. And this is the pen thing?”

“The stylus.”

“Huh.”

Emma ran her hand over the rippled design on the cover and handed the book back. Without looking at it, Michael slid the Chronicle into his bag and slipped the bag over his shoulder, feeling its weight settle against his hip. He let out the breath he’d been holding.

“So is it yours? Like how the Atlas is Kate’s?”

“I guess so.”

“That must mean the next one’s mine. I hope I don’t have to write in it with my own blood. I mean, no offense, but bluuh.”

Michael thought about telling her that the next book was the Book of Death, then decided that that information could probably wait.

“Michael, honest, are you sure you’re okay?”

He looked at Emma, her damp hair sticking up all over her head, and thought, She’s alive; whatever the cost, it was worth it.

He said, “I’m fine.”

And he managed something like a real smile.

“Can I ask one more question?”

“Sure.”

Then Michael saw a familiar, mischievous sparkle in Emma’s eyes and he braced himself for what was coming:

“Is Princess What’s-Her-Name your girlfriend now?”

“No,” Michael said firmly. “Absolutely not.”

Emma grinned. “You sure about that? ’Cause—”

“Of course I’m not his girlfriend!”

They both turned and saw the elf princess standing beside the corner of the keep, hands on her hips, glaring imperiously at Emma.

“Oh la! We are much more serious than that!”

“Gotcha,” Emma said, smiling broadly at her brother.

“Now,” Wilamena went on, “I come with two messages. First, breakfast is ready. Second, there is black smoke in the valley. Apparently someone named Rourke has found you.” She clapped her hands. “So, I hope you’re both hungry.” There was no time to talk, no time for Kate to ask Rafe how he had found her, how he’d disguised himself as Rourke. No time, for that matter, to ask why he’d come for her. After the glamour that had cast him as the giant, bald Irishman faded, and shouts and the thudding of boots sounded up from below, Rafe grabbed her hand and they raced up the stairs, through a door, and out onto the cold of the roof.

The night air swept away the last of Kate’s grogginess, and it was then, looking out at the untouched snow, with Rafe’s hand still tight around hers, that she had a single moment of hesitation.

“What?” Rafe demanded. “What is it?”

What could she tell him? That she had just learned that the Dire Magnus, her enemy, was not one man, but many? That the new Dire Magnus was to be chosen that night, and he, the very boy now rescuing her, was next in line?

“We have to go!”

And she let herself be pulled away.

As they came to the short wall that bounded the edge of the Imps’ mansion, Kate saw that the roof of the next house was a full story lower. She started to balk, but Rafe placed his hand around her waist and leapt. They fell and fell, landing in a thick cushion of snow, and Rafe was up instantly, pulling Kate to her feet, and they were off and running once again. The snow was high and heavy, and it was awkward for Kate in her new boots and dress, but Rafe kept urging her on, vaulting the short walls that separated the houses, weaving between the chimneys and the snow-banked summer gardens; they were halfway down the block when Kate glanced back and saw the figures of four Imps charging after them.

“They’re—”

“I know!” Rafe said. “Keep running.”

Kate could see the end of the block ahead, and past that the wide gap of the avenue. The wet snow dragged at her legs and dress, and she could hear the stamping footsteps of the Imps closing in from behind.

“There!” Rafe shouted.

Kate looked to where he was pointing, ahead and to the left, and she saw the long, dark snake of the elevated train. The tracks ran along the avenue, just below the tops of the houses. The train would be even with them in seconds, and Kate realized then what Rafe meant to do. But it was impossible; there was no way—

“Hurry!” Rafe yelled.

The first snowcapped train cars were already rattling past.

“We can’t! It’s going too fast! We—”

“Just jump!”

Then they were at the end of the block; there was nowhere else to go; she could hear the rasping of an Imp at her shoulder, and, holding Rafe’s hand, she jumped.

It was further than she’d thought. At least seven feet between the edge of the building and the train. For a moment, they hung in the air; Kate could see the train moving below them, and she feared they would land in one of the gaps between the cars and fall down and be crushed. Instead, they hit dead center on the roof of a car; but the second they hit, her feet slipped on the snow, the boy’s hand was ripped from hers, she landed hard on her hip, her momentum carrying her forward, and before Kate knew what was happening, she was sliding over the side of the train. Scrambling, she caught herself on a railing, so that she hung off the train, forty feet in the air, as it tore down the avenue.

She heard another heavy thump further down the train and knew that at least one Imp had also made the jump. She told herself she had to do something, pull herself up, break through a window, anything except hang there, but just then the train jerked around a corner, one of Kate’s hands slipped, and she swung out wide, dangling now by just four fingers, and she saw the street below her, the carriages, the horses, the people, and then the train straightened and she swung back, slamming against the side of the car. She glanced up to see Rafe and the Imp struggling atop the train, and then the train twisted again, she was losing her grip, finger by finger, and one of the bodies, she couldn’t tell which, went flying past her, and the next thing she knew someone had grabbed her wrist and was pulling her up.

“Are you okay?” Rafe asked. “Are you hurt?”

Kate shook her head. She was still stunned, still trying to understand. They were alone on top of the train. Rafe was kneeling before her, his hands on her arms.

“Scruggs gave me a glamour to sneak into the house. That’s why I looked like Rourke. But I hadn’t quite planned out the whole getting-away part.”

Kate began shaking and couldn’t stop.

“Why … why did you come back for me?” Her hair had come loose and blew around her face, and she had to shout to be heard over the sound of the train. “Why would you do that?”

Snow swirled past them. Buildings raced by. The boy looked at her, the lights in passing windows sweeping across his face. He took off his jacket and slipped it around her shoulders.

“I’ll tell you,” he said. “First let’s get somewhere safe.”

Kate and the boy rode the train all the way downtown, getting off at a stop near the Bowery. Rafe didn’t want to go back to the church. Not right away, he said. Just in case the Imps were following them somehow. Kate didn’t argue, but by the time they got off, her hands were frozen into claws, and her forehead and ears ached from the cold.

They had not spoken during the trip. It had been too difficult to make themselves heard over the constant rattling and the metal-on-metal shriek of the brakes every time the train turned a corner or came into a station. And besides, Kate had had no idea what to say. For now that the immediate danger was past, she couldn’t stop thinking about what she’d learned from the Dire Magnus and what it meant about Rafe. Was Rafe her enemy? How much did he know? And what was she supposed to do? Scruggs had said that the Atlas had brought her here for a reason; so what was it? She felt confused and wished she could shut off her mind; but each time she looked at Rafe and met his eyes, she was reminded of how the Dire Magnus’s milky eyes had glowed green at that last moment, and her thoughts began spinning all over again.

As they came down the steps from the platform, Rafe said, “You’ll need a longer jacket. That’s dress ain’t exactly subtle.”

The clothing stalls were mostly closed or closing, it being New Year’s Eve, but Rafe managed to buy a long wool coat that stretched nearly to Kate’s knees, covering the white dress, as well as keeping her warm.

Being in the Bowery, Kate felt an odd sense of coming full circle. This was where she’d arrived two days before, and now she was back, and with Rafe. She had the sense that things were nearing their end, but she still didn’t know what she was supposed to be doing.

As they walked along, Kate noticed, as she hadn’t that first morning with Jake and Beetles, that nearly every other storefront was a saloon or a theater or a dance hall. Loud laughter and music spilled out onto the street, and there were signs in the windows saying CELEBRATE THE END OF THE CENTURY! And men and women staggered by with their arms around each other, singing.

Rafe stopped in the middle of the street and looked around.

“In a couple hours, none of them will remember that such a thing as magic was ever real. Doesn’t seem right somehow. After all they’ve done to us.”

Kate shivered and pulled her coat closer. The boy looked at her.

“You had anything to eat since lunch? You gotta be hungry.”

He started to turn, but she took his arm.

“The reason you came for me, it’s because you know me, right? The same way you recognized me that first day. How—”

“Don’t worry, I’m gonna tell you. I promise.”

There was a girl going between saloons with a tray filled with ears of hot sweet corn stuck onto tiny spears, and Rafe got one for each of them, which they ate as they walked through the maze of streets, making way for weaving bands of revelers. The corn was even better than the potato Kate had had with the boys that first day, and when she was finished, Rafe bought them a cup of steaming cider to share. They huddled near the cider man’s cart, sipping the strong, spicy drink and passing the cup back and forth.

“Did you meet him?”

Kate looked at Rafe, but the boy had his face over the steaming mug. She knew who he meant but asked anyway. “Who?”

“The man who runs the Imps.”

Kate’s own voice sounded hollow to her ears. “Yes. I met him.”

“What’s his name?”

“I—I don’t know. They call him … the Dire Magnus.”

“Did he say anything about me?”

It seemed to Kate that the noise from the saloons and theaters had died away, and all she could hear was the furious pounding of her heart.

“He never mentioned your name.”

That, at least, wasn’t a lie. But again, Kate felt like things were spinning out of her control, and beyond her understanding.

The boy nodded. “So you want to hear how I know you?”

“Yes.”

“Come on then. I have to show you something.”

They turned down the next street and passed through a dense warren of alleys, and Kate noticed more dwarves and a few gnomes, and men and women in cloaks, and she realized they had entered the magic quarter. Then, on a narrow, nearly lightless street, Rafe led her down an alley next to a three-story tenement, and, stopping under the fire escape, leapt and grabbed hold of the ladder, pulling it down, along with a great cascade of snow, most of which landed on his head. Kate laughed; she couldn’t help it.

“Yeah,” the boy said, smiling, “should’ve expected that.”

He shook himself like a dog, the snow flying off him, though for a time afterward his dark hair was streaked with white, like an old man’s. They climbed to the roof, and he led her to the side of the building that faced the street. He brushed the snow from the ledge so they could lean against the wall. The music and laughter from the saloons and dance halls sounded faint and far away. Rafe gestured.

“See that building across the way? The window three stories up on the left. Watch; the light should go on in a minute.”

Kate waited. It was cold on the roof, and she could feel the boy’s shoulder pressed against her own.

“There,” he said quietly. And Kate felt that he’d been holding his breath and only now let it out. She saw that the window was indeed illuminated, and an old woman was shuffling about a small apartment.

“That’s where my mother and I lived. She moved us in a week after we landed in New York. I was just a baby. My dad had died; that was why we came here. She made her living as a scryer.”

“What’s a scryer?” Kate asked. Her hands were balled deep in the pockets of her coat, and she had turned her head to look at him. Only the boy’s eyes reflected the lights from the street; his face was in shadow. He kept his gaze fixed upon the window.

“It’s someone who can see things that ain’t there. She’d take a bowl a’ water, pour in some oil, and then she could see whatever she wanted to, no matter how far away. And people would pay her to show ’em things. Sometimes, it’d be when they’d lost something valuable, like a ring or a watch or something. More often, it’d be people who’d just come to New York, wanting to see the ones they’d left behind, their mothers and fathers and brothers and sisters. Sometimes parents looking at children. Watching ’em grow up in my ma’s bowl. She did it for everyone. Magic and normal folk alike. They all loved her for it. Our apartment was only one room. I used to be there, behind the blanket that hid my bed, and I would watch ’em, men and women, crying, hugging her. She never asked for much money. Just enough for us to live.”

“Who lives there now?”

“No one. I pay the rent myself. The old woman lives below. She comes up every night and turns on the light.”

And you come up here and watch, Kate thought, and imagine your mother’s still alive.

Then he said again, quietly, “Everyone loved her.”

And Kate knew he was talking about himself.

They were both silent. Kate could sense that the boy was gearing up for what he had to tell her and that there was no need to press. He began speaking again with no warning.

“So one night this man comes to our apartment. He said he wanted to see his wife, and I remember he threw down all this money. He was drunk and calling his wife names. ‘Show ’er to me! She’s hiding! Show ’er to me!’

“I was there behind the blanket separating my bed from the apartment, and I watched my mother get out her bowl and pour the oil in it and light the candle. And she told the man she’d need something from the woman, like a lock of hair or something that had belonged to her. And the man laughed and he reached into his pocket and he threw down a silver ring. It was a wedding ring, I could tell. I saw my mother take it and she was real still, you know, real quiet. And she put the ring into the bowl and I could see her whispering and concentrating real hard, and the man was breathing loud and heavy. And he started asking, ‘What do you see? Where is she? Where’s she hiding?’ And my mother said nothing for a long time, then she looked up from the bowl and she said, ‘Did you do that to her?’ And the man, he started cursing her, saying she was magic scum, and it was none of her business and if she didn’t want the same done to her and worse she’d tell him where the woman was, and my ma just took the bowl a’ water and splashed it on the floor and told him to get the hell out.”

The boy paused, his gaze still fixed on the lit window across the street.

“He knocked her down to the floor. I ran out and was screaming at the man and hitting him, and I could hear my ma yelling at me to get back, and the man hit me and my head banged the wall and it all went black. When I woke up, the room was quiet, and I was on the floor and my ma was lying beside me on the floor and she was dead.”

Kate stared at the boy, hardly able to believe what he was saying, that this had happened, her heart breaking for him. Rafe went on; he hadn’t finished his story.

“They buried my ma in pauper’s field. I got back from the funeral and there were people who wanted to put me in a home. But I hid. See, I knew who the man was. He owned a butcher’s a few blocks over. No one had arrested him or nothing. They were all normal humans, him, the cops. So that night after the funeral, I snuck in his shop, and when he come in the next morning, I took one a’ his own knives and stabbed him through the heart. People seen me do it and come after me. That was when Miss B saved me.”

He fell silent, and the city seemed quiet around them.

“Thing is, my ma always told me I had a destiny. She said, ‘When you get older, you’ll have to choose.’ She always said that. ‘You’ll have to choose.’ Then she died, and years later, I had this dream. I saw this person. I didn’t know what it meant, so I went to this witch. She’s young, but real powerful. She can see things. She told me that the person in my dream would show me who I was, what my destiny was.”

He looked at Kate.

“It was you in my dream. That was how I recognized you.”

Their faces were only inches apart. Kate couldn’t move.

“But she told me,” the boy went on, “that after I find out the truth, you’ll die. That’s why you’ve gotta leave. Promise me. Promise me that tomorrow you’ll leave. You’ll go up north or wherever, but you’ll get away from me. Promise.”

And then he reached into his pocket and pulled out something and Kate saw that it was her mother’s locket, and not only that, it was strung on a golden chain, and it was her mother’s gold chain, and she realized he must’ve gotten it that afternoon, tracked down the man who’d sold her the coat, and she felt a tightness in her heart as he reached around her neck and fastened the clasp.

“There, now you got everything. You have to go.”

They climbed down the fire escape and began walking through the streets. Kate assumed they were heading to the church, but she didn’t ask. She found her hand in his, but if she had taken his hand or if he had taken hers, she couldn’t say.

Neither spoke. It had begun snowing once again.

Three blocks from his mother’s apartment, the party from a dance hall suddenly flowed out into the street, the revelers and musicians streaming around the boy and girl, and, as the band struck up, fifty people began dancing all around them.

Rafe turned toward her. Kate had never danced with a boy before and wasn’t sure what to do. But without a word, Rafe put one hand around her waist and took her free hand in his own and guided her, in a slow spinning circle, around the snowy street. She felt his fingers wind through hers, and soon she rested her head on his shoulder. She imagined she could feel his heart beating against her chest.

Kate wished she could reach inside herself and call up the magic to stop time.

I could live here, she thought, in this moment.

The song finally came to an end. The band began playing another, but Kate and Rafe stayed as they were, in the midst of the turning men and women. At some point, Kate tasted salt and realized she was crying.

Rafe stepped back. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

She stared at him. He had the eyes of her enemy, but he wasn’t her enemy. He couldn’t be!

“It’s about him, isn’t it? The Dire Magnus? Tell me. Please. Whatever it is you’re afraid of, it doesn’t have to happen. We can change it.”

Kate nodded. She had to tell him. He deserved to know. And maybe, just maybe—

“Rafe!”

A small shape was pushing through the crowd of dancers. It was Beetles; his face was flushed and terrified.

“You gotta come! You gotta come now! They’re burning the church!” The smoke rose in a thick column from somewhere past the curve of the valley. There were no sounds to be heard. Even the birds had fallen silent. Michael stood with his sister and Gabriel atop the half-demolished tower.

“How do we even know it’s him?” Emma asked. “Maybe someone just, you know, forgot to put out their campfire?”

Gabriel said nothing, but continued staring down the valley.

“Here I am!”

They all turned as Wilamena appeared at the top of the stairs. She was flushed from running up the tower, her cheeks like two pink peaches—

Stop it, Michael told himself.

The elf princess was carrying a large, shallow clay bowl and a small jar, and she had a waterskin slung over her shoulder. She knelt on the landing and set the clay bowl carefully before her.

“This is Xanbertis’s scrying bowl; it will allow us to see what is transpiring in the valley.”

She poured out an inch or so of water from the skin, then unstoppered the small jar and dribbled a crescent of oil across the surface.

“Gather close.”

Gabriel and the children knelt around the bowl. Michael felt Wilamena slip her hand into his, and he thought about protesting, then let the matter go.

Almost immediately, an image began to appear in the bowl. It was both clear and strangely fluid. Michael likened it to watching television at the bottom of a pool.

Emma let out a gasp. “Screechers! I never seen so many!”

They were looking at a scene taking place in the forest: a score of black-clad creatures, carrying swords and crossbows, were moving quickly through the gloom of the great trees. It was a fearsome sight—and all the worse, Michael reflected, as the Screechers were not alone.

“What is that thing?”

With his free hand, Michael pointed to one of the thick-bodied figures marching beside the morum cadi. The creature had leathery-looking skin and carried a barbed mace. Short yellow tusks jabbed upward from its jaw.

“An Imp,” Gabriel said. “A foot soldier of the Dire Magnus. I have had dealings with them before.”

“That means he killed a whole bunch of ’em,” Emma said.

Michael ignored this, saying, “When did they get here? They must’ve been climbing into the valley all night.”

Gabriel said, “Show us where the smoke is coming from.”

Wilamena dribbled in more oil; the image before them dissolved, and a new one rose to take its place. At first, they could only make out a large, pale blob. Then the picture snapped into focus, and Emma cried out and leapt to her feet.

“That’s him!” She pointed down at the bald man whose head now filled the bowl. “That’s the guy Dr. Pym stayed behind to fight!”

“So it is Rourke,” Gabriel said, and there was a note of finality in his voice, as if some chance or hope had been extinguished. “Can we see more?”

The elf princess moved her hand over the bowl, and it was like a camera pulling back; the image widened, revealing Rourke standing in the same clearing that Emma had been taken from the night before. And behind him, where the elves had placed the sculpture of Wilamena, they saw that an archway had been fashioned out of newly cut trees. It was perhaps fifteen feet high and ten feet wide, and flames coursed along the wooden struts, sending up a spiral of black smoke.

“Look,” Michael said, “do you see …”

Imps and Screechers, in twos and threes, were stepping out of the flaming archway and into the clearing. But the strange thing—what had drawn Michael’s and now drew the others’ attention—was that the creatures were not passing through from one side to the other; rather, they seemed simply to materialize beneath the crossbeam, as if appearing out of thin air.

“Rourke has created a portal,” Gabriel said. “He must have come through the mountains with a small band, then he made this gateway to transport the rest of his army.”

“Well, so he’s got an army,” Emma said. “So what? We’ll just …” She looked at Gabriel. “What’re we gonna do?”

Gabriel turned to Wilamena. “How many ways are there out of this valley?”

“Only one. The tunnel through the mountains.”

In other words, Michael thought, they were trapped, with Rourke’s army between them and the only avenue of escape.

Gabriel asked the princess what help they could expect from the elves, but Wilamena couldn’t say.

“At dawn, I lit a signal fire to tell them that my curse had been lifted. They will come; but to reach us, they will have to pass these creatures.”

Emma had knelt back down, and Michael felt her take his right hand. He closed his eyes and imagined it was Kate, and not Wilamena, holding his left hand, and that both his sisters were with him.

We’ll get through this, he thought. I’ll get us through this. I have to.

“If Rourke is here,” Gabriel said, and Michael opened his eyes to see the man staring out at the black column of smoke, “then Dr. Pym cannot be far behind. We have to hope that he or the elves arrive in time to aid us.”

“But there must be something we can do,” Michael said. “I mean … isn’t there?”

Gabriel looked at him. “Yes. You can eat your breakfast.”

Despite arguing that they had no appetites, a few minutes later, Michael and Emma were in the small building along the fortress wall that served as a kitchen, wolfing down bowls of stew. “Whatever happens today,” Gabriel had said, “you will need all your strength.” And once they had begun to eat, which they did standing beside the fire where Gabriel had made the stew, the children had found that they were famished. Not counting the sausage and dried fruit and bread from the day before, Michael and Emma had not had a proper meal since the outpost café on the coast of Antarctica, and already that felt like a lifetime ago. Moreover, the stew was delicious, as Gabriel had found the fortress storerooms chock-full of fresh vegetables, all grown to gigantic sizes in the magically fertile soil of the valley.

As Michael and Emma bolted down their stew—Gabriel had gone to look over the fortifications and see what, if anything, could be done—Michael thought about the Guardian. When he and Emma had passed through the keep, the man had not looked up; but Michael had heard the Guardian’s words echoing in his head, “You’re not the Keeper! You’re not the Keeper!”

Emma abruptly lowered her bowl, and what sounded like the war cry of a great prehistoric toad erupted from her throat, filling the entire room. The children looked at each other; Emma seemed nearly as taken aback as Michael.

“Sorry.”

“Uh-huh.”

“But wow, huh?”

Then they heard “Darling Rabbit and his sister! Come quickly!” and they dropped their bowls and ran.

Arriving in the main courtyard of the fortress, they found forty elves, lined up in neat rows, all kneeling before the princess. Gabriel stood beside Wilamena. The first thing Michael and Emma noticed about the elves—besides the fact that they were each and every one astonishingly good-looking—was that they were not dressed like the old-fashioned dandies the children had seen in the clearing the night before. These elves looked like elves out of a fairy tale. Soft leather boots. Medieval tunics. Vests of silver rings. Hooded capes of green and brown. They all had swords at their sides and held smooth wooden bows, while quivers bristling with arrows were slung across their backs.

One elf was out in front of the others. He had dark, shoulder-length hair, very pale skin, and the bluest eyes that Michael and Emma had ever seen. Indeed, his eyes were so blue that they made the children reevaluate their whole notion of blue, as if everything they had ever called blue before would now require some new name, like not-blue, or almost-blue, or nothing-remotely-approaching-blue.

“And my father is well?” asked Wilamena.

