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hold tight to the top of a wall that someone might want to climb.”
    From half a step behind me, I hear Shoe take a breath, as if he’s about to say something.
    â€œA grappling hook, you mean.” The Jack rubs his nose. “You got a requisition?”
    â€œNo,” I answer.
    â€œThen we can’t make you any hook.”
    â€œPin,” Shoe says in a low voice, a warning.
    â€œIt’s all right,” I say to him. Then to the Jack, “I thought you could make anything.”
    â€œWe can make anything,” the Jack protests. “But you’ve got to have a requisition!”
    In the center of the room, one of the Jacks wails; another one comes climbing down from the tall bed. One of the mattresses has sprung a leak; feathers swirl around them.
    â€œOh, curse it,” our Jack mutters. “Just a moment.” He scurries away to confer with the other Jacks.
    â€œI’ll be right back,” I say to Shoe, and I join the Jacks. A mattress at about head-height in the pile on the bed has split at its seam, which is still unraveling, and feathers are spilling out of it—bursting out—and floating down to the floor like snow. As I reach them, a seam on another mattress splits, and then another. The Jacks are frantically trying to stuff the feathers back into the mattresses, holding the unraveling seams together with their hands, wailing, arguing, blaming one another for the mistake.
    â€œCome on, lads,” our Jack orders. “The requisition says this must be ready tonight.”
    â€œIt’ll never be ready in time, Jack,” one of the other Jacks says, and sneezes as a bit of fluff goes up his nose. The tall stack of mattresses wavers as if it’s about to topple over.
    â€œOh, we’re in for it,” our Jack moans. “Our Overseer will be here soon. It’ll be the post for all of us.”
    The other Jacks moan, and a few of the younger onesstart to cry. Bits of feathers and fluff stick to their damp faces.
    â€œHave you got a needle and plenty of stout thread?” I interrupt.
    Our Jack glances aside at me and makes a shooing motion with his hands. “Go away,” he says. “You can’t help.”
    â€œSeamstress,” I tell him.
    He blinks. “Jack,” he orders, with a snap of his fingers. “Needle. Stout thread.”
    The fluff-covered Jack brings them, and a ladder. As I thread the needle, I push the other Jacks out of the way and climb the ladder. Here it doesn’t matter if my stitches are tiny and straight, and quick as a flash I stitch up the seams of the leaking mattresses. Then I run the thimble along each seam. I don’t know what its powers are, but perhaps this will help. “They’ll hold,” I say, hopping to the floor.
    Our Jack looks up at the teetering stack of mattresses. Then he gives me a brisk nod. “That was well done.” He lowers his voice. “You want that hook, do you?”
    â€œYes, I do,” I say. I can see it; the Jack has the same rebellious flame in his heart that I do. Just a spark, but it’s there. I give him a quick grin.
    He gulps. “When she catches you, don’t tell her it was us you got it from. Right?”
    â€œShe’s not going to catch me,” I say.
    â€œWell then,” the Jack says slowly. “We’ll make your grappler, right enough.”
    â€œThank you.” On my finger, the thimble gives a warningthrob, and I know it’s telling me that it’s time to go. “I’ll come fetch it soon,” I say, and I lead Shoe out into the hallway. This time I turn right, toward the sewing room, and Shoe falls into step beside me.
    He is furious. I can see it in the set of his shoulders, in the line of his jaw.
    â€œI have to try,” I explain. Hook or no hook, I am going to try. I stop and face him. “I have to escape from here.”
    â€œWhere?” he asks roughly. “Even if you