“Save missing you,” replied the blue-eyed elf.

“Tell me, Captain, what is the state of his hair?”

“Not as lustrous since your captivity, but I’m sure it will regain its natural fullness and bounce once you are home.”

“The poor dear. Let us hope so.”

The elf princess turned to Michael and Emma. Her smile, Michael had to admit, was radiant, and for once he did not try to smother his thoughts.

“I told you my people would come. This is Captain Anton, the head of my father’s guard. Captain, tell your troops to rise.”

The blue-eyed elf gave the command, and the rows of elves sprang to their feet.

Wilamena placed her hand on Michael’s shoulder. “This is the fearless knight who lifted the curse. I owe my life and freedom to him.”

The elf captain bowed to Michael. “You have returned the sun to our skies. Thanks to you, we no longer live in darkness, Sir—”

“Rabbit,” said the elf princess.

“Actually,” Michael said, “my name—”

“Three cheers for Sir Rabbit!” cried the captain.

“Oh, forget it,” Michael grumbled.

And he stood there as forty elves—with Emma gleefully chiming in—hurrahed the brave Sir Rabbit.

There then followed a brief interlude where members of the elfish troop would raise their hands and ask permission to speak, Wilamena would grant it, and the elf soldier would compliment some facet of the princess’s beauty.

“Your eyes are luminous! They shine like the Andromeda in the coldness of space! Compared to them, diamonds are as lumps of coal!”

“Your chin is a perfect round nub connoting both firmness of purpose and compassionate pliability. Also, I like your dimple!”

“I have composed an ode to the curve of your foot! ‘O Sublime Foot—’ ”

Finally, Gabriel broke in, asking what the elf captain had seen of Rourke and his army of monsters in the valley.

As much as it was possible, the elf’s face became grim.

“Very little. We came along the far side of the river, as there was a foul air seeping from the clearing. This man—Rourke—who is he? What does he want?”

“He wants these children,” Gabriel said. “And he wants the book that the Guardian was defending.”

Then Wilamena spoke, and in her voice Michael heard a new, distinctly regal tone:

“Just as the rabbit saved my life, now we have a chance to save his and his sister’s. We must be thankful for this opportunity.”

The elf captain bowed. “We are with you and Sir Rabbit to the death, Princess.”

Gabriel asked if they could expect reinforcements.

The captain shook his head. “We ourselves did not come expecting war, but merely to escort the princess home. And the rest of our colony will be busy preparing for Princess Wilamena’s party. If we lit a signal fire, I doubt any would see it.”

“Light one anyway,” Gabriel said. “A chance of help is better than none at all. In the meantime, we must do what we can.”

Michael and Emma were given the task of evaluating the fortress water supply. A search through the storerooms and of the various rain catches revealed four large barrels of water, though one of them, Michael admitted, had a good deal of mud floating in it.

When he and Emma returned to the courtyard to give their report, they found the siege preparations well under way. Elf soldiers were repairing damaged areas of the ramparts; other elves were using their knives to fashion arrows, bundles of which were being stationed at intervals along the walls; another team of elves was buttressing the main doors with thick wooden beams; even the forge had been lit, and an elf was hammering away at the anvil. Not surprisingly, all the elves were singing, though once Michael heard the words, he decided that he didn’t much care for the song:

Oh, such a day for fighting;

It may just be our last.

The demon hordes are on their way,

Tra-la-la-la-la-la.

We’ll fight for our princess,

And for her rabbit dear.…

“I wrote it myself!” Wilamena said, skipping toward them. “When I couldn’t think of anything, I just had them say tra-la-la. There’s an entire verse about your nose and how generous I am to overlook it.”

“Great,” Michael said.

“Why aren’t they dressed like the elves we saw last night?” Emma asked. “All old-fashioned-y?”

“Oh, you’re so funny! You can’t expect a body to dress the same way every day of the week! We’re not dwarves!”

“Listen—” Michael said, having just about reached his limit.

But at that moment, there was a deep rumble, and the earth shook beneath their feet. Michael and Emma grabbed at one another, and Gabriel, who’d been overseeing the work on the main doors, rushed to their side.

“Is that …,” Michael said, “… is that Rourke?”

“No,” Gabriel said, “that was something else.”

They all turned; a fat black cloud was billowing up from the cone of the volcano.

“That’s not good, is it?” Emma said.

“You think it’s because we took the Chronicle out of the lava?” Michael asked. “Like somehow it was keeping the volcano stable?”

“If so, there is nothing we can do,” Gabriel replied. “Come.”

He led them to a ladder, and the children and Wilamena climbed up behind him to where Captain Anton stood on the battlements, staring down at the distant tree line.

“They are massing just inside the forest,” said the captain.

Michael marveled at the elf’s eyesight. To him, the trees were little more than a large, dark smudge.

Gabriel said, “It will not be long now.”

The singing died away as the elves stopped work and took up their positions. Soon, all was quiet save for the steady clink-clink-clink from the forge. Michael glanced left and right at the elves stationed along the walls. They all stared calmly down the slope, bows in hand, full quivers upon their backs. He suddenly felt very small and mean for his years of relentless elf bashing. Yes, they could be silly, and yes, they spent a great deal of time thinking about their hair, but Michael knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that every elf within the fortress would die to defend him and his sister, and, before the day was over, many of them probably would.

“There,” Anton said.

Michael turned his gaze back down the slope and saw what was coming.

He tried to swallow, but his throat was filled with sawdust.

“There’s kind of a lot of them, huh?” Emma said.

“Yeah,” Michael croaked, “… kind of.”

Rourke’s army was pouring out of the forest in a great black tide. There seemed to be no end to it. The creatures just kept coming and coming. Michael tried to count them, but there were too many; and still more continued to stream from the trees. Soon, the entire plain, from the base of the volcano to the edge of the forest, was one dark, teeming, murderous mass.

He thought, We’re doomed.

And he said out loud, “We’ll … be okay.”

And as Michael was beginning to think there really would be no end, that Screechers and Imps would still be charging from the trees as the front lines swarmed over the fortress walls, the last of Rourke’s army finally emerged.

“Trolls,” the elf captain said, spitting out the word like it was poison.

Three massive, gray-skinned creatures had burst awkwardly onto the plain and were moving forward in a sort of lumbering jog, swinging clubs that were half the size of the trees themselves.

“Perfect,” Emma said. “ ’Cause it wasn’t, like, bad before.”

Then, as the first rank scrambled up the boulders at the base of the volcano, the shrieking began. There were hundreds of morum cadi among the host, and the cries rose in a dreadful chorus, the din echoing off the canyon walls and doubling back, joining new shrieks and growing even louder. The air trembled, and it seemed to Michael that his heart and lungs were being crushed out of him.…

Then he heard Emma whispering, “It’s not real … it can’t hurt me … it’s not real …,” and he murmured along with her; the pain eased, and he could breathe again.

There was a flash beside him; Gabriel had unsheathed his falchion and was holding it at the ready. The elf captain spoke a single word, and every elf along the walls had an arrow notched to his bowstring.

The black horde surged up the slope, close enough now that Michael could see the jagged swords of the Screechers, the sea of glowing yellow eyes.…

“Both of you,” Gabriel said, “go—”

But before he could order them away, the horde abruptly stopped, fifty yards from the fortress. They filled the entire slope, pulsing like some vast, terrible beast. The shrieking continued. Michael’s gaze traveled over the Screechers’ ragged uniforms and decaying green bodies, the small, hateful eyes of the Imps.…

Why didn’t they attack?

Why didn’t the elf captain order his troops to shoot?

Everyone, defenders and attackers alike, appeared to be waiting; but for what?

The answer came as a lone figure was spotted advancing across the plain. Even at a distance, Michael could see Rourke’s bald head gleaming in the sun. A path opened in the center of the host, and Rourke ascended the volcano in long, sure strides. As he came closer, Michael saw that the man was wearing a uniform of some kind; it looked like an old cavalry uniform: high leather boots, breeches flared out wide, a khaki shirt with braids upon the shoulder. In one hand, he held a short riding crop.

Reaching the front of the army, Rourke halted and held up the whip.

The shrieking stopped.

“A good day to those within!”

It was Gabriel who answered. “You are not welcome here! Leave now! We will give you this one chance!”

The bald man laughed. “Will you then? That is kind indeed!” He shaded his eyes with his hand. “Do I spy wee Michael and Emma hiding among all those pesky elves? My, my! What a chase you’ve led us on! Whyever did you leave Malpesa so quickly? I so had wanted to make your acquaintance!”

The man had an easy, lilting accent that Michael couldn’t quite place.

“And I could’ve introduced you to a friend of mine!”

Rourke turned, and Michael saw that another figure was making its way across the plain. This figure had none of Rourke’s brisk forward momentum, but came on slowly, steadily. It was a man, Michael perceived, of normal size, walking with his head down, as if unsure of his footing. Then, as he picked his way past the large boulders at the foot of the volcano, the man looked up, the sun reflected off his glasses, and Michael felt a hand reach into his chest and seize his heart.

He let out a gasp and had to steady himself against the fortress wall.

“Michael?” Emma asked. “What is it? Who is that?”

“That’s … that’s …”

But the word died in his throat.

By then, the man was beside Rourke. He wore faded jeans and an old button-down shirt. He had a short beard and reddish-brown hair that was badly in need of a trim. He was visibly thin; his clothes hung loosely on his frame. He looked very tired.

Michael felt Emma stiffen; she knew.

Still, he had to say it, at least once:

“That’s … Dad.”

Rourke placed his giant’s hand on their father’s shoulder. “I’m thinking you’ve guessed the identity of my friend here. I would only like to point out that he hasn’t been harmed in the least. Fit as a fiddle, aren’t you, Richard? Go on and tell the kiddies.”

The children’s father hesitated, as if he were reluctant to be a part of what was happening.

“Speak up, my lad.” And there was an edge of menace in Rourke’s voice. “Don’t keep us in suspense. I’m sure Michael and Emma have been worried sick.”

Their father finally raised his head. Michael watched his eyes scan the walls and then fix on him and Emma. Seeing them, he seemed to sag slightly.

“I haven’t been harmed! Neither of us have! Your mother and I are both well! I’m … so sorry about this!”

Their father’s voice was dry and ragged, but Michael could feel it, like an old key fitting in a long-forgotten lock, opening something deep inside him.

“Sorry?” Rourke exclaimed. “What on earth is there to be sorry about? You’re delivering welcome news! Now, kiddies, don’t imagine that we’ve minded having your ma and pa as guests. Become like family, they have. Of course, like family, you do sometimes want to bash their heads in!” He laughed and slapped the children’s father on the back. “Anyway, to business. Can’t keep everyone waiting. Don’t want your elf mates late for the hairdresser. Here is the deal I’m prepared to offer, and I think you’ll find it a very fair one: wee Michael and Emma will turn themselves and the Chronicle over to me, or I kill dear old Richard on the spot where he stands! Any questions? Grand. You have two minutes to decide!”

So that’s it, Michael thought. This is how it ends.

Over the years, Michael had imagined meeting their father—indeed, meeting both their parents—many, many times. And he’d always imagined it the same way. There would be all the necessary hugging and kissing and crying, which Michael and his dad would both generously put up with; then, after his sisters and their mother went off to do girl stuff (Michael wasn’t sure what that was, but thought it probably involved more hugging and kissing and crying), he would hand his dad The Dwarf Omnibus, saying that he had kept it safe for him, and his dad would say something like “But it’s yours!” and Michael would reply, “Don’t need it. Got it memorized,” and after his father had made suitable sounds of being impressed, the two of them would sit down and talk about dwarves all evening (the scene always took place in the evening). The one time Michael had shared this with Emma, she’d told him it was hands down the weirdest thing she’d ever heard and that dwarves were not nearly as great as he thought they were. But Emma hadn’t understood that it had nothing to do with dwarves. The point was that his father would’ve seen who Michael was and he would’ve liked him. He would’ve been happy to have spent an evening in his son’s company. That was it. That was all Michael wanted. And they could’ve talked about dwarves or earthquakes or dragonflies or nothing at all.

But that was never going to happen. Not now.

“Someone shoot that bald guy!” Emma was shouting at Gabriel and the elf captain. “He’s just standing there! What’re you waiting for?”

“They can’t,” Michael said. “The Screechers would kill Dad.”

“But—”

“Your brother is right. Your father would never make it to the fortress.” Gabriel knelt, bringing his face level with the children’s. “I will only say this: were it up to me, I would never have you pass into the enemy’s power. But this is your decision, and a terrible one to have to make. Whatever you choose, I will not stand in your way.”

Michael looked at his sister. “What do you think?”

Emma was biting her lower lip and glancing feverishly from Michael to Gabriel and back to Michael. “I don’t … I don’t know.… Whatever you think.”

So it was up to him. Just as, he reflected, it would’ve been Kate’s decision if she were here. Not surprisingly, Michael found himself remembering King Killick’s words: A great leader lives not in his heart, but in his head. Michael believed that; he knew his father believed that; he also knew that the Dire Magnus absolutely could not gain control of the Chronicle. If that happened, all was lost.

The logical course of action was clear.

There was only one problem; Michael couldn’t let his father die.

I’ll trade myself and the Chronicle, he thought. But not Emma.

“Time’s up!” Rourke shouted.

Michael felt Gabriel’s hand upon his shoulder and he raised his gaze to the man’s eyes. He apologized silently, and Gabriel nodded.

Then Gabriel said, “Do this for me. Ask to talk to your father. The more we can delay, the better. The wizard may yet come.”

“Yeah,” Emma said eagerly, “that’s a great idea! Go out there and talk and talk, long as you can! Be real boring! You can totally do that!”

Michael had made his decision and now he wanted it over. But he said he would do what they asked, knowing that if it didn’t work, he was ready. He looked down the slope. His father’s glasses were two bright disks in the sun.

“I … want to talk to him first!”

Rourke shrugged. “Very well. Only fair you get to inspect the goods.”

Emma hugged him. “Just talk to Dad. Don’t do anything else. Promise?”

Michael promised without looking her in the eye. Then he turned, feeling the soft brush of Wilamena’s hand touching his, and followed the elf captain down the ladder and over to the fortress’s main doors.

There Captain Anton stopped him, speaking in a low voice:

“You give the sign, and my archers will have twenty arrows in that bald giant before he can blink. If your father knows to run, perhaps you can both make it back alive. We will cover you the best we can.”

“What should the sign be?”

“You could scratch the back of your head?”

“Okay. But … what if I just need to scratch my head normally?”

The elf looked at him. “Resist.”

“Oh, okay.”

Then the captain gave a signal, the heavy bolts were pulled back, the extra beams removed, and the fortress doors swung open. The elf clapped Michael on the arm.

“Go well, Sir Rabbit.”

A moment later, Michael had passed through the gates and was outside the walls, and there was nothing between him and the horde of monsters. He had never felt so exposed. Michael focused on his father’s face and began walking, his right hand pressing his bag to his hip, feeling the bulge of the Chronicle alongside the familiar shape of The Dwarf Omnibus. In the whole valley, there was only the sound of Michael’s boots upon the rocks.

He stopped ten yards from Rourke and his father. The slope here was relatively flat, and Michael had to gaze up into his dad’s face. He looked much older than in the photo with Hugo Algernon, much older and much more tired. The beard too was new. Though Michael thought he looked less like someone who had a beard and more like someone without the time or means to shave. Up close, he was even thinner.

His dad smiled sadly. “I’m so sorry, Michael.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Are you okay? Are you hurt at all?”

Michael shook his head. “I’m fine.”

“And Emma?”

“She’s okay. She’s back there.”

“But Kate’s not with you?”

“No. It’s … a long story.”

Rourke chuckled. “True enough, lad. But you’ll be seeing your lovely sister before long. Oh yes indeed.”

Michael sensed that the man knew something about Kate and was taunting him. But Michael wouldn’t take the bait. He thought about what the elf captain had said and wondered if he and his dad could actually make it to the fortress.

“So you know,” Rourke said, as if reading his mind, “if those shifty elves try anything, I have a dozen morum cadi with crossbows who will kill your father before he takes a step.”

Well, Michael thought, so much for that.

“Where’s Mom?”

“They won’t let me say. But she’s fine. She sends her love. And she says that whatever you decide, we’ll understand. I am happy to see you. Even like this.”

Michael nodded and said, quietly, “Me too.”

They were both silent for a moment.

“I tried.” Michael could hear his voice breaking. “I did my best.”

“I know you did,” his father said. “It’s okay.”

“And Kate’s not here!” It was all spilling out as the walls that Michael had built up came tumbling down. “I had to be the leader! I had to make all the decisions! I tried to do what you would’ve done! Like King Killick says!” He paused, overcome, not wanting to cry in front of Rourke. Finally, when he had composed himself, he looked back up. There was confusion on his father’s face. “You know, what King Killick says about leadership …”

He stopped, thinking his father would continue. But instead he saw his father, for one flickering moment, glance at Rourke.

“I’m sorry, Michael. A lot’s happened in the past ten years; I don’t think I remember.”

“Yes, you do!” And it was suddenly vitally important that his father did remember. “Dr. Algernon said it was your favorite quote. King Killick said, ‘A great leader lives not in his heart, but in his head.’ Don’t you remember? You have to remember!”

“Oh, of course,” his father said, smiling. “I always did like that quotation. And it’s very true.”

And then, without even really understanding what he was doing, Michael said, “Killick was an old king … of the elves.”

His father’s smile never wavered. “Yes, I remember now. The elves have a great deal of wisdom. Thank you for reminding me of that.”

“Well,” Rourke cut in, “this has been a delightful reunion. But we’re not here to natter away the day. You and your sister come along and you have my solemn promise that neither you nor your parents will be harmed. Refuse, and I’ll put Richard and every elf in that fortress to the sword, and you will still leave with us. Understand?”

Michael’s mind was spinning. His father hadn’t remembered the quotation. Then he’d acted like he had! And he’d thought that Killick had been an elf! Had he just forgotten?

“Boy, you’re severely testing my patience.”

“Okay. But I … I have to explain it to my sister. I’ll bring her out.”

He needed to get away; he needed space and time to think about what had happened. He started to turn.

“Wait.”

Rourke had his knife to their father’s throat.

“You want to bring out wee Emma yourself, fine. Leave the Chronicle.”

Michael could feel the tension in the fortress, the hunger coursing through the Screechers and Imps. It seemed as if all their lives were poised on the edge of Rourke’s blade. He reached into his bag and felt for the hard leather cover he knew so well.

“Let my dad hold it, though. Just till Emma and I get back.”

Rourke smiled. “Of course.”

Michael stepped forward and handed his father the book.

“There’s … a curse on it. Keep it closed.”

He watched as his father ran his hand over the cover.

“I thought it was red.”

“The Order hid it in the lava, so the leather got burned. I’ll be right back.”

He started up the slope toward the fortress. He had to force himself to go slowly. His heart hammered; his nerves were raw and jangly. He stumbled on loose rocks. Halfway to the gate, he glanced over his shoulder. Rourke was watching him, and the moment their eyes met—perhaps the bald man saw something or perhaps he was already suspicious—Rourke snatched away the book that Michael had given his father. Michael didn’t wait for him to open it and look inside; he was already sprinting forward.

“Stop him!” Rourke shouted. “Stop the boy!”

The cries of Screechers tore the air. Michael was twenty yards from the gate when he tripped, sprawling full out upon the rocks. He was up in an instant, but the delay had cost him. He could hear the Screechers closing in. Then the elf captain was running out of the fortress, bow outstretched, his hand a blur as he fired a volley of arrows that whistled past Michael’s head and shoulders, finding their marks with an accordion-like thik-thik-thik-thik. The elf grabbed him by the arm, shouting, “Run!” and pulled him on. Then they were through the gate, Michael heard the huge doors slam shut, and he fell to his knees, panting.

“Michael?! What happened?! Are you all right?” It was Emma, clutching at his arm. “You gave him the book! And what about Dad?! He’s still out there!”

Michael forced himself to stand. “That’s not … that’s not Dad.…”

“What do you mean?”

“He forgot this quotation, the one he’s supposed to love, and … and he thought King Killick was an elf … and I gave him The Dwarf Omnibus and he thought it was the Chronicle. That’s not him!”

Michael could see that Emma didn’t understand, but there was no more time to explain. Out beyond the walls, Rourke was shouting his name. Quickly, with Emma and the elf captain following, Michael climbed up to the battlements.

Wilamena rushed toward him as he stepped off the ladder. “Oh, Rabbit—”

“Not now,” Michael said.

He ran to the wall. Gabriel was already there, staring down the slope. Below them, Rourke had a knife at the throat of the man Michael no longer believed to be his father. The Dwarf Omnibus lay upon the ground.

“Lad! I’m giving you one last chance.”

Michael turned toward Emma. “Listen, I know you don’t trust me—”

“What?! What’re you talking about?”

“I mean, not the way you used to! And I understand! But you have to trust me now! That’s not our dad!”

Emma stared at him, and, even without the power of the Chronicle, Michael saw the pain of his betrayal still so fresh inside her. It was awful to see it, awful to know that he was responsible. But he didn’t look away. He knew what it was he was asking.

“You’re sure?” she said. “Like, one hundred percent sure?”

Was he that sure? Was it even possible? Even with all the evidence—forgetting the quotation, mistaking Killick for an elf, not recognizing The Dwarf Omnibus—with all that, there was still room for doubt. There was no way to be one hundred percent sure.

But Michael knew, in his gut and in his heart, that that man was not their father.

“Yes. I’m sure.”

“Okay,” she said. “I trust you.”

Michael turned to the elf captain. “Shoot him.”

“The bald man? With pleasure.” He notched an arrow and drew it back.

“No,” Michael said. “The man pretending to be our dad.”

Emma, the captain, Gabriel, and Wilamena all stared at him.

“You are certain of this?” Gabriel asked.

“Yes.” He took Emma’s hand, felt how it trembled. “That’s not our dad.”

Emma’s eyes darted nervously from Michael to Gabriel. She was scared, but she was with him. She nodded.

“Boy—”

There was a soft twang, and then the shaft of an arrow was protruding from the chest of the man beside Rourke. The mountainside fell silent.

“Michael …” Emma gripped his arm.

“Wait.”

The man slumped to his knees and fell forward onto the black rocks.

Michael stayed absolutely still. He didn’t blink; he didn’t breathe.…

Then Rourke began to laugh, a deep, rolling laugh that echoed all through the canyon. With his boot, he flipped the man over. Their father had disappeared. In his place lay a short, sandy-haired man with an arrow in his chest.

“He was wearing a glamour!” Wilamena cried. “Rabbit, you’re a genius!”

She seized him and kissed his cheek.

“My dad would never mistake The Dwarf Omnibus,” Michael said, trying not to show his relief. “Or think that King Killick was an elf. Ridiculous.” Then he looked at Emma and squeezed her hand. “Thanks for trusting me.”

Emma said nothing, but hugged him tightly.

“Well, lad,” Rourke shouted, “I guess we’ll do this the old-fashioned way.” He turned to his horde. “Bring me the children! Kill the rest!”

And so the battle began. “What do you mean? Who’s burning the church? The Imps?”

Kate, Rafe, and Beetles were standing in the middle of the street as the revelers continued to spin and dance about them. Rafe had grabbed Beetles by his jacket.

“Ain’t the Imps!” Beetles cried, his eyes wild. “It’s humans! There’re mobs all over the city! Going after anything to do with magic!”

“But the church is hidden!” Kate said. “It’s supposed to be invisible!”

The boy shook his head. “Not no more.”

Rafe said, “What happened to Scruggs?”

“He was with you, right? Went to the Imp mansion?”

“But he didn’t come in! After he gave me the glamour, he stayed in the street.”

“Yeah, well, coming back to the church, he run into a mob going after these two witches. Scruggs stopped ’em, but someone threw a brick or a rock or something and clopped him smack on the head. He’s dead, Scruggs is.”

“Scruggs is dead?” Kate was stunned.

“Sure. Them two witches brought ’im back to the church, told us what happened. I was there when they brought ’im in. He said, ‘I’m thirsty.’ Then fell down dead as dead. Second later—bang—the church was there for everyone to see. People on the street started shouting and pointing. Wasn’t a half hour later the mob came. They had torches and guns—”

“And they knew,” Rafe said, “they knew there were kids inside?”

“Sure they knew,” Beetles said. “Miss B told ’em. They didn’t care. They just started burning the church!”

Rafe charged through the crowd, disappearing down the darkened street. Beetles took off after him, and it was all Kate could do to keep up. The long coat hampered her legs, and the boots the gnomes had given her kept slipping on the snow and ice. It was quickly apparent that Beetles was telling the truth: on street after street, they passed gangs of men—sometimes bands of three or four, sometimes a dozen—moving through the city with torches and burning anything that hinted of magic. Kate wondered how she and Rafe hadn’t seen or heard the mobs before, but then perhaps they had, only from a distance, the shouting and the torches were easily mistaken for celebration. It seemed to Kate as if a madness had taken hold of the city, as if people could sense the coming change and knew this was their last chance to vent their rage before the magic world disappeared.

“What time is it?” she shouted to Beetles as the two of them raced through the streets.

“Past eleven! Got less than an hour till the Separation!”

“Where’s everyone else? Where’s Jake and Abigail?”

“Dunno. The mob was all round the church, and Miss B told me to go find Rafe. She thought he mighta taken you down there. What were you two doing?”

Kate didn’t respond. By then, she could see the flames against the night sky and hear the shouting, and when they came around the last corner, Kate was stopped dead by the sight before her. The church was completely engulfed in flames, the snow melted for a dozen yards all around it. A crowd had gathered in the street; many people waved torches and appeared to be cheering on the fire. She didn’t see Rafe.

“Over here!”

Beetles was sprinting toward an alley across the street from the church. She followed him, and there, huddled between the buildings, were Abigail and twenty other small children. Their faces were streaked with soot, and their eyes were large and filled with fear. Abigail immediately threw herself into Kate’s arms.

“You’re okay?” Kate asked, hugging the girl tightly. “You’re all okay?”

Abigail nodded and wiped at her eyes, tears smearing the ash on her cheeks. “Miss B sent us out the side door. Whole place was on fire, but she went back in, said there were others she had to get out. She’s still in there!”

“What about Jake?” Beetles demanded. “You see Jake get out all right?”

The girl shook her head.

“He’ll be okay,” Kate told him. “He’ll get out.”

Even as they were talking, another group of children came running into the alley. They were covered in soot and terrified. They said they had been trapped inside the church, but that Rafe had broken through the door and led them outside. Kate could see Beetles looking around frantically; he seemed on the verge of tears.

“Where’s Jake? Somebody musta seen Jake? Who seen him get out?”

The children all shook their heads.

“I seen him in the church,” one girl said. “I thought he was coming with us. I don’t know where he is.”

Without another word, Beetles sprinted off toward the church.

Kate looked at Abigail. “Is there somewhere safe you can go?”

Abigail nodded. “The Bowery Theater. Down near the magic quarter. The manager’s a friend of Miss B’s.”

“Go there then,” Kate said. “You’re in charge. You can do this.”

Watching Abigail push out her jaw and square her shoulders, Kate was reminded again of Emma. The young girl turned to face the other children.

“Right! Everybody find someone else to hold hands with! We’re going downtown.”

The children moved about, finding buddies.

“What about you?” Abigail asked Kate.

“I’m going after Beetles.”

And she turned and ran toward the fire.

The church stood at the corner of First Avenue and a narrow cross street, and the mob was massed along the avenue. There were men and boys, and they held torches and knives and clubs. They were all shouting and laughing and cheering, and they threw rocks and bottles crashing through the church’s remaining windows, their faces red and demonic in the light from the blaze. Kate lingered for a moment at the back of the crowd.

How could they do this? she wondered. Where could so much hatred come from? These were children living here; they’d done nothing wrong!

Kate felt anger welling up inside her; she wanted to lash out at the mob, to hurt them; and it flickered through her mind that this must be how Rafe felt all the time.

Forcing herself to focus, she ran around the mob to the cross street behind the church. There was a wall separating the church from the houses on the block, and Kate ran alongside it. The heat from the fire was tremendous and stung her face. Beetles was throwing himself against a flaming door, again and again. Kate pulled him back.

“Stop! It’s too dangerous!”

“He’s still in there!” Beetles sobbed, struggling to get free. “Jake’s still in there! Lemme go! I gotta—”

The door exploded outward. Black smoke billowed forth, and figures stumbled out, a dozen children, seventeen, eighteen, bent over and hacking, their faces blackened with smoke. Kate led them away, checking each one to make sure that he or she was okay. Jake was not among the children, and Kate turned and saw Beetles shielding his eyes and edging toward the door. She caught the boy as he made to leap.

“Let go a’ me! I gotta—”

Just then another figure emerged from the smoke. Kate saw that it was Rafe and he was holding a child in his arms.

Beetles went limp against Kate.

“Is that …,” he said. “… Is he?”

For it was Jake whom Rafe was carrying, and the younger boy’s face was smoke-stained and his eyes were shut. Kate felt her heart clench like a fist. No, she thought, please no.

Then the boy coughed thickly and blinked, his eyes red and watery. He saw Kate and Beetles.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Beetles said, crying and smiling at the same time.

Kate reached out and touched the boy’s hair. “What were you doing in there? Thinking about opening a shop?”

Jake smiled and said, weakly, “Yeah, the Burning-Down-the-Church Shop.”

Rafe set the boy on his feet, and Beetles put his arm around his friend.

“That’s all the kids.” Rafe’s face was smoke-black and his voice raw. “Where’re the ones who’re already out?”

“Abigail led them downtown,” Kate said. “To the Bowery Theater. She said the manager’s a friend of Miss Burke’s.”

Rafe looked at Beetles. “You heard that? You can take these other kids down there?”

“Course!” Beetles said, all his old confidence restored. “Hey, listen up! All you Savages follow me!”

And with Jake’s arm over his shoulder, he led the children away.

Kate and Rafe were alone for only a moment when there was a crashing inside the church, then a loud metallic clang that was audible even over the roaring of the flames.

“One of the bells,” Rafe said. “It fell outta the tower.”

He started back into the church, but Kate caught his arm.

“What’re you doing? All the kids are out!”

“I’m gonna get Miss B.” He pulled free and disappeared into the smoke.

Kate didn’t hesitate, but plunged in after him. Indeed, even if she’d thought longer—about her responsibilities to Michael and Emma, to her parents, about the fact that despite everything Rafe might still become her enemy—she would’ve acted the same. Just like Dr. Pym and Gabriel and King Robbie McLaur, Rafe had put himself in danger to protect her and, through that, her family. Now he needed her help.

She kept her head down and one arm up and before her face. The heat scorched her skin, the smoke burned her eyes, but then she was through to the main hall of the church, where the ceilings were so high that the smoke collected far above. She pulled off her coat and dropped it to the floor. The air burned her throat and lungs, and she wondered how long till the whole church came crashing down.

She was grabbed by the arm and yanked about.

“What’re you doing?” Rafe demanded.

“I’m not leaving you in here alone!”

Rafe looked furious, but then part of the ceiling collapsed over the door that Kate had come through. Her exit was blocked.

“There’s no time to argue!” Kate shouted. “We need to find Miss Burke and get out!”

He seized her hand. “Don’t let go of my hand! No matter what!”

He took off through the church, dragging Kate behind him. At the base of the tower were the two enormous shattered bells. As Kate and Rafe clambered over the broken pieces, Kate’s boot slid and her hand slipped from Rafe’s. Instantly, smoke scorched her lungs, and the heat became unbearable. Kate began to cry out, but Rafe snatched up her hand, and she felt a cocoon of cooler air descend around them.

“I can protect you!” he shouted. “But you have to hold my hand! Come on!”

Kate nodded, and they started up the corkscrewing, rickety stairs.

The falling bell had ripped out huge sections of the staircase, and what remained was being consumed by fire. Still, Kate and Rafe charged upward, avoiding the planks that seemed most likely to collapse and leaping hand in hand over the spots where there were no stairs at all. Kate kept thinking that not only did they have to come back down these same stairs, which the flames were devouring with each passing second, but there were still two more bells hanging above them. How long till they came crashing down?

Then she and the boy were scrambling up through the trapdoor and out onto the open platform of the belfry.

Kate had been expecting to find Henrietta Burke either dead or trapped under a collapsed beam. It turned out to be neither. The woman was standing at the edge of the belfry, her upright figure silhouetted by flames, staring calmly down at the street below. The cold night air made breathing in the belfry bearable, and Rafe released Kate’s hand and ran across to the woman. Kate watched as Henrietta Burke turned to face Rafe, and she heard the boy’s voice, demanding, pleading. Then Henrietta Burke shook her head, and she said something that Kate couldn’t hear.

What was she doing? Kate wondered. They were wasting time.

Above her, the bells clanged against one another as the heat rising from the tower wafted them back and forth.

Rafe came back to Kate and he was wiping away tears and wouldn’t meet her eye.

“She wants to talk to you.”

“What?”

“She wants to talk to you. Go! This place is gonna fall apart any second!”

Unsure of what was happening, Kate crossed the belfry. It seemed to her that the entire tower had begun to wobble. Henrietta Burke had her shawl drawn around her shoulders and was staring down at the mob in the street. Kate could see the torches, like fireflies, moving about in the darkness.

“Rafe tells me all the children got out.”

“Yes.”

“And you sent them to the Bowery Theater? That’s good. My friend there knows what to do. I made arrangements long ago in case this sort of thing happened. There’s a place upstate. The children will be educated. Grow up in safety. And to think that we were so close to being safe forever. But regret is futile. Life is lived forward, even for time travelers such as yourself.”

“Miss Burke—”

“No, listen to me.” She turned then and looked at Kate. “People think me a hard woman, but the truth is much deeper. I gave up my own child long ago. I thought he would be safer among those who knew no magic, raised as one of them. I was wrong. His nature revealed itself; and when he needed me, I was not there. I have been paying that debt ever since. Rafe is the son I should have raised. But I can no longer protect him.”

Kate felt the awful weight of the woman’s words. Henrietta Burke stepped closer. “You remember our agreement? I help you to get home, and in return, I ask for payment at the time of my choosing. That time is now.”

“But we need to go! The fire—”

“Child,” the gray-haired woman said, “I am going nowhere.”

She opened her shawl, and Kate saw the dagger-like shard of glass protruding from the woman’s side. Blood was dripping off the glass and down her dress.

“Rafe wants me to escape. He still believes magic can fix everything. But all magic comes with a price, and the price to heal me would be too high. I am staying.”

Kate opened her mouth, but no words came out. The horror of the situation and the woman’s calm resolve had left her speechless. Henrietta Burke went on:

“I know who Rafe is. Scruggs thought I didn’t, but I have always known the role that awaits him. Still, he has a choice.”

The woman seized Kate’s shoulder; her gray eyes were fixed and intense.

“Love him.”

“Wh-what?”

“That is why you’re here. That is why you came. You’ve already changed him. You can’t see it, but I can. You are the only hope he has. You must love him.”

Kate stared at the woman. The tower swayed, the bells clanged, shouts carried up from the street, flames swept over the roof. She shook her head.

“You don’t understand … you don’t understand who—”

“I know exactly who he is. Who he is destined to become. But you can still save him. Love him, child. Love him as he already loves you.”

“Please … don’t ask me that.”

“But I must. It is the only hope we have.”

Then the woman leaned forward and whispered in Kate’s ear. “And here is my half of the bargain: you do not need a witch or a wizard or anyone else to help you access the power inside you. You never have. Stop fighting and let it out.”

Instantly, Kate knew the woman was right. The power was in her; she could feel it even then, feel herself fighting against it. She’d been fighting it for months, ever since she’d taken the Countess into the past and something in her had been changed forever.

The Atlas’s power was her power. She could not deny it any longer.

“Now go.” And the woman, still staring in Kate’s eyes, called out, “Take her!”

Kate felt her arm seized, and Rafe dragged her toward the trapdoor. Just as they prepared to descend, there was a crash, the floor shuddered, and Kate and Rafe looked back to see the corner of the belfry crumble. Like that, the woman was gone.

The journey back down the bell tower was even more perilous than Kate had imagined. More steps had collapsed, and Kate could feel the cushion of cool air that Rafe had created growing weaker and weaker. Still, Kate felt like she was in a dream, that nothing about her was real. Her mind couldn’t process that the stern woman was really gone, much less the things she had said.

Then, at the last flight of stairs, Kate heard the sound she had been dreading, and it pulled her back to the moment. She and Rafe both looked up and saw the dark, gaping mouth of the bell crashing down toward them, splintering through the wooden stairs. At the same moment, the stairway they were standing on collapsed. As they fell, Rafe hurled Kate toward the door. She landed on her side, slamming into the wall, landing so that she had a perfect view of Rafe, in the center of the tower, lying unmoving on the floor.

Then Kate screamed his name as the bell crashed down. Bands of Imps and Screechers were charging up the slope, carrying siege ladders they’d fashioned from trees chopped down in the forest. As soon as they came into range, the elves along the battlements began pouring arrow after arrow into the creatures. The archers were terrifyingly accurate, but the moment one Imp or Screecher would fall, another would leap to take its place, and the ladder would continue forward.

Already, the air was thick with a reeking, mustardy haze as the fallen Screechers dissolved into the rocky slope.

And still there were more and more.…

And the awful shrieking rebounded off the canyon walls.

“This is stupid!” Emma cried. “We should be down there helping!”

“We’d just be in the way,” Michael said.

“And we are helping,” said the elf princess. “We are inspiring those below to fight more valiantly. Though I do wish I had a scarf to wave.”

On Gabriel’s orders, the three of them were watching the battle from the top of the decapitated tower. Of course, Wilamena had told the children, their friend had no power to order her anywhere, but she was not about to be separated from her rabbit.

Michael had spent the first few minutes atop the tower trying to assess the defenders’ chances. The fortress itself, apart from being built on a volcano, was well positioned. The slope on either side fell away sharply and was composed of a fine scree that gave no footing at all. This meant the attackers had to launch a frontal assault, which in turn meant the elves had only one wall to defend. This slight advantage was all that was keeping the fortress from being overrun. But Michael knew it couldn’t last. Rourke’s army was simply too large. So the question was, could the defenders hold out till Dr. Pym arrived? Or reinforcements came from the elf colony?

“Look!” Emma shouted.

From the slope below, something rose into the air, growing larger and larger. Michael stared, unable, perhaps unwilling, to understand what he was seeing; then the boulder smashed into the wall, sending a shudder through the fortress. Michael scanned the slope till he spotted one of Rourke’s trolls bent over and wrapping its arms around another massive stone. Already, elves were showering arrows upon the creature; but the missiles barely scratched the monster’s hide, and, moments later, a second boulder blasted through the top of the wall, spewing rocks and debris into the courtyard.

The first siege ladders had now reached the ramparts.

Michael silently downgraded his assessment of their chances.

“We can’t just stand here!” Emma was nearly beside herself. “We have to do something!”

Michael started to say that he understood her frustration but there was nothing they could do when he saw that Wilamena had taken off her golden circlet and was waving it about and crying (for some reason), “Troo-loo-loo! Troo-loo-loo!”

“Actually,” Michael said, “I have an idea.”

Gabriel swung his falchion at a Screecher clawing its way over the wall, and the creature tumbled backward, shrieking as it fell.

The battle was an hour old and still being fought along the fortress’s front wall. The Screechers and Imps continued to hurl their ladders up, and the elves continued to push them back. Gabriel knew that as long as they could defend the wall, they had a chance. But if Rourke’s forces broke through, they would have to fall back to the keep, which, considering the dragon-sized hole in the roof, offered little safety. Gabriel glanced at the sun. Days here were short, and they had perhaps two hours till nightfall.

And the black smoke pouring from the volcano looked more and more ominous.

Just then there was a loud thud, and the fortress gates shuddered. Gabriel peered over the wall to see a pair of knobby-armed trolls standing before the gates, wielding a giant tree as a battering ram. The elves were firing down arrow after arrow; the creatures’ backs and shoulders were barbed like porcupines, but the trolls paid the arrows no mind and smashed the tree into the doors again and again—thud—thud—thud—as Rourke, standing safely out of bowshot, urged them on. A few more blows, Gabriel knew, and the doors would crack open.

He turned to the elf captain. “Get a rope.”

“Why?”

“To pull me in after.”

With that, Gabriel slashed at an Imp scrambling over the wall, took hold of the creature’s ladder, and with a great heave and leap, threw it and himself down and away from the wall. Riding the ladder, Gabriel vaulted himself farther than he ever could have leapt, so when the ladder tilted over, he was directly above the trolls, and he heard Rourke’s voice through the din: “There! On the ladder! Shoot him!” As he dropped down, Gabriel swung his falchion at the exposed neck of the nearest troll—who did not see him, focused as the creature was upon its task—and, with the added force of his fall, it was perhaps the hardest blow Gabriel had ever struck. Then Gabriel hit the ground, rolled, and was up and leaping out of the way as the now-headless troll came crashing down. There was a bellow of pain as the ram landed on the second troll’s foot, and Gabriel could hear Rourke shouting for the Screechers to shoot and not worry about hitting the bloody troll. Gabriel placed one foot on the tree, leapt into the air, and with a two-handed overhead chop, buried his falchion in the skull of the second troll.

And there it stuck, four inches deep.

Gripping the handle, Gabriel pressed his foot against the creature’s chest and tried to pull the blade free. It didn’t budge. Gabriel had just decided to leave the falchion and run for the fortress when the troll—who did not seem especially bothered by having a giant machete buried in its head—let out a roar of fury and grabbed him around the middle. “That’s it!” Rourke shouted. “Don’t let him go!” Gabriel felt his ribs being crushed together, the massive, stone-hard fingers digging into his chest and back. With his remaining strength, Gabriel smashed his heel into the creature’s nose again and again, till at the fifth blow, the monster abruptly released him. Gabriel fell to the ground, gasping, as the pain-maddened troll, black blood pouring down its face, stampeded through the ranks of the Screechers and Imps. Gabriel staggered to the wall, caught hold of the rope that had been thrown down, and was yanked up the side of the fortress. The elf captain helped him over the top, and Gabriel looked back to see Rourke step in front of the rampaging troll and, with one swipe of an outrageously long sword, lop off the creature’s head.

Rourke’s bullyish affectation of good cheer had been replaced by real anger, and he pointed his bloody sword directly at Gabriel. His intention was clear; the two of them would meet before long.

Gabriel showed no response and turned away to find a weapon.

“You won’t even tell us?!”

Michael shook his head. “I spoke too soon. I should’ve analyzed all the pieces before I said anything. It’s a ridiculous idea. Let’s just forget all about it, go upstairs, and watch the battle. Okay?”

Michael, Emma, and the elf princess were standing at the base of the tower, speaking in hushed tones, as the Guardian was only twenty yards away, still tied to a column. So far, the man had given no sign that he was even aware of their presence.

Emma looked at the princess. “He’s afraid of something.”

Wilamena agreed. “I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but you are right. Something has stolen his fierce rabbit heart.”

“I’m not afraid!” Michael protested. “Of anything!”

“Sure you are,” Emma said. “You’re so afraid you won’t even tell us the idea.”

“That’s not true.”

“Then tell us!”

“Fine. But it’s a stupid idea.” And he took a breath, resolving to race through the explanation as quickly as possible. “Seeing the princess’s crown reminded me of the dragon bracelet. This one, remember?” He held up the severed gold bracelet he’d retrieved from the debris atop the tower. “And it occurred to me that if we fixed the bracelet, we could turn her back into a dragon and she could help us win the battle.”

“You’re right,” Emma said. “That is a stupid idea. Wow.”

“How would such a thing even be possible?” Wilamena asked.

“It’s not,” Michael said. “So let’s just—”

“Hold!”

Michael already had one foot on the stairs, but Wilamena’s voice turned him around. Her manner had changed. Once again, she seemed suddenly regal and commanding, like a true princess.

“Even now, elf soldiers are fighting for you, perhaps dying for you! You have an obligation to tell me what you know. How would we accomplish this?”

“There’s an anvil and forge in the courtyard.” Michael spoke without meeting her eyes. “We melt down your crown and use the molten gold to seal the cut in the bracelet; then we recast the enchantment so that I’m the dragon’s master instead of the Guardian. That’s assuming there has to be a master,” he mumbled, “and you can’t just, you know, be your own master.”

“And how’re you gonna redo some spell?” Emma demanded. “You’re not a magician. You’d need Dr. Pym. Or—or—”

“Or my old master.”

Emma looked at the elf princess, then across the chamber at the Guardian, then back at Michael. “The guy who tried to kill us? Who murdered all his friends? That’s the guy you want to help us? Your plan’s even dumber than I thought.”

“Actually,” Wilamena’s blue eyes were shining in the gloom, “it’s brilliant.”

Michael stared at the ground and said nothing.

“Yes, I see it now,” the elf princess said. “There is a way to get Xanbertis to help, and the clever rabbit has figured it out. But for some reason, the idea scares him.”

“Wait,” Emma said. “So the plan’s not stupid?”

“Look at me, Rabbit.”

Michael raised his eyes. The princess’s manner had softened. She laid a cool hand on his arm.

“I do not know why this thing scares you and I do not ask. Only hear this: I do not want to become the dragon. It means returning to a prison, one I thought I would never escape. But as long as elves are dying, I will do my duty. Will you do likewise?”

The elf princess could not have picked a word more likely to turn Michael around. The idea of duty ran through every aspect of dwarfish life. To accuse a dwarf of neglecting his duty was to accuse him of not being a dwarf. But how much of Michael’s decision came from that, and how much from the princess’s cool hand on his arm and her blue eyes gazing into his, Michael could never have said.

He straightened his shoulders. “Go build up the fire in the forge. Start melting the crown. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

Wilamena squeezed his arm. “Thank you.”

“Okay,” Emma said. “But no one tell me anything. ’Cause that would be, like, a disaster.”

Wilamena led her away, whispering, “I will tell you, but you really are very impatient, you know that.…”

Left alone, Michael wasted no more time, but walked immediately to where the Guardian was tied. He knew he couldn’t allow himself to hesitate. And he’d promised now. Still, his hands were trembling, and he gripped the strap of his bag to stop their shaking.

“I need your help.”

The man did not look up, and gave no sign of having heard.

“There’s a battle going on. Our side’s going to lose. When that happens, Rourke’s army will kill the elves, kill you, and take the Chronicle. I need you to help me fix the bracelet that turned the princess into a dragon.”

Still, the man did not look up.

“Do you hear me? They’re going to steal the Chronicle! And kill you!”

Finally, the man raised his head. The red glow from the hole in the center of the floor gave his eyes an evil gleam. He glared at Michael with undisguised hatred.

“Good.”

And he dropped his head back down.

This was, more or less, the reaction Michael had expected.

So get on with it, he told himself. You know what you have to do.

Michael knelt, shutting out the shrieks of the Screechers and the sounds of the battle and focusing on the man before him.

“I think you weren’t always like this. It was all those years, all those centuries; it was too much. I need the man you used to be.”

The Guardian lifted his head, and, just for a moment, Michael thought he saw something flash across his face—a plea, perhaps? He remembered looking into the eyes of mad Bert the night before and seeing the same look of entreaty.

Then it was gone, replaced by a sneer. “That man is dead.”

“No,” Michael said, hating the quiver he heard in his voice, “I think he’s still inside you somewhere.” And he opened his bag and drew out the Chronicle. “Wilamena—the princess—said the book can heal people. Like it healed my sister. And I think you’re sick, is all. And maybe you don’t want to get better because then you’ll have to face the things you did. But the Chronicle can help. I … can help.”

The man lurched forward, hissing, “Don’t be a fool! Remember what happened with your sister! You took on all her pain, and it was too much! The pain of a child! Now you would do the same with me? I, who have been alive for almost three thousand years? I murdered my brothers! I betrayed my oath! Write my name in that book, and it will be you who murdered! You who betrayed! The pain will break you, boy. I promise. Your heart is not strong enough.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Tears were blurring Michael’s vision. “You think I’d be doing this if I had any other choice? I don’t even want to be here! I wish I was in Cambridge Falls. Or back at the Edgar Allan Poe Home in Baltimore, which is saying something, believe me.” He rubbed his knuckles across his eyes and took a long breath to settle himself. “But I am here. And Kate put me in charge.”

Then he snapped free the stylus and opened the book to the middle. His hand was shaking so badly that it took him three tries to prick his thumb and draw blood.

“I’m warning you, boy. Don’t do this.”

The tip of the stylus was smeared dark red. Michael gripped the shard of bone. Then he paused, unsure.…

“Do you spell Xanbertis with an X or a Z?”

“What?”

“I bet an X. Anyway, the book’ll figure it out.”

And Michael lowered the bloodied tip of the stylus to the page.

A shiver rippled through his body, and, as had happened with Emma, the Guardian snapped into razor-sharp focus. Michael could pick out the thousands of individual hairs of his beard, he could hear a beetle scratching at the inside of a pocket, smell the weeks of packed-on dirt and sweat (he had been able to smell that before, now it was just much worse). He began to write, the letters smoking and bubbling upon the page. He felt the power of the book rise up.…

Michael stopped writing. Half the Guardian’s name lay scorched upon the page. He could feel the man watching him, waiting. And perhaps it was the desire not to look weak, or the memory of his silent promise to Wilamena, or just plain stubbornness, but somehow Michael made himself scratch out the last letters, and the magic rose up and swept him away.…

Michael was a young man, arriving at a walled city beside the sea. The city was all low-roofed red-brown buildings, clustered about a single high tower. It was to the tower that the young man directed his steps, for he had been called to the Order; and his excitement and pride and fear were Michael’s excitement and pride and fear.…

And Michael felt the young man’s love for his new brothers; he felt the young man’s awe for the great trust given to him and the other Guardians; and, when Alexander’s army attacked the city, Michael felt the depths of the young Guardian’s rage and grief and shame as he and three others fled with the Chronicle, leaving behind their wounded and dead brothers.…

And Michael was with the man, no longer young, as he and his remaining brothers carried the Chronicle across the southern seas; he felt the man’s iron determination as they marched over the ice, and Michael was with them when they arrived at the snowbound valley of the elves, and he felt the man’s wonder as they used the Chronicle to wake the sleeping volcano and bring the valley to life.…

And then years, decades, centuries slipped by.…

And it was then that Michael felt the madness take root and grow, twining like a weed around the Guardian’s mind. It was not greed that possessed him—that now possessed Michael—it was fear. Fear that someone would steal the Chronicle. At first, the fear was directed at the world outside. But as the years fell away, the fear found enemies closer by. He—the man, Michael—saw in his brothers their desire for the Chronicle. He knew that he alone could keep it safe. He alone could protect it. It was his duty, his responsibility. And then Michael was standing behind one of his brothers, and there was a knife in his hand.…

Michael felt himself falling into an endless darkness, and he tried to pull back, to save himself, but there was nothing to cling to; he was drowning in the man’s grief and guilt, and it was too much; the man had been right, he wasn’t strong enough; and Michael’s last thought was of Kate and Emma and how he’d failed them.…

“Michael!”

He opened his eyes. Emma was leaning over him, holding a bucket. Michael’s head and chest were dripping wet. Emma tossed aside the bucket and seized him in a hug.

“You’re okay! Oh, I was so worried!”

For a few moments, Michael could do nothing but submit to Emma’s hug. He did, however, manage to get his bearings. First off, he was not dead. Secondly, he was no longer in the lava-lit chamber of the keep. Someone had moved him to the courtyard.

“I … I need to sit up.”

Emma helped to prop him up. Michael felt trembly and hollow, as if the smallest jolt might shake him to pieces. He started to think about what had happened—then stopped himself. He wasn’t ready to relive it. Not yet. Perhaps not ever. He was alive; that was enough.

He saw he was in a wood-roofed shelter along the fortress wall. To his left was the forge. He felt the heat radiating from the fire. And he could hear, beneath the din of battle, the steady clink-clink-clink of hammering.

“How did I get here?”

“How do you think?” Emma said. “He carried you.”

“Who?”

“Him!” She moved, and there was the Guardian, standing at the anvil. He wore a heavy leather apron and thick leather gloves. His unruly beard had been bound up with string. In one hand, he held a pair of tongs. In the other, a hammer. The tongs gripped the golden bracelet, now throbbing red with heat, and the man swung the hammer down, striking the bracelet again and again. He was chanting softly. For a moment, Michael was too stunned to do anything but stare. As he watched, the man lifted the smoking bracelet and plunged it, hissing, into a bucket of water.

Michael scrambled to his feet. “He brought me here?! Him?!”

“Yeah. When I saw him carrying you, I thought he must’ve gotten loose and killed you or something, but— Hey, what is it? What’s wrong?”

Spotting his bag on the ground, Michael had snatched it up and was dumping out the contents. His camera, his pens and pencils, his journal, his compass, his pocketknife, a half-eaten pack of gum, his badge from King Robbie—everything tumbled forth, including the Chronicle, with the stylus snapped neatly into place. Michael didn’t understand. He’d passed out in the keep; then, somehow, the Guardian had gotten free. Only rather than escaping with the Chronicle, the man had put the book into Michael’s bag and carried him here. Now it appeared he was repairing the bracelet. It didn’t make sense.

Unless …

Michael picked up the book, turning it over in his hands. Was it possible?

“So it really worked,” Emma said.

“Huh?”

“The Guardian guy, when he brought you out, he wasn’t crazy at all. He was totally nice. Your plan worked.”

“Yes,” said a voice, “he healed me.”

The man stood beside them. He’d removed his leather apron and gloves, but his cheeks and forehead glistened with sweat and were stained black from the fire. He looked more demonic than ever. Except for his eyes. Michael found himself staring into them and thinking of Dr. Pym’s eyes. They had none of the wizard’s merriness, but there was in them the same sense of great age, and wisdom, and kindness. Michael felt some of his panic ebbing away.

“You’re wondering how I got free,” the man said. “When you collapsed, you fell toward me. I was able to get the knife from your belt.”

“Okay, but … why …?”

“Why did I not escape with the Chronicle? As I said, you healed me. I am again the man that I was.” Then he knelt before Michael and raised his voice to ring out over the clamor of battle. “Bear witness all that I do pledge my breath, my strength, my very life, to your service. So I swear till death frees me of my bond.”

Emma whispered, “Whoa.”

“You brought me back to life,” the man said. “You are the Keeper.”

Fractured and empty as he felt, Michael could only shake his head. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe he was the Keeper; he didn’t want to believe.

The man held out the golden bracelet. “It is done. The spell is complete.”

Michael took it. The metal, so solid and warm in his hand, helped to steady him. He ran his thumb over the spot where his knife had cut through. The new gold had formed a faint, raised scar.

Okay, he told himself. Don’t think about the Chronicle. Don’t think about what happened. Think about this. Think about what you need to do now.

But he was like a wounded man trying not to think about the gaping hole in the center of his chest.

He managed to say, “Where’s the princess?”

“Here.”

Wilamena stepped into the enclosure. Her eyes were red, as if she’d been crying, and it occurred to Michael that the princess hadn’t been there when he’d woken. But he didn’t ask what she’d been doing. There was no time.

“The bracelet’s ready.”

The elf princess held out her arm. “And so am I.”

Gabriel was fighting atop the wall when a roar in the courtyard spun him around. Gabriel recognized the sound, knew the creature that had made it, and told himself it wasn’t possible. Then a golden blur shot past him, and he looked up to see the last rays of the sun glinting off the dragon’s hide. A great silence fell upon the fortress as attackers and defenders alike stopped fighting and gazed skyward.

Footsteps pounded up the ladder from the courtyard, and Michael and Emma, breathless and flushed, ran toward him.

“Gabriel!” Emma cried. “Did you see? We did that! You see?”

She pointed to the sky, but Gabriel was staring at the children.

“You did this?”

“Well, it was mostly Michael. But I helped with the fire.”

Michael, standing there, could feel the man’s eyes upon him and understood his concern. Gabriel didn’t know about the change in the Guardian, or that he, Michael, in being the one to place the bracelet on Wilamena’s arm, was now the dragon’s master.

“It’s okay. She’s on our side.”

Michael hoped he sounded confident. In truth, the elf princess’s transformation had rattled him. It turned out to be one thing to know that someone is going to turn into a dragon, and quite another to have it happen before your eyes.

Michael had been sliding the bracelet over Wilamena’s wrist, and reflecting—he hadn’t been able to help himself—on the perfect, honeyed softness of her skin, when his fingers had brushed a patch that was actually a little dry. Curious, he’d looked down and seen golden scales blossoming along her arm; he’d watched as her fingernails grew and thickened into claws, and he was just beginning to feel a tad uneasy, to think that perhaps they’d rushed into this, when a deep, serpenty voice hissed, “Get back, Rabbit,” and Michael had looked up to see Wilamena’s blue eyes turn the color of blood. The Guardian had yanked both him and Emma out into the courtyard, and a moment later, the wooden enclosure around the forge exploded, and the golden dragon, in all her terrible glory, stepped forth.

Wilamena was now hundreds of feet above the fortress, and Michael was staring skyward, wondering what he was supposed to do, how the bond between them worked, and just then the elf princess spoke to him. He didn’t hear her voice in his head; it was nothing so precise. It was more a feeling: she was there; he was not to worry; she had the situation well in hand.

For the first time since Emma had woken him with the bucket of water, Michael began to feel better.

“Just watch.”

The mass of the attacking army was clustered hundreds deep against the fortress wall, while a dozen siege ladders, studded with Imps and Screechers, stood wedged against the battlements. No one had moved since the dragon’s appearance. All were waiting to see what she would do. Then the dragon wheeled about and tore down out of the sky. Michael felt a hot wind as she flew past, heard the sound of ladders snapping, of Imps and Screechers being thrown to the ground.

“See?” Emma cried, grabbing at Gabriel’s arm. “You see?”

Rourke’s forces were in disarray, unsure whether to continue their assault upon the fortress or turn and face this new threat. The elves took advantage and poured arrow after arrow into their midst. The dragon, meanwhile, swung about and dove at the army, breathing out a rippling swath of flame. Disarray became chaos, and for a few minutes, those upon the walls watched as the dragon ravaged the attackers. At one point, she landed in the center of the force, breathing fire in a great circle all about her; then she chased down and crushed the burning creatures that tried to flee.

“Wow,” Emma said. “She seems … really angry, huh?”

Michael silently agreed, and glanced about to gauge the reaction of the elves. It was then he noticed how few of them manned the walls. Puzzled, Michael looked into the courtyard, and saw, beneath a wooden shelter, more than a dozen elves lined up on the ground, their cloaks drawn tight about them. A cold weight settled on Michael’s heart, and he understood where Wilamena had been when he’d woken beside the forge, and why she’d been crying, and that now she was taking her revenge.

Then Gabriel said: “Rourke is coming.”

Some while before, Rourke had retreated to the base of the volcano, where an Imp had set up a table and chair and proceeded to serve him lunch, which Rourke had eaten without any sense of hurry while watching the progress of the battle. Now he was charging up the slope, an enormous spear clutched in his hand. Wilamena was hovering ten feet in the air, torching a troop of morum cadi. She seemed to feel Michael’s panic and turned; but she was off balance, and Michael gasped as the point of the spear drove deep into the joint of her shoulder.

“Watch out!” Emma cried. “He’s got another!”

Again, the warning came too late; and all those upon the wall heard Rourke’s second spear puncture the dragon’s chest. Michael felt another searing jolt of pain, and his connection to the elf princess was severed. For a moment, it seemed that Wilamena would fall among the Imps and Screechers and be set upon. But then, struggling on one wing, she pulled herself higher into the air, and Michael watched as she careened down the slope, out over the plain, and crashed into the depths of the forest.

It seemed to Michael as if he too had been stabbed.

She’s dead, he thought. She’s dead, and it’s my fault.

Rourke, meanwhile, had bounded forward, snatching up the battering ram that had been dropped by the trolls and charging toward the gate.

“The keep!” Gabriel shouted, pushing Emma and Michael toward the ladder. “Make for the keep!”

Michael felt numb. He was hardly aware of climbing down. In the courtyard, the blue-eyed captain was forming his elves into a line. Gabriel swept up Emma and shouted for Michael to follow. There was a loud splintering and the doors of the fortress burst open. Michael saw Rourke, wielding Gabriel’s falchion, step through the wreckage as black-garbed Screechers and Imps swarmed past him into the courtyard.

He could hear Emma calling to him, but her voice sounded far away.

Wilamena was dead, and it was his fault.

Michael watched as the elves met the invaders. The blue-eyed elf captain clashed with Rourke in the center of the melee, their blades flashing and clanging; then something spun through the air, and Michael saw it was the captain’s sword; he was down, and Rourke, laughing, moved in to finish him off. Michael wasn’t aware of making a decision, but suddenly he was running forward, a rock clenched in his hand. For once in his life, his aim was perfect, and the rock thudded off the bald man’s head. Rourke stopped and turned, giving the elf captain a second to recover his dropped sword and spring to his feet. Michael felt a momentary surge of triumph.

Then Rourke pointed at Michael, shouting, “The boy! Get me the boy!”

Three Screechers broke from the fighting. Michael turned to run, tripped, and fell. He scrambled to his knees, then glanced back, expecting to see dark shapes closing in; but the Guardian had rushed between him and the Screechers. The man’s sword was a blur as he parried strikes from all sides, and Michael watched as he cut down first one Screecher, then another. As he fought, his back seemed to straighten, and his movements were swift and sure.

Michael knew that the man was buying him time to escape.

Get up, he thought. Run.

But then the ground trembled and he fell again. At first, Michael thought the volcano was finally erupting, but the quaking was strangely rhythmic, and he looked and there, charging toward him through the gates, came the last remaining troll.

He tried to stand, but his limbs refused to obey.

He could only watch as the troll thudded nearer, blacking out the sky.

The Guardian leapt into view, throwing himself at the monster. He seemed almost to embrace the troll; then the troll flung the man away, and the Guardian flew through the air and collided with a wooden post. Michael waited, but the troll made no move to seize him, and then he saw the hilt of the Guardian’s sword protruding from the creature’s neck. He rolled away as the monster pitched forward.

A second later, the Guardian pulled Michael to his feet.

Shielding Michael with his own body, the Guardian ran with him past the smoking corpses of the Screechers, past the battling elves, and up the steps to the keep. Once inside, the man released him, and Emma threw her arms around Michael’s neck and clung to him, even as she scolded him for staying behind. For a moment, Michael simply stood there, panting. The red glow from the tunnel was brighter than ever, and the sounds of the battle were muffled by thick stone walls.

He heard Gabriel barring the door.

“What’re you doing?” Michael pulled away from Emma. “The elves won’t be able to get in!”

“The elves will make their stand in the courtyard.”

“But—”

“It is their choice,” Gabriel said. “We will climb to the tower. Help may still come—”

“No!”

Michael, Emma, and Gabriel all turned to the Guardian. He had fallen to one knee. Long ribbons of blood stained his arms and legs. Michael hadn’t even realized he’d been wounded.

“There is a way out.” The man’s breath was strained, his face beaded with sweat. “You must go through the volcano. Past the cauldron, there is a path that will lead you out the other side. It is the only way.”

As he finished speaking, he slumped forward, and Michael ran to the man’s side. He was already pulling out the Chronicle.

“Hold on! I can heal you—”

“No … there is no time.”

“But—”

“No!” The man seized Michael’s arm; his voice had fallen to a whisper. “Beware. The book will change you. Remember who you are.”

Michael nodded, though he had no idea what the man meant.

“Please, let me help you.…”

“Just tell me, have I fulfilled my oath?”

Michael had to speak through the knot in his throat. “Yes.”

“Then I can meet my brothers with honor.” And Michael watched as an immense, invisible weight slipped from his shoulders. With the last of his strength, the man pushed Michael away. “Now go. Go.”

Michael followed Gabriel and Emma down the stairs, stopping only once to look back. The man lay without moving, his eyes staring at nothing.

The Guardian. The elves in the courtyard. Wilamena.

How many, Michael thought, will have to die for me?

Then he slid the book into his bag and turned toward the volcano. The tunnel split in two.

Emma said, “Which way do we go?”

She and Michael and Gabriel were deep inside the mountain, well past the cavern where Michael had first met the dragon Wilamena. With each step, the heat had grown worse, while the air had thickened to a poisonous, hazy red. Twice, the volcano had shuddered so violently that Michael and Emma had had to brace themselves against the walls, and Emma had remarked that the bald guy had better hurry up or the volcano was going to kill them before he got the chance.

Now they were at a crossroads.

“We cannot afford to be wrong,” Gabriel said. “Wait here.” And he plunged into the right-hand tunnel.

The moment he was gone, Michael sank to the ground.

Emma knelt beside him.

“It’s not your fault.”

Michael said nothing.

“You wanted to save him. He wouldn’t let you.”

“He … he was right not to let me.”

“What’re you talking about? What do you mean, he was right?”

“He betrayed his brothers. Betrayed his oath. Carried the guilt around for centuries. We gave him a chance to redeem himself. He even passed on the book. He was ready to die.” Michael looked at Emma. “I know it sounds strange.”

The fact was, however briefly, Michael had shared the Guardian’s life. He still had the memory of the man’s guilt. Even if he couldn’t make Emma understand, he knew what it had meant for the Guardian to set that burden down.

“Michael? What did he tell you back there? I couldn’t hear everything.”

Michael thought of the man whispering to him on the floor of the keep:

The book will change you.

But change me how? Michael wondered. Change me into what?

He shrugged. “Just to protect the book.”

They were both quiet for a moment, then Emma said:

“Hey, do you have to be next to someone to heal them?”

“I told you, he didn’t want me to. And it’s too late—”

“I don’t mean him. I was thinking”—Emma gripped his arm—“how do we know the princess is dead?”

Michael let out a cry and scrambled to pull the Chronicle from his bag, even as he cursed himself for not thinking of it before. He snapped free the stylus and was about to prick his finger when he paused. As much as he wanted to save the princess, the idea of taking on one more person’s pain terrified him.

He remembered the rest of the Guardian’s message:

The book will change you. Remember who you are.

“Michael? What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Every time … every time I write someone’s name in the Chronicle, I take on their whole life. I feel whatever they’ve felt. With the Guardian, when he murdered his brothers, I felt what it was like. I feel everything.”

“Did … did that happen with me?”

Michael looked at his sister. She was staring at him with wide eyes, a reddish halo about her head. He gave a jerky nod. And then the words began spilling out, a torrent that had been building inside him ever since he’d freed her from the Guardian’s spell. “I thought I knew what I’d done, betraying you and Kate to the Countess, but I didn’t! I had no idea! I understand that now. And I promise, whatever happens, I’ll make you trust me again. Like you used to. I promise.”

And before Emma could respond, before he could hesitate a second time, he pricked his finger and wrote Wilamena’s name in smoking, bloody letters, and the power rose up and swept him away.

Michael had thought the book would take him to where the dragon Wilamena had crashed in the forest, but he found himself in a world of ice and snow. He recognized the curve of the valley walls, the towering ring of mountains; but there were no trees, no birds; everything was cold and silent and white. He realized that he’d gone back to the beginning of Wilamena’s life. And it was beautiful, for the elf princess was able, and Michael was able, to see the difference in every snowflake, in every crystal of ice.…

Then the world changed; the elf princess was swaying on a thin branch atop one of the great trees, and Michael was with her; and just as every snowflake and shard of ice had been different, so every leaf and needle on every tree was different, and the birds all answered Wilamena’s call, and she raised her face to the sun, and Michael had never imagined his heart could be so full.…

Then darkness. Michael recognized the cave, the pool of lava, the tunnel leading to the keep; he felt how the dragon’s body was a cage for the princess, how she fought, day after day, to hold on to her memories of the snow and the trees and the sun, but it was like shielding a candle on a dark, windswept plain.…

Then, without warning, Michael was lying on the forest floor, surrounded by splintered branches and trees, and he felt Wilamena’s heart, his heart now, pumping out black blood onto a bed of crushed ferns.…

Live, he thought. Oh, please, please, live.…

“Michael!”

He was in the tunnel. The book open upon his knees, Wilamena’s scorched name fading into the page. He felt hollowed out and shaky. Emma and Gabriel were both staring down at him.

“I’m sorry,” Emma said. “Gabriel says that tunnel’s a dead end. We gotta go the other way.”

“But I don’t know if she— I have to try again—”

“There is no time,” Gabriel said. “We must go. Now.”

“But—”

“Michael, they’re coming!”

And then, finally, he heard the shrieks echoing down the tunnel.

Running, the screams of the Screechers at their heels, the air throbbing red; they rounded a corner, the tunnel opened up, and then, suddenly, they were in the great, smoking cauldron of the volcano. Below them, a hundred and fifty feet or more, was a roiling, churning lake of magma; above them hung the blue-black disk of sky. Michael felt as if they were perched on the side of some giant’s enormous stewpot.

“Look!” Emma cried.

And Michael, squinting through the smoke, made out the mouth of a tunnel on the far side of the cone. He also saw, as did Gabriel and Emma, that the ledge they stood on was part of a path that ringed the whole inside of the volcano and would take them all the way around. The Guardian, it seemed, had not led them astray.

“Come,” Gabriel said. “We must hurry.”

Emma took the lead. They went as fast as they dared; the ledge was narrow and uneven and one wrong step would send them plunging to their deaths. Breathing was painful, as the air scorched their lungs, and the fumes from the lava made them nauseous and light-headed. When the children tried to steady themselves against the wall of the cone, the rocks burned their palms. And all the while, the volcano quaked and rumbled, and huge bubbles exploded out of the magma, sending globs of lava shooting upward.

Michael tried to focus, but as with a dream that lingers after waking, he couldn’t shake off the feeling of being caged by the dragon’s body.

They were halfway around the cone when there was a shout behind them. Rourke had emerged from the tunnel and was striding toward them along the path, Gabriel’s falchion clenched in his right hand.

Gabriel drew his own sword. “Go. I will catch up.”

Without a word, Emma grabbed Michael’s hand and pulled him on.

Gabriel braced himself along the widest bit of ledge, and waited.

The children had gotten within forty paces of the tunnel when the volcano gave a violent jolt, and Michael, stumbling, twisted his ankle badly. Right away, he felt it start to throb, and he knew that any more running was beyond him.

“Michael—”

“I’m okay. I just—”

“No! Look!”

She was pointing past the mouth of the tunnel, to where a figure was coming toward them along the path. The figure was a skeleton, its bones blackened and smoking. It clutched a jagged-edged sword and moved with a jerky lope the children recognized.

“It’s one a’ them Screechers the dragon torched!” Emma exclaimed. “But its body’s all burned away. How’s the stupid thing still alive?”

Michael didn’t know and didn’t care. The creature had circled the path from the other direction and was about to cut off their access to the tunnel. If that happened, they’d be trapped. Michael stood, putting all his weight on one foot.

“Emma, I can’t run. You have to go on—”

“What?! No! I’m not leaving you here!”

Michael was about to say that he was the oldest and was ordering her to run when two more Screechers appeared on the path. They also had been burned, if not so completely as the first—which in some ways made them even more horrible, with the bits of charred flesh and muscle still clinging to their bones—and all three were closing in.

“You can climb, can’t you?” Emma demanded.

“What?”

“And I do trust you, you idiot! Who else ever fought a dragon for me, huh?!”

Michael shrugged. “… No one?”

“That’s right! And you’re my brother! I’ll always trust you! Tell that to your stupid book! Now look!”

Fifty feet above them was what appeared to be the opening of a small tunnel.

She pushed him toward the wall, shouting, “Climb!”

The rough, porous rock of the volcano made for ready handholds and footholds, and Michael found that he was able to climb with one leg, though not as fast as Emma, who quickly outpaced him. Indeed, the real pain was in his hands, which were soon raw and scorched. But the sounds of their pursuers coming up behind them, of bony fingers scraping against rock, helped him ignore the pain and climb even faster.

And Michael couldn’t stop thinking of what Emma had said and wondering if she really meant it. The thought filled him with new hope and strength and chased away the shadows clinging to his mind.

Suddenly, the volcano gave a shudder, and the rocks Michael was gripping came loose in his hands. He scrabbled madly at the wall as he plummeted downward; there was a hard crunch, and he caught hold of what felt like a twig or stick poking from the rock. Only it wasn’t a twig. To his horror, he saw he was clinging to the dismembered arm of a Screecher. Turning, Michael saw a one-armed skeleton disappearing into the lava. It seemed he had landed on top of the creature, the impact breaking its arm, even as its hand had remained clenched around the rock. Michael made a mental note to wash his own hands properly the first chance he got—Screecher bones probably carried all sorts of germs—and he looked up to tell Emma he was okay, only to see a second monster grab hold of her boot and try to yank her off the wall.

“Emma!”

He started toward her, but he hadn’t gone more than a few feet when the skeleton tumbled past, clutching Emma’s boot. Michael looked up. Emma smiled and waggled her foot.

“I undid the laces.”

Then her smile vanished. Following his sister’s gaze, Michael saw that the smoke over the lava pit had cleared, and Gabriel and Rourke were visible across the cone. The men stood toe to toe, their weapons a blur, the sound lost in the rumble of the volcano. Gabriel was not attacking, but merely parrying Rourke’s strokes, which rained down in a continuous onslaught, as if the bald man had not one weapon but many, all in constant motion. Then a new cloud of smoke hid them from view. Michael looked up, expecting to see Emma climbing down to help her friend.

But Emma hadn’t moved, and Michael realized that she wasn’t leaving him, that she wouldn’t leave him, that she had indeed meant every word she’d said.

“Quit daydreaming!” she shouted. “That thing’s right behind you!”

Michael scrambled upward. He could hear the Screecher clawing at the rocks below his feet, and he told himself that Gabriel would find a way to win; he always did.

Emma called down, “I’m here! There’s a tunnel! Hurry!”

The volcano seemed on the verge of breaking apart. Chunks of rock had begun blasting off the wall as jets of hot gas pockmarked the cone. Michael’s arms quivered with fatigue. As he approached the ledge where Emma waited, the cone tilted in, and Michael’s bag hung below him like a pendulum. Emma lay down on her stomach and reached toward him. Michael knew the Screecher was close.

“Don’t look down! Take my hand!”

Michael strained upward and caught his sister’s hand. Just as he did, the Screecher leapt and grabbed hold of his legs.

“Michael!”

He was pulled completely off the wall. Emma was flat on her stomach, holding his hand with both of hers as the Screecher clung to his knees. The creature was almost all bone and weighed very little, but Michael could feel Emma’s sweaty fingers slipping through his own.

“Michael! I can’t hold you! Michael—”

The skeleton was climbing up Michael’s body, the bones of its hands digging into his thighs. Michael fumbled for the knife in his belt.

“I need—”

“Michael—stop moving—I can’t—”

And then his hand slipped through Emma’s fingers.

Rourke seemed to have no weakness. He was stronger than Gabriel, faster, better rested; and he wielded Gabriel’s own weapon, rescued from the skull of the dead troll, more easily than Gabriel ever had himself. Indeed, the man’s only weakness, if it could be called a weakness, was that he liked to talk, and did so incessantly, even as he rained down blow after crushing blow.

“Don’t get me wrong, boyo, you’ve got pluck, and I like pluck—almost had you there—but you’re still just a man, while I—oh, now that one gave you a haircut—I am so—much—more!”

Rourke’s blade clanged off Gabriel’s sword, and Gabriel lunged forward, pressing him into a clench. It was an act of self-preservation. Gabriel had had no rest since the start of the battle, many hours before, and his movements were growing sluggish, his sword arm heavy and slow. He could not ward off many more blows.

Rourke laughed. “Why, lad, you’re dead exhausted! Shall we take a break? Have a spot of lemonade? Get someone to massage your toes?”

Gabriel said nothing and tried to drive the man back. But Rourke wouldn’t budge. Nor did he resume his attack. He just stood there, smiling grandly, the hilt of his blade locked with Gabriel’s. Gabriel realized that the man was taunting him.

“Tell me,” Rourke said, “how does it feel to know that the Dire Magnus will soon return to this mortal plane? That his footsteps will once again grace our sweet, gentle earth? Does it not fill you with awe? With wonder? With gratitude?”

Gabriel continued to strain against the man. The longer Rourke talked, the more time it gave the children.

“I think he is a fool. Pym beat him once. He will do so again.”

“Oh, will he? And who will help him? His magician allies are dead. I killed them myself. And Pym alone is no match for my master.”

“We have the children.”

“Yes, of course,” Rourke said, “the children.”

The bald man shoved him away; Gabriel saw a flash of steel and raised his sword. Too late, he realized it was a feint, and Rourke’s kick caught him full in the chest. He felt ribs snap, and he flew backward, bouncing off the wall, as his sword spun away and he tumbled off the ledge.

A moment later, Gabriel was dangling, one-handed, over a sea of lava.

Rourke came and crouched above him, the falchion balanced casually on his shoulder. “Well, lad, you put up a good fight and have nothing to be ashamed of. I just have one question before we pop you into the cooker.”

Gabriel had managed to find a grip for his other hand; his legs still hung free.

“Did Pym ever tell you what will happen to the wee children when the Books are finally brought together? I’m curious, for you see, I asked the tykes’ parents and they didn’t know. It made me wonder how much the old fella has been keeping to himself.”

Gabriel looked up. He knew it was what Rourke wanted, but he couldn’t help himself. The fact was, Pym never had told him what would happen when all three books had been found and brought together. He’d only ever said that it was necessary to the children’s safety. And Gabriel had accepted it. So what did Rourke know that he didn’t?

“Ah,” Rourke said, the glow from the lava shining off his bald head, “I thought not—”

Just then the entire volcano lurched to the left. Rourke was caught off balance and fell backward. In a flash, Gabriel had pulled himself onto the ledge. His broken ribs scraped together, filling him with a dull, sapping nausea. But he knew this was his one chance. He kicked away the falchion, knocking it into the pit. Then he stomped, with all his strength, on the man’s wrist. Bellowing, Rourke threw his shoulder into Gabriel, then charged forward, pinning him against the wall, where he pounded Gabriel with elbows and fists. Gabriel felt more ribs crack, and he whipped up his head, the back of his skull colliding with the bald man’s chin. Rourke cursed and slammed Gabriel into the rock wall, again and again. Gabriel felt his vision blur, and he kicked out blindly. He felt a sort of thick crunch; there was a cry of pain, and the man released him.

Gabriel leaned against the wall, panting, waiting for his vision to settle. Rourke was bent over, cradling his knee.

“You rascal, I think you’ve bloody crippled me!” He pulled out a long, gleaming knife. “I was going to let you go easy, but now I have to hurt you.”

He lunged forward, and Gabriel, too weak to defend himself, felt the blade slide between his shattered ribs. More than anything, Gabriel hoped that Emma was away, out of the volcano, and not seeing what was happening.

“I want to finish what I was saying.” Rourke pulled out his knife and stabbed Gabriel yet again. “When the Books are finally brought together—are you still alive in there, still listening?—when the Books are brought together, the children will die. That’s the truth, my lad. It’s been prophesied and it will happen. So all this time you’ve been protecting the little lambs, old Pym’s been leading them to the slaughter. I thought you’d enjoy knowing that as you die.”

And he drove the knife in again, and deeper still.

Gabriel felt the steel point reaching inside him, and he felt the volcano make its last and greatest shudder, and he called up his remaining strength and locked his arms around Rourke as the ledge crumbled beneath their feet. At some deep level, Gabriel believed what Rourke had said. But did that mean Pym had used him all these years? Gabriel didn’t know. He only knew that Rourke had to be kept from the children. The man fought him, but Gabriel held him fast till they were both falling toward the lava, releasing him only when he knew that Rourke, like himself, was doomed.

And neither man, Gabriel nor Rourke, saw the large shape shooting past them into the smoke.

After his fingers had slipped from Emma’s, Michael had thought that was that: he was finished. But he found himself bumping and skidding down the wall of the cone, shredding his clothes, bruising and skinning the whole front half of his body; and when he crashed onto the ledge fifty feet below, it turned out that he’d done nothing worse—beyond all the scrapes and bruises—than sprain his other ankle.

Then something snapped tight around his throat, and his head was jerked back. He realized he was being choked by his own bag. Michael managed to roll onto his stomach so the strap was against the back of his neck, and he peered over the edge of the path. There, dangling over the pool of lava, was the skeleton.

Honestly, Michael thought, I really do hate these things.

The bag’s pouch hung between Michael and the creature, and Michael reached down and pulled the Chronicle free. The skeleton was clawing upward, trying to reach him, but Michael drew his knife and—saying goodbye to his journal, his compass, his pens and pencils, his camera, his pocketknife, his badge from King Robbie—he cut the strap and watched his bag, its contents, and the Screecher all fall and be swallowed by the lava.

Michael flopped onto his back. Emma had been calling his name, and he could see her face, far above him, and gave a weak wave.

Okay, he thought, enough lying about. You’re not on vacation. Stand—

That was as far as he got before the volcano spasmed and the ledge he was on collapsed. Michael felt himself falling and shut his eyes, clutching the Chronicle tight to his chest, as if the book might somehow save him. And because his eyes were closed, he felt, rather than saw, the great claws that seized him about the middle. When he did open his eyes, they were seared by the fumes and heat rising from the lava, and he saw only a blur of golden scales, and already the dragon—for it was her, Wilamena, her golden scales, her body healed and whole—was turning, swooping upward, and Michael saw two more figures falling toward the lava, and Wilamena snatched them both out of the air and climbed higher; and Emma was above them, screaming with joy and jumping up and down, and without stopping, the dragon plucked her from the ledge; and then there was an explosion, and Michael looked down and saw the entire cauldron of lava blasting toward them; and they flew before it, out of the cone, Michael feeling the cool night air on his face, looking back to see the lava shooting into the darkness, and the dragon turned, diving down the side of the mountain, and there was the fortress, with lava flooding about its walls, and, silhouetted atop the tower, a small cluster of figures.

The dragon hovered just above the tower, and the elf captain and six exhausted, wounded elves fell back in astonishment. Setting down Michael and Emma and Gabriel, Wilamena perched upon the wall, Rourke still clutched in her talons.

“Your Highness, you’re alive!” The elf captain dropped to a knee. “I would compose a sonnet—”

“Perhaps later,” growled the dragon. “Are you all that remain?”

“We are. The bald devil slipped past us to the keep. We fought our way here, expecting to find the children. Then we ourselves became trapped.”

Suddenly, the dragon gave a roar of pain, and Rourke tumbled off the side of the tower. Rourke’s knife was stuck in the dragon’s leg, shoved between the armored scales. Michael yanked it out, and peered over the wall.

“He’s gone! I can’t see him anywhere!”

Dark blood ran down Wilamena’s leg.

“Are you okay?” Michael asked.

The dragon Wilamena seemed almost to smile. “I’m fine, Rabbit.”

“Michael!” Emma was kneeling beside Gabriel, panic in her eyes. “Gabriel—he’s hurt really bad! You gotta help him!”

But as Michael started to open the Chronicle, the tower shook, and the elf captain said there was no time, they would help their friend once they’d reached safety. And the elves lifted the unconscious Gabriel onto the dragon’s back, and Emma climbed up behind him, and Michael sat before him, so that together they pinned the wounded man in place. Then the dragon snatched up the remaining elves and, beating her great wings, leapt into the air. When Michael looked back—they were already high over the plain—he saw the entire fortress sinking into the volcano.

“Hurry!” Emma shouted, a sob breaking her voice. “I think—I think Gabriel’s dying!”

“Your friend is strong,” said the dragon. “He will not die. We will not let him.”

“Where’re you taking us?” Michael asked.

“Home, Rabbit. I’m taking you home.” The iron bell crashed down. Rafe lay without moving, beams from the collapsed staircase piled on his back. Kate was on her side in the doorway, unable to reach Rafe in time to save him. She could only cry—

“STOP!”

—and shut her eyes.

A second passed. Two seconds. Three …

Where was the crash? The thud that would shake the floor? Everything was silent and still, and the only thing Kate felt was her heart pounding in her chest.

Slowly, she opened her eyes. Nothing had changed. The bell was exactly where it had been, twenty feet above Rafe’s head. Only it wasn’t falling; it simply hung there in the air. She looked around. The tongues of flame climbing the walls were frozen in place. Then Kate realized how utterly quiet it was. The roaring of the fire, the popping and breaking of glass, the snapping of beams: all had stopped.

She got to her feet and stood there, afraid to move.

Henrietta Burke had said that the magic of the Atlas was a part of her; she only had to stop fighting it. The moment the woman had said it, Kate had known she was right. Ever since Kate had taken the Countess into the past, she’d felt the power inside her. But she’d pushed it down, denied it.

Then, as she saw the bell plummeting toward Rafe, all the barriers she’d erected had come tumbling down.

But what was this eerie stillness?

Even as she asked the question, Kate knew the answer:

“I stopped time.”

She could feel the strain inside herself. It was as if she had dammed up a river and it was struggling to break free. She knew she could not hold it back much longer.

She took a step toward Rafe—and stopped.

A terrible thought had taken hold of her.

Rafe was destined to be the Dire Magnus—the reason her family had been divided, the reason she and Michael and Emma had spent the last ten years in orphanages, the reason they’d grown up without knowing their parents. She only had to relax, to let time flow; the bell would fall, and her family would be together once more.

She stood there a second longer, then said a silent apology to her family.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I just can’t.

She stepped forward, took Rafe by the wrists, and pulled him out of the rubble.

She was barely aware of dragging him through the main hall of the church. All her strength and focus was required to hold time in check. The longer it was stopped, the greater the pressure became. She pulled him through a hole in a half-destroyed wall and out into the dark, empty street. There she dropped his arms and collapsed at his side.

And let go.

She felt a roaring inside her, and the world’s noise returned. She heard the crackling of the fire, the crash and clanging of the bell as it struck the bottom of the tower, the shouts of the mob around the corner. She was on her hands and knees, gasping, her dress soaked with perspiration.

“What—where—”

Rafe had opened his eyes, the cold air jarring him awake. He leapt up, stared at the street, the burning church, at her.…

“Did you—how did I get here?”

Kate was still trembling from her effort. She took several shaky breaths and got unsteadily to her feet.

“She was right.… Miss Burke said I had the magic in me. I’d just been … afraid of using it. I stopped time. I pulled you out of the church.”

“You pulled me out?”

“Yes.”

“You saved my life.”

“Yes.”

For she had; whatever happened from this point on, for good or ill, she had chosen to save his life. Behind them, the church continued to burn, and Kate could hear the mob shouting and cheering around the corner. The boy stared at her.

“And you can go home now. Back to your brother and sister.”

Kate nodded.

“And Miss B is dead.”

She could feel the anger and sadness coming off him, like heat from the fire.

There was a rumbling, and they both turned as the bell tower began to sink and tilt, the base of it eaten away by flames, and there was a cheer from around the corner as the tower tipped over and crashed through the roof of the church in a great explosion of smoke and sparks.

With a cry, Rafe ran to the crumpled iron fence, yanked free one of the bars, and took off running around the side of the church.

Legs trembling, Kate went after him, shouting his name.

When she came onto the avenue, there were now perhaps forty men armed with torches and clubs, cheering and laughing, their faces ghoulish in the firelight. None of them saw the boy racing toward them. There was no magic in Rafe’s attack; it was all animal pain and anger. He struck a potbellied man full in the head—a distinct clonk Kate heard from twenty yards away—and laid him out cold. Then he tore into three young toughs, all of them older and bigger than he was. He struck the first across the shoulders, and the young man dropped his torch and fell to his knees with a grunt. Rafe jabbed the end of his pipe into the stomach of the second, doubling him over, then brought his knee up into the man’s face, so that his head snapped back. The third tough was fast and had his knife out and slashed Rafe across the arm. The pipe clattered to the street, and the tough kicked it to his friend, the first one Rafe had attacked, who grabbed it as he staggered to his feet. The other tough was up as well, though bleeding from his nose and mouth, and he too had his knife out. The trio surrounded Rafe, and Kate was about to dive into the fray when Rafe snatched a torch, spoke a silent word, and flames leapt off the torch and engulfed the three men.

“No!”

Kate knocked the torch from Rafe’s hand. The flames attacking the men died away. At the same moment, there was a sound of approaching bells and sirens, someone shouted that the police were coming; instantly, the mob melted away, including the three young men, who fled into the darkness, calling back threats as they ran.

Rafe made to go after them, but Kate grabbed his arm.

“Stop it!”

“Why? You saw what they did!”

“But you can’t! I won’t let you!”

She wrapped her arms tight around him, hugging him to her. He pushed and struggled, but she held on to him with all the strength she had, her head buried against his shoulder, till, finally, she felt the fight go out of him. She held him a moment longer, limp in her arms, then let go. He dropped to his knees in the snow. She could see his shoulders shaking. Kate knew what he was feeling: His mother, Henrietta Burke, Scruggs—all of them were dead. The children he cared for hunted. She felt how easily his anger could consume him. And she remembered what Henrietta Burke had said:

Love him as he already loves you.

“Come with me.”

Rafe looked up, tears shining amid the smoke and ash on his cheeks.

“What?”

Kate thought her voice would tremble, but it didn’t. She knew this was right; this, finally, was why she was here, to stop him from becoming the Dire Magnus.

“Come with me.”

He shook his head. “I can’t. Someone has to look after the kids.”

“They’re going to a home upstate. Miss Burke set it up; they’ll be okay. Come with me.”

He stared at her, searching her face. The bells from the fire and police wagons were getting closer.

“What is everyone afraid of? You. Scruggs. Miss Burke. You’re trying to keep me away from something. Why does the Dire Magnus want me?”

Kate couldn’t resist the pleading in his eyes.

“He … he wants you to take his place.”

“What?”

“I can’t explain. But you won’t be you anymore! You’ll be him, and all the ones before him! He wants to use you! You have to come with me!”

As she said it, Kate realized that not only was this what the Atlas wanted, this was what she wanted. And it had nothing to do with him not becoming the Dire Magnus; she just wanted him with her.

Love him as he already loves you.

“I want you to come. Please.”

Rafe still hadn’t risen from his knees, and he stared down at his hands. Kate saw they were burned and blistered. “She told me to choose. Miss Burke. She said I could choose who I would be. The same thing my mother said.”

“So choose. Come with me.”

She held out her hand. Rafe looked at it, at her. It seemed to Kate that the whole world held its breath. Then, slowly, he reached up.

“You!”

The voice came from down the street. Kate looked past Rafe’s kneeling form to where a shape had emerged from the darkness.

“I knew you’d be here, you freak! I told you you’d get yours!”

Kate saw it was the pinch-faced boy who’d chased her and Abigail and Jake and Beetles down the street earlier that morning and that he was holding a gun and it was aimed directly at her.

There was noise all around them, the roar of the fire, the clanging of the approaching bells, the shouts of the fleeing mob; still, Kate heard a small, distinct pop, and the pinch-faced boy turned and raced off into the darkness. Rafe had already leapt to his feet, but he seemed unsure about what to do, and looked from the disappearing boy back to Kate. Kate wanted to tell him she was fine and to stop staring at her like that, but she felt suddenly wobbly. Without realizing she was falling, she felt her head strike the cobblestones. Even then, she was surprised to find herself lying in the snow. She tried to get up and found she couldn’t. Rafe’s face appeared above her.

“What … what happened?” she said. “He missed me, didn’t he?”

“Shhh, don’t talk.”

She could see the fear and worry in his eyes and that scared her more than anything. With a great effort, she lifted her head and saw, blossoming on the front of her white dress, a large red stain.

“Rafe …”

“It’s okay. We can fix this. It’s okay.…”

Her first thought was of Michael and Emma. She had to get to them. She couldn’t die here; they would never know what had happened to her. She had to get back to them. And she reached for the magic inside her, but she was too weak. She couldn’t focus enough to command it; the magic slipped from her grasp.

“I have to …,” she murmured, “… I have to …”

Rafe was lifting her in his arms. “I’ll get you to someone who can heal you. Scrug—no, not Scruggs … We just need someone powerful. A powerful magician …”

She could hear the panic in his voice, and she found herself wanting to reassure him. “It’s okay. I don’t feel that bad. Only … cold.”

Rafe’s face changed. “I know who can fix you. Just hold on.”

And he was running through the street, with Kate pressed against his chest. They passed the police and fire wagons that were sliding around the corner, and Rafe was running as if she weighed nothing at all, and indeed, it seemed to Kate that she was growing lighter, that all the weight, all the heaviness, was slipping from her. And Rafe was sprinting down the avenue, and she could hear the singing of New Year’s revelers; it was getting close to midnight. And there was more shouting, but no, that was Rafe, he was shouting at a horse-drawn cab and leaping in before the man could stop, yelling out an address, telling the driver to go as fast as he could, and Kate heard the snap of reins and felt the jolt as the cab jerked away, and she was aware of how tightly Rafe held her and how cold she was and she couldn’t actually, really, be dying.

“My brother and sister … they won’t know what happened.…”

“You’ll tell them. You’re gonna be okay. I know who can fix you. Just hold on.” Tears rolled down his cheeks. “I’m not losing you too.”

And then, she couldn’t be sure, she might have imagined it, but she thought he leaned down and kissed her.

The cab raced up the avenue, sliding around corners, the cabman shouting for people to make way, and Kate felt herself drifting off, lulled by the steady pounding of the horse’s hooves and the swaying and rocking of the cab, and Rafe was holding her and murmuring, “It’s gonna be okay. I’m not gonna lose you.…”

And then the cab was slowing, the driver calling for the horse to turn in, damn it, and Kate couldn’t see where they were, but Rafe was kicking open the door, leaping out of the carriage with Kate in his arms, landing so softly that she felt no shock at all, and he was sprinting forward, and she heard a shout, harsh-voiced and brutal, that penetrated the cloud around her mind.

“No—Rafe—you can’t—”

“There’s no other way. If he’s as powerful as you say, he’s our only hope.”

Rafe was moving too fast to be stopped, and he’d passed the sentries and was inside the mansion before he was trapped by a circle of four snarling Imps.

“Back away,” said a voice that Kate knew, and the Imps parted.

Kate saw Rourke step forward, massive, bald, dressed in a dark suit with a white shirt and tie.

“Your boss needs to fix her,” Rafe said. “I’ll do whatever he wants. He just has to fix her.”

The giant man looked at him for a moment, then nodded. “He said you would come. Follow me now. She doesn’t look like she has much time.”

To Kate, it was like being in a dream. She had no control over it; she could only watch as events unfolded around her. Rafe was carrying her up the stairs behind Rourke, and they were passing through the double doors and into the ballroom packed with men and women and other, shadowy creatures, and the crowd parted to reveal the ancient Dire Magnus, dressed in a long green robe, and Rourke bowed, and Rafe kept walking till it was just Kate and Rafe and the ancient sorcerer in the center of the candlelit ballroom.

“I knew,” the Dire Magnus murmured. “I knew that you would come.”

“No.” Kate was clawing at Rafe’s shirt, which was already wet and dark with her blood. “No, please, just leave … run.…”

She wanted to fight him, to force him to leave, but she had no strength; her life was ebbing away. She heard Rafe’s voice as if from a great distance, telling the Dire Magnus to heal her, that he, Rafe, would do whatever the Dire Magnus wanted, be whatever he wanted, but only heal her.

She felt the sorcerer’s wrinkled hand on her forehead.

“She is slipping. She is even now beyond my power. There is only one thing that can bring her back. I can send her there. I can use the power inside her. She must go back to her own time. But she will live.”

“Do it,” Rafe said. “Do it, and I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Nothing else? That’s all you ask?”

“And I want the humans to pay. I want to make them pay.”

“Oh, my boy, that I can promise.”

And Kate felt the Dire Magnus calling up the power of the Atlas inside her, and she heard him whispering, “Your brother will find the Chronicle. You must go there. He will save you.”

And she looked up into Rafe’s face, and saw his green eyes looking down at her from the smoke-stained darkness of his face, and she tried to say, “… Don’t,” but he shook his head and whispered:

“It’s too late. It’s done. You’ll live, that’s what matters.”

And she could hear the bells tolling midnight across the city, the magic world was pulling away, and she heard the Dire Magnus, his skeleton’s head leaning close, saying, “Do not worry. You will see her again. We both will.…” Michael woke to the sound of birds singing.

He saw blurry treetops and pieces of blue sky.

He was in a bed, the softest of his life.

Beyond that, he had no idea where he was or how he’d gotten there; but something told him just to enjoy the moment and his ignorance.

Then he smelled … a pipe?

“Feeling rested, my boy? You’ve had quite the long sleep. It’s nearly midday.”

Michael flipped over to see Dr. Stanislaus Pym sitting in a chair. In every way but one, the wizard looked the same as always. He was dressed in the same rumpled tweed suit; his white hair still stuck out in all directions; his tortoiseshell glasses still wanted mending; his pockets were heavy with odds and ends; indeed, only the wizard’s smile was different: it was somber, muted, lacking any of its usual merriment. And had Michael not been puffy-brained with sleep, he might’ve noticed the change.

“Where—where am I?” he asked, accepting his glasses from the wizard and looking about.

The room, now properly in focus, seemed to Michael like a sort of large wooden cave. There were no boards or planks. The walls, floor, and ceiling were one continuous gnarled block. The only furniture was his bed and the one chair. There was no door. But across from the wizard, where the wall opened onto what could have been a balcony, Michael saw a wide, flat branch, extending outward.

“Am I in … a tree?”

“You are, my boy. You’re with the elves at the end of the valley, and they make their home in the trees. I do hope you’re not queasy about heights. Though what am I saying? My goodness! You arrived here on the back of a dragon!”

At this, Michael’s memory of the night before returned. He recalled the feeling of flying, of the wind rushing by, of the forest below, dark and silent and still; he recalled the heat radiating from the dragon and the muscular beating of her wings; he recalled trying to prop up Gabriel even as his own strength began to fail, and Emma shouting that they needed help, and the dragon diving down into the trees; and he recalled being surrounded by a hundred singing voices as gentle hands lifted him to the ground.

“Did I pass out?”

“The elves sensed that you were very weak. Their song put you to sleep.”

“But where’s Emma? And Gabriel—”

“They are both here and have both been tended to. Emma had only cuts and bruises and minor burns on her hands. Gabriel’s wounds were serious, but the elf physicians are highly skilled. He is out of any danger.”

“But I was going to heal him! With the Chronicle—”

“A generous offer. But the power of the Books must always be the avenue of last resort. Sleep and rest will heal Gabriel now. Oh, and if you were wondering, the Chronicle is beside you.”

Michael leaned over, and there on the floor was the book. He had grown so used to its pull that only now, seeing it, did he become aware of the tug at the center of his chest. Secretly, he was relieved he would not have to heal Gabriel. As far as he was concerned, he’d be happy if he never touched the Chronicle ever again.

“You can pick it up, if you like,” the old man said, eyeing him closely.

“Thank you, sir, that’s not necessary. I did want to ask about Princess Wilamena. Is she still a dragon or—”

“The Princess has been returned to her normal, lovely form. And let me say”—there was a hint of the old sparkle—“you have quite an admirer there.”

“Well, that’s a relief to hear. The first part, I mean. Listen, Dr. Pym, I need to talk to you about the Chronicle—”

The wizard held up his hand. “I’m sure you have many questions for me, just as I have many for you. But I think I see your breakfast.”

An elf was approaching along the branch, carrying a tray laden with covered cups and bowls and a tiny porcelain kettle. The elf wore green breeches, high white stockings, black shoes with bright gold buckles, and a tight-fitting, short-waisted green jacket that had a kind of gold brocade and was buttoned to the neck.

Really, Michael thought, the amount of time they must spend getting dressed.

Then he thought of the elves he’d seen wrapped in their cloaks in the courtyard of the fortress and felt ashamed. Never forget what they did, he told himself.

“Thank you,” the wizard called. “We’ll sit outdoors.”

A low table and several large cushions had been set out on the branch, and the elf spent a few moments carefully arranging the breakfast, then plumped up the pillows and, with a bow, carried away the empty tray.

“Shall we?” the wizard said. “We can talk after you’ve eaten. Your clothes are at the end of the bed.”

As the wizard stepped outside, Michael picked up his folded shirt and pants, which had been cleaned and mended during the night, and got dressed. He found the blue-gray marble, still attached to the strip of rawhide, and slipped it over his head. He noticed that his hands were no longer burned, and his cuts and bruises had all but vanished. He flexed his ankles and felt no pain. The elf doctors, it seemed, had healed him as well.

“Come along, my boy!” the wizard called. “The day is fine! Oh, and bring the book.”

With some reluctance, Michael picked up the Chronicle, pulled on his boots, glanced about for his bag—remembering only then that it was gone—and headed outside.

The day was indeed fine, with a cool breeze drifting through the trees and the sunlight warming them from above. The meal was simple: nuts, berries, cream, honey, some sort of tea made from flowers. But the berries were like none Michael had ever seen: strawberries as big and red as apples, blueberries so fat and deeply purplish blue that they looked like plums, giant raspberries spongy with juice.…

“You don’t mind sharing, do you?” the wizard said, reaching over to dunk a fist-sized strawberry into the cream. “Oh my, yes, delicious.”

Michael didn’t reply. He was already cramming handfuls of almonds and walnuts into his mouth. He hadn’t eaten anything since Gabriel’s stew the day before, but until sitting down, he hadn’t realized just how ravenous he was. For a few minutes, he forgot about everything else and focused on breakfast. Soon, his fingers and lips and teeth were stained a dark purple-red. And it was only when the wizard pressed him to try the tea—the first sip like drinking sunshine, a glowing, golden warmth spreading through his still-exhausted body—that Michael began to eat more slowly, and to savor each bite.

The branch that Michael and the wizard sat on was perhaps ten feet wide and perfectly flat. Glancing over the edge, Michael put the ground—half hidden in the gloom of the forest floor—at a dead drop of three hundred feet. Closer by, he could see rooms, similar to his own, dotting the surrounding trees and accessible by staircases that corkscrewed up and down the great trunks. But most amazing to Michael—and what made him long for his lost journal and camera—was how a branch from one tree would reach out and wind about the branch from another tree, then continue on to connect with a branch of a third tree, creating a complex web of pathways along which Michael could see dozens of elves moving about fearlessly. There was a whole city up here, Michael realized, suspended in the sunlit reaches of the forest.

He turned back and saw the wizard staring at him.

“What is it? Do I have something on my face?”

“Oh yes. Quite a bit. However, I was looking at you and thinking of the boy I knew, and thinking also of the boy who’s performed such amazing feats these past few days. Your sister and Princess Wilamena have told me everything. Michael, I’m very proud of you. And I hope you are proud of you.”

Michael considered this carefully. He knew that in times past he would’ve been pompously telling the wizard that it was no big deal even as he not-so-secretly believed that it was a big deal and that no one else could’ve pulled the affair off quite so well. But he didn’t say that now. He was thinking about the Guardian and his brothers, and the long, long years that they had spent protecting the book. And he thought about Wilamena and the elves putting themselves in danger to defend him and his sister. And he thought about Emma, staying with him in the volcano as Gabriel fought for his life.…

He said, sincerely, “I had a lot of help.”

“True. But still you recovered one of the lost Books of Beginning! You returned a princess to her people! You brought yourself and your sister through fire and war to safety! Resourcefulness. Bravery. Coolheaded intelligence. Credit where credit is due, my boy. How right that you should be Keeper of the Chronicle!”

“Dr. Pym, before you say any more, all this Keeper business—”

“And how doubly appropriate,” the wizard went on, as if Michael hadn’t spoken, “that tomorrow is your thirteenth birthday. You truly are growing up.”

“Wha—gugh!”

“Are you all right, my boy?”

In his surprise, Michael had first inhaled, then choked on, then coughed up a blueberry the size of a robin’s egg. He managed to say, “What?”

“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten your own birthday?”

“I … excuse me … I guess I did. Anyway, isn’t it kind of silly to think about birthdays with everything that’s going on?”

“Again, I disagree. These markers are important. Leave it to me. I will think of something appropriately festive. But now I promised you a talk.”

“Right, well, like I was saying—”

“Why don’t I begin by telling you what I’ve already told your sister, hmm? Where I’ve been, the things I’ve discovered, et cetera, et cetera.”

Michael was getting the distinct sense that Dr. Pym knew what he intended to say and was putting him off. Fine, he thought, but sooner or later, the wizard would have to hear that Michael had no intention of remaining Keeper of the Chronicle. He and the Chronicle were simply a bad match; there was no use pretending otherwise. But for the time being, he took another sip of tea and gave the old wizard his attention.

“You last saw me in Malpesa, struggling with Rourke on the rooftop. Well, after the building on which we stood collapsed into the canal—I was not injured, thankfully—I immediately made my way to the chamber where you and I discovered the skeleton. To my dismay, I found the chamber had already been ransacked by Rourke’s minions. I then had a choice. I could either follow Rourke as he pursued you and your sister, or …” Here the wizard paused and pulled out his tobacco pouch. “Tell me, my boy, what do you know about the reading of minds?”

“Not much,” Michael said. “In The Dwarf Omnibus, G. G. Greenleaf calls it ‘wizard sneakery.’ No offense.”

Dr. Pym huffed. “First off, sneakery is not a word. Secondly, I do wish Mr. G. G. Greenleaf would not hold forth on subjects about which he is so appallingly ignorant. In point of fact, to gain access to another’s thoughts is a very difficult and sticky business. With someone like Rourke, it can even be quite dangerous. Luckily, when we clashed on the rooftop, his attention was so fixed upon destroying me that I was able to slip past his defenses and glean several valuable pieces of information.” He stuck the end of the pipe in his mouth. “Your parents are no longer prisoners of the Dire Magnus.”

“What?!” Michael’s shout carried through the trees, startling a flock of birds in the canopy.

Dr. Pym nodded sympathetically. “I had much the same reaction. But consider what occurred just before your battle at the volcano. Why would Rourke have presented you with a fake father if the real one had been available? It raises the question, does it not?”

Michael admitted the wizard had a point. “But are you absolutely sure? Not that I don’t believe you—”

“No, no, you are quite right to ask. As it happens, in my nauseating trip through Rourke’s mind, I also was able to learn the location of your parents’ prison—”

“That’s where you went?!” Michael exclaimed. “When you left Malpesa? Where was it? I bet it was some desert where it hasn’t rained in a hundred years! Or a jungle filled with cannibals and giant poisonous insects! Or—”

“They were held in New York City.”

Michael stopped, thinking he must not have heard Dr. Pym correctly.

“For ten years,” the wizard went on, “your parents were kept prisoner in a mansion on the island of Manhattan. And to think of the time Gabriel and I spent scouring the far-flung reaches of the globe, pushing out the very corners of the map! I even knew the house where they were held! A hundred years ago, the Dire Magnus’s followers operated from its premises. Yet never once did it cross my mind that our enemies would be so bold as to use that house as your parents’ prison. Oh, Michael, there is no fool like an old fool.”

And he sighed, looking very old indeed.

“But you did go there?” Michael prompted.

“I did. The mansion is cloaked, but I found it easily enough. It had been abandoned. My suspicion is that once Richard and Clare escaped, their captors fled, perhaps imagining that your parents’ friends—that is to say, myself and others—would seek retribution. Whatever the case, I was free to do a careful search. So to answer your question, yes, I feel certain that they were there and have now escaped.”

“When?”

“My guess, and it is only a guess, is quite recently. Within the last few weeks.”

“Then … where are they?”

“Where are they? Who helped them escape? Sadly, my boy, I am as in the dark as you.”

The wizard fell silent and blew a large smoke ring, watching as the breeze lifted it away. Michael knew it was a good thing that their parents had escaped, but what had it actually changed? The Dire Magnus still wanted him and his sisters, still wanted the Books. They still didn’t know where their parents were.

“It did make me think,” the wizard went on, “that perhaps they have tried to contact us. I am referring to the glass orb that arrived at Cambridge Falls, the one you now wear about your neck.”

Michael’s fingers caressed the marble, and he felt a shiver of excitement. The wizard was right; it was more likely than ever that the marble had been sent by their parents. But then he remembered how it had been addressed to “The Eldest Wibberly,” and something in him pulled back. He was not yet ready to take that title from Kate.

“Maybe.”

The wizard shrugged. “Of course, it is yours to do with as you please. Now, while searching the mansion, I made one other discovery that is worth mentioning. Do you remember my saying that the Dire Magnus has been a presence in this world for thousands of years?”

Michael said he did.

“Well, interestingly, there is only one known way of achieving immortality—”

“You mean the Chronicle?”

“Exactly so. And we know in his case that was not an option. So how did he do it? It has always been my belief that discovering his secret is essential to defeating him once and for all.”

“But you’ve been alive just as long! How’d you do it?”

The wizard shook his head. “That’s not important.”

“But—”

“We are talking about the Dire Magnus. Let us not get sidetracked.”

“But—”

“Oh, very well. I wrote the Chronicle.”

Michael opened his mouth, then closed it. Whatever he’d expected, it wasn’t this.

“Don’t look so surprised. The Books didn’t write themselves, and you know I was part of the council that created them.”

“You … wrote it?”

“Transcribed it, would be more accurate. The knowledge and power in the Chronicle are far greater than my own. The wisdom of the entire council of magicians passed through me, and I committed it to paper. In the process, some small sliver of the Chronicle’s power stayed with me. Now can we discuss the Dire Magnus?”

Michael nodded. He was still somewhat dumbfounded.

“First, we must look at the particular nature of his longevity. Do you remember Dr. Algernon referring to him as the Undying One?”

Again, Michael said he did.

“Well”—and here the wizard smiled—“far from never dying, the Dire Magnus has died many times.”

“But you said—”

“And each time, he has been reborn. He dies and is reborn, dies and is reborn, over and over.”

“You mean he’s reincarnated?”

“Not exactly—”

“So it’s more a rising-from-the-ashes thing?”

“Nor that either—”

“Does his spirit possess some poor kid’s body? I saw that in a movie—”

The wizard held up his hand. “We could speculate all day. That has been my dilemma. Many theories, but no proof. However, all magic, especially powerful magic, leaves traces, and in that mansion, I finally found what I needed.”

Michael was doing his best to remember every word the wizard said, but oh, how his hand ached for pen and paper! There was just no substitute for a written record.

The wizard blew another smoke ring and then asked, abruptly, “My boy, what do you think happens when the universe dies?”

“Huh?”

“You can’t imagine that all this will just go on forever. The universe is a mass of constantly expanding energy, and one day it will collapse upon itself. Like a cake left too long in the oven. Then what? Nothingness?”

Michael shrugged. He had no idea.

The wizard leaned over the table. “It will be reborn.”

Michael almost said “Huh?” again.

“The life of the universe is not a straight line. Rather, imagine a circle. And along that circle, the universe is born, destroys itself, and is born again, over and over, endlessly. You understand?”

“I … think so.”

“Well, here is the truly amazing part. Just as the universe is reborn over and over, so is everything in it.” The wizard waved his arm in a broad, encompassing gesture. “This forest, the valley, the world outside, all the creatures who inhabit it, have all existed before, and will all exist again.”

“You mean, we’ve all … been alive before?”

“Exactly so. You, me, Emma, Katherine, Gabriel, this tree—in a pattern repeated for eternity. Who knows how many times you and I have sat here, having this exact conversation? And what the Dire Magnus did was to make contact with those earlier versions of the universe, to reach into them and pluck out his other selves and bring them here. How many times he did this, how many copies of himself he gathered together, I cannot say. But he then threw these other selves out across time, each further than the last, like stones tossed into the ocean, so that every few hundred years, another would be born into this world.”

“But … why?”

“Because long ago, it was prophesied that the full power of the Books would not be unleashed for thousands of years. And without the power of the Books—all three, you understand, working in concert—he had no hope of achieving his goal. So—”

“Dr. Pym,” Michael interrupted, “do you realize that you’ve never said what exactly his goal is?”

“I haven’t?”

“No.”

“Never?”

“Never.”

“Why, to usher in an age of magic in which he wields ultimate power! In which humanity is enslaved! That is his goal! And has been, these many, many centuries!”

“And he could do that?”

“Could he do that? My boy, the power of the Books is inseparable from the fabric of existence. Think of it this way—each time Katherine used the Atlas, each time you used the Chronicle, the world about us was changed. And that was done unconsciously. Imagine someone who wanted to change the world. Oh yes, if the Dire Magnus controls the Books, he can achieve his goal.”

Michael nodded, wondering what he had done, what he had changed, each time he’d used the Chronicle. No wonder Dr. Pym called the Books an option of last resort.

“As I was saying,” the wizard continued, “by means of these other selves, the Dire Magnus created a living bridge to carry himself across time. Now—and here we come to what I discovered in the mansion—it was always the duty of the current Dire Magnus to locate the next and confer on him the memories and power due him.”

“What do you mean, confer the memories and power?”

“These individuals are not born with knowledge of their true origin. It is not until the memories of the previous Dire Magnus—indeed, of each previous Dire Magnus—are transferred that the new Magnus gains the knowledge of who he is.

“And the last Dire Magnus came into being, or awoke, you might say, in that mansion at the turn of the twentieth century. That was what I discovered. And it was he whom my fellows and I fought and vanquished—or so we imagined—forty years ago. Since then, no other has risen to take his place. I believe that he was the last of those taken from the other worlds.”

“Then if you killed the last one, shouldn’t it all be over?”

“You would think. But even in death, his spirit has continued to drive his followers. And now that the prophecy is close to being fulfilled, the Books found and brought together, he is determined to rejoin the world of the living and reclaim all his old power.”

“How is that even possible?”

“My boy, the answer lies beside you.” He nodded at the red leather book resting on the branch. “Which is why the Chronicle must be kept from him.” Dr. Pym knocked the smoking tobacco from his pipe. “Now I think it is time to see your sister.”

Michael nodded. “I assume Emma’s with Gabriel—”

“Actually,” the wizard said, “I was speaking of Katherine.”

Kate was in a different tree, and to get there, the wizard led Michael across several of the bridges formed by the entwined branches, then down a harrowing staircase that wound around one of the massive trunks. As they walked, Dr. Pym explained how he had arrived in the valley just after the volcano had erupted, emerging from the tunnel beneath the mountains in time to see the dragon fly past, with all her passengers. He’d followed them to the elf colony.

“The scene was chaotic, as you might imagine: between the elves’ joy at their princess’s return, their grief at learning of those who had fallen in battle, Emma shouting for someone to help Gabriel—I’m afraid my own arrival did little to calm things down—and then, without warning, Katherine was in our midst.”

Dr. Pym abruptly stopped walking and turned around. They were on the stairs, Michael two steps behind and above the wizard, one hand clutching the Chronicle, the other the trunk of the tree. He’d been staring at the old man’s back as a way of ignoring the plunging drop to his left. Now he found himself and the wizard eye to eye.

“Michael”—the wizard’s voice was somber—“there is no way to prepare you for what awaits, but do know we will make things right.” Then, without explaining further what he meant, the old man turned away down the stairs.

Rounding the curve of the tree, they came upon a room very like Michael’s own, a deep alcove in the trunk set above a wide, flat branch. The wizard paused at the entrance and gestured for Michael to go ahead. Inside were three figures. The elf princess Wilamena stood to Michael’s left. She wore a dress of dark green satin, embroidered with golden thread in the design of a great tree that seemed—if one did not look at it directly—to be moving its branches in the wind. The princess’s hair had been washed and braided, and it shone brightly in the dim light. She looked at Michael, her eyes full of sympathy, but did not speak or move toward him.

Across from her, to Michael’s right, was Emma. She had neither changed clothes nor washed nor slept since the previous night, and, seeing Michael, she leapt up from where she was kneeling and ran and threw her arms around his neck, sobbing. Michael made the motions of holding her and patting her back, but something in him had shut down. His eyes were vacant; his body no longer seemed his own.

Directly before him, Kate lay on a low bed. Her eyes were closed, and she was wearing an ivory lace dress with a high neck. A blanket had been pulled up to just below her shoulders, and her arms lay outside the covers, her hands clasped about their mother’s golden locket. Her face was very pale.

Michael didn’t have to ask; he knew his sister was dead.

Gently, he disengaged Emma’s arms from around his neck, took her hand, and went and knelt beside Kate. He paused a moment to gather himself before speaking.

“When … when did she …”

“Just after she appeared,” the wizard said from the doorway. “The elf physicians and I tried everything we could. I’m very, very sorry.”

Michael reached out and touched his sister’s hand. The skin was cold.

It wasn’t real, he thought. It was some trick. This wasn’t Kate; she couldn’t be dead. And yet he knew it wasn’t a trick, and this was his sister.

Emma seized his arm, shaking it as she sobbed.

“Michael—bring her back! Use the book! You can do that, right? Bring her back! You have to! You have to!”

Michael didn’t have to be told. He already had the Chronicle open, the stylus in hand, and was getting ready to prick his thumb.

“I’m afraid that is not going to work.”

Michael looked to where Dr. Pym stood, framed against the forest.

“Your sister’s spirit has crossed into the land of the dead, the same place where the Dire Magnus has been trapped for forty years. His power there is very great. He will not release her.”

“What’re you talking about?” Michael demanded. He was impatient and scarcely heard the wizard’s words.

“There is a shadow over her,” the elf princess said, speaking for the first time. “It settled on her the moment she died.”

“Your sister,” Dr. Pym said, “is a prisoner in the land of the dead.” Michael insisted that he at least be allowed to try to bring Kate back. The wizard agreed, but said that if he felt any resistance, he must not force it. Michael barely heard him. Pricking his thumb, he placed the bloodied tip of the stylus on the page, felt the familiar current run through him, saw Kate’s face snap into focus, and began to write.

He couldn’t get past the second letter of her name. It was as if an invisible force stood against him, and when he tried to push back—directly disobeying the wizard’s orders—he felt a crack start to open in the stylus. He stopped, panicked.

And that was that. Dr. Pym urged the children not to give up hope, saying he was going to consult with Princess Wilamena’s father and the elders among the elves, that they would find a way to free Katherine; then the wizard and the elf princess left, and Emma collapsed against her brother, sobbing; and Michael, who felt as if he were at the bottom of a dark well, and receiving only dull vibrations from the world above, put his arm about her and let her cry.

The two of them stayed by Kate the rest of the day, hardly speaking. Twice, Emma left to check on Gabriel, returning each time to say that he was still asleep.

When night came, there was singing in the forest. It was sad and beautiful, and an elf who brought them dinner said it was a death song for the elves who had fallen in the battle; and the children listened and felt comforted. But neither was hungry, and without Dr. Pym to tell them to eat, the food remained untouched. The wizard returned sometime later. He told them he had not yet found a way to free Kate from the Dire Magnus’s hold and he pressed them to get some rest. Michael said he wasn’t going anywhere, but he joined the wizard in demanding that Emma go to bed. Emma tried to argue, but having stayed up with Kate all the previous night, she was mumbling and heavy-lidded and almost trembling with fatigue. Eventually, she gave in.

Her room was in a different tree, and she hugged Michael before she left.

“It’s your birthday soon, isn’t it? I guess … happy birthday.”

As Emma stepped out onto the branch, Dr. Pym called for her to wait, saying he would guide her through the dark. He turned to Michael.

“What is it, my boy? I can see you have a question.”

“Could I … could I have brought her back? Did I do something wrong?”

It had tortured him all day, the idea that it might have been possible to bring Kate back, if only he’d been strong enough or clever enough, and that the wizard, to spare his feelings, had placed all the blame on the Dire Magnus.

Dr. Pym seemed neither troubled nor surprised by Michael’s question. “No, my boy, you did nothing wrong. You never had any chance of reviving your sister. I only allowed you to try so that you could understand what it is we face.”

“But I almost broke the stylus.”

The wizard shrugged. “Worse things might have happened. The stylus is a crutch, nothing more.”

The elf who had brought dinner had also brought candles, and in the flickering light, Michael studied the old man’s face and tried to divine his meaning. The answer, if there, was impossible to read.

“Tell me,” Dr. Pym said, “did the Guardian give you any warnings about using the book?”

“He said … he said it would change me.”

“How could it not? Each experience we have changes us. And when you use the Chronicle, you live another’s entire life, share their hopes and fears, their loves and hatreds; it would be very easy to become lost. You must always remember who you are.”

“That’s what he said. But what if … what if I’m not—”

“Michael”—the wizard kept his voice low and private—“I know you do not wish to be the Keeper of the Chronicle. You tried to tell me so this morning and I would not listen. The fact is, the Chronicle chose you for a reason, and I believe the choice was correct. I myself would have chosen no other.”

“Dr. Pym, I appreciate your trying to make me feel better, and I know it’s good for team morale—but I’m just not the right person.”

He had finally managed to say it; the words were out.

The wizard, however, was shaking his head. “You are so, so wrong.”

“But—”

“Michael Wibberly, you have a fire inside of you.”

“I … Wait, what?”

The wizard placed his wrinkled hand over Michael’s heart. “It is the fire of true feeling, of love and compassion, of sorrow. It is the flame that ignites the Chronicle. Without it, you could never have used the book as you have. True, as yet you do not command the full power of the Chronicle; but even Katherine needed time to master the Atlas.” He reached up and gripped Michael’s shoulder. “You have so much more to give than you imagine.”

And so saying, he left, taking Emma with him, and Michael was alone with Kate.

He tried to lie down beside her, but his heart was beating wildly, and he stood and began pacing, the Chronicle held tight to his chest. He walked back and forth in the small room for an hour or more, glancing again and again at his sister’s face, as if he might catch some sign of life. The rain began all of a sudden, a fierce, pounding rain that came streaking down outside the room. Michael walked out into the darkness, still clutching the book, and allowed himself to be drenched. The rain was cold, almost freezing, but it did nothing to cool the fever burning through him, and his heart still beat as if to break free from his chest. He knew only that he couldn’t go back into the room.

He hurried down the winding stairs, water streaming from his glasses, his feet slipping on the wooden planks. He was being reckless, he knew, but still he went faster and faster, growing dizzier and dizzier as he circled the great tree. Then he was on the forest floor and walking quickly, not knowing or caring where, pushing his way through the thickets of ferns as his feet sank in the mud, his arms locked around the Chronicle, his heart thudding.

After a while, he realized he was hearing, through the constant shushing thrum of rain, the faint sound of voices. It was the singing that he and Emma had heard before—the death song of the elves. Michael hurried toward it. Soon, lights appeared, wavering among the trees, and he came upon a procession. Thirty or more elves, wearing dark cloaks and carrying candles (whose flames seemed somehow impervious to the rain), were moving slowly through the forest. Michael hid behind a tree and watched them pass. Once again, the song comforted him, and he felt his panic begin to ebb. Then, just as the elves disappeared among the trees, the rain stopped.

Michael stood there, taking long, deep, slow breaths, and listening to the water drip from the branches. He put his hand to his chest and his heart was no longer pounding. He found himself fingering the lump of glass under his shirt. It occurred to him that the time must be well past midnight. He was thirteen. By any measure, he was now the eldest Wibberly.

He took the marble from around his neck and placed it on a thickly knotted root. Michael stomped down and felt the glass crunch beneath his heel. There was a hissing, and Michael stepped back as a silvery-gray mist rose into the darkness. The outlines of a figure began to take shape, the smoke molding itself into feet and legs, a torso, arms, shoulders, a head. And, as Michael watched, the swirling mist resolved into the familiar features of his father.

The misty figure was identical in every way—how he was dressed, the glasses he wore, the shagginess of his hair and beard, even the fatigue in his eyes—to the figure Rourke had produced before the fortress walls. The only difference was that the figure before him was made of nothing but smoke. Michael could see straight through him to the trees beyond.

“Incredible,” the figure murmured, gazing at its own ghostly hands, its voice thin and echoey, as if coming from far away. “It actually worked. But then …” The figure turned and caught sight of Michael. “Oh my … are you … you can’t be … Michael?”

Michael nodded. At the moment, nodding was all he could manage.

“But … you … you’re so big!”

Michael had been holding himself perfectly still. He hadn’t known what to expect when he’d smashed the orb, but finding himself face to face with his father—or some version of his father—for the second time in as many days had left him reeling.

“Oh, my boy—” And the figure rushed forward, as if to embrace him. Michael didn’t have time to move, and anyway, it proved unnecessary, as the specter passed right through him. Michael turned and saw the figure standing two feet behind him, looking confused and a little embarrassed. “Well … that was stupid.”

“Listen—” Michael knew he had to regain control of the situation.

“Are we in some sort of forest?”

“What? Yes, but—”

The figure waved its hand impatiently. “Never mind that now. There’re things I have to tell you. This may be difficult to believe, but I am in fact—”

“I know who you are.”

“You do? You mean you recognize me? How could you remember—”

“I saw a picture.” Michael had recovered, though his voice was still shaky. “What kind of proof can you offer that you are who you … look like?”

“Proof? You mean like ID of some kind?”

“I don’t know! I just need proof!” Michael felt himself becoming frantic. “How do I know you’re my dad?”

“Well, as it happens, I’m not.”

Of all possible responses, this was not one that Michael had seen coming, and it momentarily checked his rising panic.

“Is your father a strange, smoky apparition? No. Your real, flesh-and-blood father is somewhere else. At least, I hope he is. I’m a reflection of Richard; only instead of reflecting just his face, I reflect everything: how he looks, his memories. For instance, I remember the last time I saw you—or rather, he saw you. It was Christmas Eve, ten years ago, he carried you and Emma out of the house and into Stanislaus’s car. You were both sleeping. And both so small.” The figure was quiet for a moment, then said, “And I have his thoughts and feelings. If he was here now, looking at you, he’d be thinking exactly what I’m thinking.”

“What’s that?” Michael asked hoarsely. “Just … out of curiosity.”

“How much he wished to have seen you grow up.” The figure stepped closer. “Michael, in giving you up, your mother and I did what we thought was best. But every day for the past ten years, we’ve lived with the pain of our decision. Compared to that, captivity was easy.” The figure shrugged. “Is that proof enough?”

Michael was frozen with uncertainty. He wanted to believe that this was his father, or a reflection of him, but how could he be sure?

“So you have all my dad’s memories?”

“That’s right. Ask me anythi—”

“Who is King Killick?”

“… I’m sorry?”

“Who’s King Killick? If you’ve got my dad’s memories, you should know. I’ll give you a hint. He’s a famous elf king.”

The figure stared at him, a confused look on its face. “I … have no idea.”

Michael felt something crumble inside him.

There, he told himself, that’ll teach you to hope.

“Of course,” the figure continued, “if you’d asked about the dwarfish King Killick, that’d be another matter. But I’ve never heard of an elf named Killick. Seems odd for an elf to have a dwarf’s name—”

“What—”

“There’s actually a quote of Killick’s I’ve never forgotten. The dwarf Killick, I mean. He said, ‘A great leader lives not in his heart—’ ”

“ ‘But in his head,’ ” Michael finished.

“Exactly! You know it too! Then why did you think Killick was an— Oh, I see, you were testing me! So, have I passed?”

Michael nodded; he didn’t trust himself to speak.

“Good.” The figure knelt before Michael. “Then here’s what I have to tell you. Your mother and I have escaped. How and who helped us aren’t important. We’re sending you and your sisters this message so you know we’re okay. We think we know where one of the books is hidden, and we’re going to look for it—”

“But you don’t have to!” Michael blurted. “I’ve already got it!”

“What’re you talking about?”

“We went to see Hugo Algernon! We found the tomb in Malpesa! We came to Antarctica! I’ve got the Chronicle! See?”

He held out the book. The figure reached for it, then stopped. Tendrils of smoke rose from the tips of its fingers. “Oh dear.”

“What’s happening?” Michael asked.

“I’m running out of time. This body isn’t built to last. Listen to me.” The specter placed its evaporating hands on Michael’s shoulders. “That’s wonderful that you have the Chronicle. But we’re looking for the last book.”

“The last—”

“If we fail, listen, if we fail, or if you find it before we do, don’t let Stanislaus bring all three books together. They must be kept separate. We’ve learned things. They may or may not be true, but it’s not worth taking the chance.” Michael started to speak, but the figure cut him off. “You don’t have to understand. Just promise me.”

Michael nodded. He could see through the figure more and more clearly.

“But … you can’t go.…”

“I’m afraid I don’t have much of a choice. I can’t tell you how proud I am of you, and how proud your actual father would be, if he were here now.”

Michael couldn’t believe that this was it. There was so much he wanted to ask, so much he wanted to say. Then Michael realized that anything he told the apparition would vanish when the apparition vanished. It would be like whispering to the wind.

“I lost the Omnibus.”

“What?”

“The Dwarf Omnibus. You gave it to me the night Dr. Pym took us away. I’ve been keeping it all this time. I wanted to give it back to you. But I lost it. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, my boy, that doesn’t matter. Honestly.”

But Michael was shaking his head. He knew he was avoiding the thing he had to say. He took another breath.

“I … betrayed … Kate and Emma.” The words were heavy and stuck in his throat; he had to push them out. “Last year, in Cambridge Falls, I betrayed them to the Countess. She promised she would find you and Mom. She lied, of course. And I knew … I knew what I was doing. But after, it was so awful. It hurt so much, I just … I never wanted to feel like that again. I never wanted to feel anything again.…”

He was crying quietly, and he wiped his hand across his face, which was still wet from the rain. The figure said nothing.

“But the Chronicle,” Michael went on, “it makes you feel things! And I don’t want to! I can’t! No one understands that! I just can’t!”

Then he dropped his gaze and clutched the book even tighter to his chest.

“Michael.” The figure had to say his name twice more before he looked up. “That quote from King Killick, do you know why I’ve never forgotten it?”

“Because,” Michael said thickly, “it … makes good dwarfish sense?”

“No. Because it was how I used to be. Before you and your sisters. Before your mother. I lived entirely in my head.”

“And it was better, right?” Michael said. “Things hurt less?”

“No! I mean, yes, I felt less pain. But the point of life isn’t to avoid pain. The point of life is to be alive! To feel things. That means the good and the bad. There’ll be pain. But also joy, and friendship and love! And it’s worth it, believe me. Your mother and I lost ten years of our lives, but every minute of every day we had our love for you and your sisters, and I wouldn’t trade that for anything. Don’t let the fear control you. Choose life, son.”

Then the figure put its ghostly arms around him, and Michael closed his eyes, and it seemed that his father’s shade became more solid, more real. Michael could feel his father’s chest against his cheek, hear the beating of his heart, and then Michael opened his eyes, and he was holding nothing but air.

Suddenly, he was aware of a golden glow, and he turned and saw the elf princess. She wore a cloak with the hood thrown back, and her hair shone in the darkness.

“Were you … watching?”

She nodded, unashamed. “Yes.” She stepped forward and took his hand. “Come with me.”

“Why?”

“I am going to show you how to bring back your sister.” Hand in hand, Michael and the elf princess raced through the forest. Wilamena led the way, the sodden arms of the ferns swinging back to let her pass before closing on Michael and drenching him, which they did again and again. He hadn’t asked where she was taking him, nor had she offered any hints, and so it was a surprise when they arrived at the canyon wall and Michael saw a dozen cloaked figures standing about with candles. He recognized them from the procession through the forest, and indeed, they were still singing, though so quietly now that Michael had to strain to hear the song. The figures were gathered before a triangular crevice, and, as Michael watched, one of the elves extinguished his candle, stepped into the crevice, and disappeared.

“My people came to this valley thousands of years ago,” the princess whispered, “when all was ice and snow. Have you not wondered why we chose to make such a wasteland our home?”

Michael thought about saying that he couldn’t begin to fathom the workings of an elf mind; then he decided that the correct answer was “Yes.”

“We came,” Wilamena said, “because our race is drawn to the places where the mortal world and the spirit world overlap. Imagine two circles, their edges touching, and a narrow space that belongs not to one world or the other but to both. That is what exists in this valley. What exists here.” And she nodded at the crevice in the wall.

“You mean,” Michael said, “that cave takes you into the land of the dead?”

“Yes and no. The true land of the dead is a place the living do not venture. The cave leads to the in-between place, where the circles touch. And there the dead can come to us. Did you not feel this when you first entered the valley? A presence you could not explain?”

And Michael realized that he had felt it, that when he and Gabriel and Emma had come into the valley, he’d had the sense that they were not alone, that something was looking over their shoulders, but he’d dismissed the feeling as nerves.

He watched as a cloaked elf extinguished her candle and entered the crevice.

“What are they doing?”

“They go to say farewell to those who died in battle. None can stay long in that place, but there is time enough to say the things that must be said. Then each will return to their own world, the living to the living, the dead to the dead.”

Michael looked at the elf princess. “I should have tried to bring them back. The elves who died. I should’ve used the Chronicle. I wasn’t thinking. I’m so sorry.”

Wilamena shook her head. “Death is part of nature. This was their time, and they died bravely. Your sister is different. Her journey among the living is not yet finished.” She looked toward the crevice. “And if the enemy will not allow her to come here, then you must go there.”

Michael understood. He swallowed and tightened his grip on the Chronicle. “Does Dr. Pym know about all this?”

“Certainly, he knows of this place, but he does not know I have brought you here. Indeed, in counsel with my father and the elders, he has spoken against sending you into the Fold.”

“The Fold?”

“That is what we call the place where the worlds overlap. The wizard knows you must travel there alone, and that he would have no power to protect you. He is searching for a safer way to free your sister; but there is no safer way.”

“Why do I have to go alone? What about the elves who’re already in there?”

“You will not see them. Even if you and I were to enter side by side, we would find ourselves far apart. You might discover yourself in a city, while I would be on a vast, empty field. The Fold changes for each of us and is always different.”

Michael felt that the more she told him, the more confused he became. He just wanted to know one thing. “How do I find Kate?”

“Simply hold the idea of your sister in your mind, and she will come to you. But be warned: others have stayed too long and been unable to find their way back. You must be quick, Michael.”

“That’s the first time you’ve called me by my name.”

Wilamena smiled. “I think you are not a rabbit anymore.”

Michael looked at her, and the memory of that brief time when he had shared her life came back to him. He remembered the darkness and despair she’d suffered during her long years as a prisoner, but he also recalled the deep, unquenchable joy she took from the world around her; and he knew that given the choice, Wilamena would suffer through all she had and more rather than sacrifice one day of being alive.

It was just as his father had said. She chose life, all of it.

Then Michael did something that surprised even him. He leaned in and kissed the elf princess. Her lips were soft, and he couldn’t tell if it was magic or not, but he felt a warmth spreading over his cheeks and ears, down his neck, and across his chest. He said, “Thank you,” and turned and walked past the gathered elves and into the cave, taking the warmth of the kiss with him.

After only a few feet, he could see nothing but blackness. He stumbled repeatedly on the rocky floor but continued creeping forward, one hand held out before him, the memory of Kate clear and strong in his mind. Then, in the distance, Michael perceived a dim gray light. He made for it, and the darkness around him faded, and the floor became smooth. He realized he was no longer in a cave, but a corridor of some kind.

Then Michael stepped into the light and gasped.

He was standing in the great hall of an old stone church. He took in the rows of columns, the stained-glass windows, the vaulted ceiling. Strangely, instead of pews, there were lines of cots running down the center aisle. The church appeared to be empty.

Then Michael heard, faint and echoing, the sound of a violin.

Emma woke and knew that something was wrong. She sat up and looked about. Her room was similar to her sister’s, but in a different tree, several hundred feet away. Pulling on a pair of soft leather shoes (a gift from the elves, as she had lost a boot in the volcano), Emma walked out onto the branch that served both as a balcony and a bridge to the rest of the forest. Water was pooled all about. More dripped from the trees. Clearly, there’d been a rainstorm. How had it not woken her? Emma had the terrible thought that she’d slept through an entire day and into the next night.

She started off toward the tree where she’d left her brother and sister. She forced herself to go slowly, as the branches were slick with rain and the night was murky and black. Arriving in Kate’s room, she found her sister exactly as she’d left her, and Michael nowhere to be seen. But standing beside Kate’s bed was Gabriel. He looked to be completely recovered from his injuries, and as he turned, Emma ran forward and hugged him. She said his name over and over, and he held her and she felt safe in a way she had not felt since she’d arrived at the elf village; and even the darkness about them seemed to recede just a little.

Emma stepped back and wiped her eyes.

“What’re you doing here? I thought you were still asleep!”

“I woke and was much better. When I heard about your sister, I had to come.”

Still holding Gabriel’s hand, Emma knelt beside the bed. Her sister’s brow was smooth. Death had erased the furrow of worry.

“Where’s Michael? He’s supposed to be here.”

Gabriel shook his head. “There was no one here when I arrived.”

“Something’s wrong. I knew it. Michael should be here.”

Gabriel was silent for a long moment. It was as if he were listening to something far away; though all Emma could hear was the steady dripping of rain. “I think he has gone to try and bring back your sister.”

“But he already did that! He tried writing her name in the book and he couldn’t!”

“There is another way. A dangerous way. He can seek out her spirit directly. The wizard could have shown him how.”

“What? Why wouldn’t he tell me?”

“No doubt he was trying to protect you.”

“But she’s my sister too! We gotta find them!”

“Come then. I know where to look. It may be they need our help.”

Emma leaned down and whispered to Kate that she loved her and would be back soon, then she rose, and she and Gabriel hurried from the room.

Michael followed the music down the nave of the church past the rows of cots and through a door in the back wall. He found himself at the base of a tower. In the middle of the floor, a large bell lay on its side, its iron shell cracked in two. A rickety-looking wooden staircase spiraled upward along the walls. Michael stood there, listening to the song of the violin echoing through the tower; then he began to climb.

The elf princess had said that the Fold was different for everyone. But where had this old church come from? And what did it mean? Was he right in following the music? Would it lead him to Kate? And who, he wondered, was playing it?

The staircase ended, and Michael found a ladder leading through a trapdoor in the ceiling. Tucking the Chronicle under his arm, Michael headed upward, emerging onto a wide wooden platform atop the tower. Stone columns around the edge of the platform supported a peaked roof, and three iron bells hung suspended in the rafters. There was a hole in the center of the floor where, presumably, the fourth bell had fallen through. The church stood in an endless field of mist.

Am I still in the cave? Michael wondered. Or am I somewhere else?

He felt confused and frightened and very alone.

Kate was nowhere to be seen. But he had found the source of the music.

A boy, a few years older than Michael, with unruly dark hair and dressed in worn, vaguely old-fashioned clothes, stood at the edge of the belfry, playing a battered violin. His fingers were dirty, but he played with an easy, fluid precision, and his eyes were closed, as if he was lost in the music. Michael stood there, unsure, waiting.

The song died away; the boy lowered the violin.

“My mother taught me that. I used to play it for her. My name’s Rafe.”

“I’m Michael.”

“I know.”

“What … what is this place?”

“The church?” The boy reached out to one of the columns supporting the roof. There was something sad and loving in the way he touched it. “This is a place that no longer exists in the living world. It was where I came to know your sister. The Fold—to use the elves’ word—can be manipulated if one has the will and power. When I felt you coming, the church seemed an appropriate choice. But perhaps it’s merely sentimental.”

He looked at Michael; his eyes were a startling shade of green, and Michael knew then who he was, and that he was not a boy at all; he was their enemy.

“Where is she?”

“Behind you.”

Michael turned. A large desk stood where none had stood before, and his sister lay upon it, wearing the same high-necked, white lace dress that Michael remembered. Her eyes were closed, her face pale, and her hands were folded on her chest. He walked over and touched her arm. It was solid; she was real.

“You’re keeping her here, aren’t you?”

“Yes. I am.”

“Why?”

“I think you know the answer to that.”

Michael said nothing. He sensed the boy had come up behind him.

“My followers in the living world have preserved my physical body for decades. They are waiting for it to rise. For me to rise. As Keeper of the Chronicle, you have the power to restore me to life. Release my spirit, and I will release your sister. Otherwise, she stays with me.”

Michael felt a cold weight settle in his stomach. This was why Dr. Pym hadn’t wanted him to come here. He’d known that Michael would be faced with this exact choice: either to bring his sister back and also bring back the Dire Magnus, or to leave Kate trapped in the land of the dead, forever.

Only there was no choice, not for Michael. He didn’t care if the Dire Magnus returned to life and regained all his old power. He didn’t care that he would be responsible for all that happened afterward. Kate was what mattered; she was all that mattered. Michael would bring back the Dire Magnus a hundred times over if his sister would just open her eyes and speak to him.

And perhaps that was what the wizard had truly feared.

It seemed to Michael he could hear another violin in the distance, playing a different song from before, one that was both faster and more haunting, less human.

“Come. Make your decision.”

“I already have.” Michael opened the Chronicle on the desk and snapped the stylus free from the brackets.

“Your hands are shaking. There’s no need to be scared.”

“I’m not.” It was true: he wasn’t. The shaking was nerves, the knowledge that he was doing something both momentous and wrong, but which he couldn’t help. He wanted his sister back and he would pay any price. And letting the Dire Magnus return to the world was only part of the cost. Michael knew that everything he’d experienced before—Emma’s feelings of betrayal, the elf princess’s despair at her long imprisonment, the Guardian’s guilt and madness—was nothing compared to the darkness and hatred he would find inside the Dire Magnus; and the moment he called on the magic of the Chronicle, all that darkness, all that hatred, would become his. There was no way he wouldn’t be changed.

Michael knew all that, and again, he didn’t care.

He held his thumb on the table and pricked it with the stylus. He turned to the boy. “Release Kate. Then I’ll bring you back.”

The boy smiled. “This isn’t a negotiation. I go first, or I take your sister away to a place where you can’t follow, and that will be the end.”

“How do I … how do I know you’ll let her go?”

The boy who called himself Rafe reached out and gently moved the hair off Kate’s forehead. “Because I want her to live just as much as you do.”

And Michael looked at the boy’s shining green eyes and believed him.

The boy gripped Michael’s arm, his voice suddenly cold and commanding. “Now write my name.”

And Michael set the tip of the stylus on the page and wrote, in smoking, bloody letters, The Dire Magnus.…

The next instant, he was a man, lean and hawk-featured, but with the same startling green eyes, living in a dusty, war-torn land. The man was a village sorcerer; he was hard and proud, but Michael felt his love for the people he protected, and for his own young family, his wife and child, and indeed, Michael felt that they were his people, his family. And when the man returned home to find his village burned, his family murdered, it was Michael’s heart that turned black with hatred and guilt. Together, Michael and the man hunted down and punished the men responsible, and Michael reveled in the suffering the man caused, that he caused; and when their revenge had been taken, the man’s rage then turned upon all men, all humans, and Michael felt himself burning with the same anger.…

Michael gripped the stylus tight in his fist; he was trembling badly, struggling to hold on to himself.…

The magic pulled him down once more.…

He was old. He had traveled far, learned much, gained more power, and now he was dying. It was night; there was a fire, and Michael stared across the flames at a boy with emerald-green eyes, and heard himself, in a hoarse, wavering voice, speak of three books of unfathomable power, and tell the boy that they, that he—for the man and boy were one—would use the Books to change the world. Then the man took a knife and drew it across his own throat, and Michael became the boy.…

More time passed. The boy who had sat across the fire was long dead, his bones dust. Yet still he was alive, just as the first man was alive, as Michael was alive, in the body of another, a man with the same blazing green eyes. The man was whispering in the ear of a youthful conqueror as they sacked a city on the sea; and Michael stalked through streets filled with fire and screaming, and he felt a terrible, high joy at being so near his goal. And then Michael and the man descended to the vaults below the tower and found the Books already gone, and Michael felt a thousand years of anger rise up and consume him.…

Michael felt himself falling deeper and deeper into darkness, and there was nothing he could do to stop it, no part of himself he could cling to.…

Centuries passed. The world changed. Michael died and was reborn, died and was reborn. The Books eluded him, but he gained power, and with power, followers. And with every year that passed, Michael felt the faces of the first man’s wife and child becoming more and more blurred and indistinct.…

He was another man, this one tall and fair-haired, but with the same emerald eyes, carrying inside himself half a dozen lives, half a dozen deaths, and he was listening to a prophecy about three children who would find the Books and bring them together. Three children who would be sacrificed so that a new world might come into being.…

And more deaths, more lives. Michael became aware of a strain inside the man, inside himself, as each life was coupled to the one before.…

Then Michael was an old man, older than he had ever been. His bones were twisted, his breath weak and watery. He stood in a candlelit ballroom, surrounded by dark figures. Then the crowd of figures parted, and a boy stepped forward. Michael recognized Rafe, and saw he held Kate in his arms, and a forgotten part of Michael came alive at the sight of his sister; she was wounded, bleeding, and Rafe was trading himself for Kate, his life for hers, and there was anguish in the boy’s face; then suddenly Kate was gone, and it was happening again, Michael was dying, and he felt the Dire Magnus’s spirit attaching itself like a cancer to the boy’s soul.…

But something was different from all the times before, and the difference, Michael realized, was in Rafe.

“That will do, I think.”

The stylus was plucked from Michael’s hand. He collapsed against the desk, gasping and covered in sweat. He felt as if he’d been poisoned. Hatred and anger still coursed through his body. He struggled to stay on his feet.

The boy’s green eyes glittered. “Did you enjoy your trip through my various lives? I imagine it was a bit overwhelming. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this, Michael. But before I go—” He clenched his hand, and the stylus snapped.

“What’re you—”

“Oh, I fully intend to let you bring Kate back to life. Just not today. I need to take care of a few things first, and I can keep a closer eye on her down here. You, however, should leave. I would say that you’ve already stayed too long.”

The boy was fading from sight, becoming misty and insubstantial. Michael lunged forward, but his hand passed through the boy’s arm. “Stop! Please!”

“Goodbye, Michael. We’ll meet again soon.”

The pieces of the stylus clattered onto the floor, and Michael was alone. He scrabbled at the fragments, but the tower shook, and one of them rolled away, disappearing between the boards of the platform. Michael let the remaining shards fall from his hand. It was hopeless. He looked and saw the mist rising up and rolling in waves toward the church. He’d failed. More than that, he’d made things worse. And how could he bring Kate back now? What would he tell Dr. Pym? What would he tell Emma? He turned to the desk and took Kate’s hand. It was cold.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I tried. I really did.”

Michael felt a darkness welling up inside him, and his despair turned to rage. This wasn’t fair! This shouldn’t be happening! Not to Kate! Not to him! It was Dr. Pym’s fault! It was their parents’ fault! They should be the ones here! He wished they were dead, not—

A voice spoke inside his head: The book will change you. Remember who you are.…

That’s … not me, Michael thought. That’s the Dire Magnus. It’s not me.

And he looked at his sister’s face, focused on her, and he felt the rage and the darkness recede. It was still there, deep inside him, the same way the other memories were there, Emma’s and the Guardian’s and Wilamena’s, but he remembered who he was.

Seconds passed. Michael knew he needed to go, but he wouldn’t leave his sister. Indeed, he couldn’t. He’d used the last of his strength beating back the Dire Magnus’s poison. That, on top of everything else—the loss of Kate, the meeting with his father, Michael’s simple, human exhaustion—it was too much; he was finished; and something in his chest seemed to crack open, and all the feelings he’d been bottling up for months, all the guilt and the sadness and the shame, came surging forth.

Michael rested his head against the still-open book and sobbed.

Sometime later—a few seconds, an eternity—he heard a strange sort of hissing. Michael rose up and wiped his eyes. His tears were sizzling on the page. Nor was that all. The book itself was on fire. Flames licked around the edges of the cover; they crawled across the page, but the book, and Michael’s hand that rested on the book, remained unharmed. Michael pulled his hand away, and the flames died.

For a long moment, he was too stunned to have any thoughts at all.

Then the tower shuddered, the bells clanged, and his brain jolted to life. He thought about the pattern of flames carved into the book’s cover, the way the letters would bubble and smoke when he wrote someone’s name; he thought of the wizard saying, You have a fire inside of you.

Did that mean he had caused the flames? Or had the book sensed something in him and the flames were its response? Either way, somehow, without using his blood, without the stylus, he’d tapped into the power of the Chronicle. And he’d done so, he sensed, at a deeper level than ever before.

But what good did it do him? Without the stylus he couldn’t write Kate’s name.

Another memory came to him. He was in the elf village, and Dr. Pym was saying that the stylus was a crutch, nothing more. At the time, Michael had had no idea what he’d meant. But what if—Michael felt the excitement of the idea surging through him—what if the stylus was like the photos they’d first used to tap into the power of the Atlas? Eventually, Kate had been able to command the Atlas at will. Could the same be true here? Could the stylus be just a means of accessing the Chronicle’s power until one had mastered its workings? He thought about the fact that the Dire Magnus, having broken the stylus himself, still meant to bring Kate back to life. The stylus couldn’t be the only way of using the Chronicle!

The tower shook. Fingers of gray mist slithered over the lip of the platform.

Michael placed his hand on the open page and focused all his attention on his sister. He was seeing things with an eerie, perfect clarity. He realized that all the time the Chronicle had flooded him with the feelings of others, of Emma and the Guardian and Princess Wilamena, it had wanted his feelings, his heart. On some level, Michael suspected that he’d known this all along, that this was the reason he’d tried so hard to push the Chronicle away. Except that the Chronicle was his responsibility; Michael understood that now and accepted it. Remember who you are. I’m Michael Wibberly, he thought. I’m the brother of Kate and Emma. And he reached down to the feeling that formed the very bedrock of his life, his love for his sisters, and offered it up.

His eyes were closed, but he heard the whup of flames.

Suddenly, Michael found himself in a high-ceilinged, narrow-windowed room filled with twenty or more beds in neat rows. There were Christmas decorations on the walls, and Michael recognized the dormitory of the orphanage in Boston where he and his sisters had lived just after their parents had disappeared. Kate held Emma in her lap, and Michael saw himself, three years old and already wearing glasses, sitting at the end of her bed. Kate was telling them that one day their parents would return and they would all have Christmas together but that Michael and Emma had to believe it would happen, that only then would it come true. Kate was five years old, and Michael marveled at her strength.…

He was in Richmond, Virginia, the orphanage in Boston having burned down years before. Their parents still had not returned. Their Richmond orphanage was in an old tobacco warehouse on the banks of the James River. It was summer, and Kate had taken her brother and sister to the river, and they were splashing each other and leaping from high rocks into a deep pool, and Michael felt Kate’s own happiness at seeing her brother and sister happy and carefree.…

Then they were in a different orphanage, this one next to a fancy private school, and Kate was sneaking them into the school’s library to read them stories in the dark, empty corners of the stacks.…

And he was with Kate as she fought with one orphanage director after another who tried to split them up; he stayed up with her half the night before his and Emma’s birthdays, putting together presents that she had worked on and saved for month after month, all so that he and Emma would have something special to open; Michael saw the million small ways she tried to make their lives a little better, most of which he’d never acknowledged or had taken for granted; and though the orphanages changed, and they all grew older, Michael felt how Kate’s love for her brother and sister remained as strong and constant and fierce as ever, and he understood that there was nothing he could do to lose it, and when he took his hand away from the book, his vision was blurry with tears, and he watched as his sister’s body grew faint and ghostly and, finally, disappeared.

He stood there taking long, ragged, trembling breaths. He felt emptied out, but also complete. The Dire Magnus’s darkness no longer threatened to rise up and consume him. His sister had given him new strength; more than that, she was his strength.

The tower swayed and shuddered. Mist clawed at his ankles, and Michael knew he had to go. Snapping the book closed, he raced for the trapdoor. He leapt down the tower stairs three at a time. When he reached the bottom, he heard a crashing and splintering from above and knew that one of the bells had broken free. He didn’t look up but kept running and was already in the great hall when there was a deafening clang and the floor shook beneath his feet. The church was disintegrating, the walls and ceiling fading into mist. On either side of him, past the rows of cots, there was nothing but fog, stretching on and on. He could still see the doorway that led to the tunnel, and he raced toward it as the floor turned to smoke.

Michael dropped to his knees just beyond the mouth of the crevice, taking gulps of cool, clean air. He had stumbled along in darkness, tripping again and again on the rocks that jutted up from the tunnel floor. Finally, there’d been a light in the distance, and he’d made for it, knowing what it was, knowing who it was. Now the golden glow was all about him as the elf princess leaned close and her shining hair fell forward.

“Are you all right? Are you hurt?”

Michael felt her hand on the back of his neck, and he sensed the other elves waiting nearby. He stood slowly, uncertain of his legs.

“Yes. I’m okay.” But his hand trembled as he adjusted his glasses.

“Did you find your sister? Did you bring her back? Where is the stylus? What happened? Speak to me.”

Michael looked down at the Chronicle. His fingers were curled tight around the spine. Yes, the stylus was gone, but his connection to the book was stronger than ever. The Chronicle was a part of him now. He looked at the elf princess.

“I need to see her.”

Hand in hand once more, Michael and the elf princess hurried through the forest. The ferns were still wet from the rainstorm, and Michael was drenched all over again. When they reached the elf village, there were lights moving in the branches far above. The princess led him to his sister’s tree and up the spiraling stairs. Just outside her room, Michael stopped. The elf princess turned toward him, her face illuminated in the candlelight shining through the doorway.

“What is it?”

“What if …,” Michael whispered. “What if she’s not …”

Wilamena squeezed his hand and smiled. “Come.”

Two more steps brought him into the room, and there was Dr. Pym, bent forward over his sister, speaking softly; and there was Kate, sitting up, her eyes open, nodding as she listened; and Michael didn’t hear the cry that erupted from his throat, he only knew that a moment later, he was in his sister’s arms, sobbing; and he could feel Kate’s cheek against the top of his head, and he could hear the beating of her heart, and he could hear her voice saying his name, over and over.

Michael wanted to tell her how much he’d missed her, how much he loved her, that he had kept his promise, that Emma was safe, but he couldn’t speak; and finally, it was Kate who drew away. She put her hands on the sides of his face and lifted it so he was looking into her eyes. There were tears on her cheeks, but she was smiling.

“Michael, did you bring me back? Dr. Pym said you were the only one who could. How did you do it?”

Michael took a deep breath and wiped at his eyes. He could feel the wizard watching him. Kate was back; she was alive. It was time to face the consequences of what he had done. And he opened his mouth to tell them about the green-eyed boy, about the Dire Magnus, when the wizard said:

“I also am eager to hear the story. But let us save the explanations till Emma arrives. I sent for her as soon as Katherine began to stir. She should be here in a moment.”

“No. She is gone.”

And Michael and Kate and the wizard all turned to see Gabriel enter and step past the elf princess.

“I went to her room, but it was empty. She is gone.”

“Gabriel, are you sure this is the right place?” Emma asked.

“There’s no one here.”

“I am sure.”

They were at the edge of the clearing where, two nights before, Emma and Michael had watched the elves have their picnic, where Emma had been abducted by the dragon Wilamena, and where Rourke had built the portal to bring through his army.

The portal, its fire quenched, stood in the center of the clearing, half a dozen felled trees fashioned into a rough arch.

“We must be patient,” the man said.

Since leaving the elf village, Emma had several times been on the verge of mentioning her fear that no matter what they did, Kate was lost for good. Mostly, she just wanted to be reassured. But each time she thought of her sister, lying there so pale and still, it took all of Emma’s strength to keep from crying. And beyond that, there was something in her friend’s silence, some new unsettling quality, and it kept her from speaking.

Without warning, the wooden archway burst into flame.

Emma gasped. “Did you know that was going to happen?”

“Yes.”

“What’s it mean?”

“This portal leads to a stronghold of the Dire Magnus. It was from that stronghold that the army came through yesterday. And it is where, for decades, the body of the master has been preserved.”

Emma wanted to ask what master he was talking about, and what did some stupid portal have to do with bringing back her sister—she was confused and starting to feel a little bit scared—when, from deep in the forest, she heard shouting. Emma listened. Someone was calling her name. But the voice … It couldn’t be.…

Then a hand gripped her arm. There was a shimmer in the air.

And Emma saw that the face beside her was no longer her friend’s, and screamed.

Afterward, they put together what must’ve happened, how Rourke must’ve survived the fall from the fortress tower, how he must’ve entered the village under the cover of a glamour, disguised as Gabriel, and lured Emma away. It even came out that the pair had been seen heading into the forest.

But that was all later.

Immediately after Gabriel failed to find Emma, Wilamena roused the village, and elves streamed out into the valley. Word soon came back that the wooden archway in the clearing was on fire once again.

They were too late, of course. By the time Kate and Michael and the wizard arrived at the clearing—Gabriel had sprinted ahead with the elves—Emma was gone, and the wooden arch had collapsed into a smoldering jumble. Anton, the blue-eyed elf captain, had gotten there first, just in time to see Rourke carry a screaming, kicking Emma through the portal. He said there had been another figure as well, but it was strange, for at one moment the figure had seemed to be a man, and the next a boy. Both man and boy, the elf captain said, had the same startling green eyes.

Then Kate grabbed at Dr. Pym, crying, “It was him, wasn’t it? It was Rafe!”

But the wizard didn’t reply. For Michael had run forward and was pulling at the burning timbers with his bare hands and shouting his sister’s name, and the others had to come and lift him away.