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interesting question, Anastazia—”
    â€œMy name’s Quicksilver,” said Quicksilver sharply. “I answer to no other name.”
    The stranger knelt and lowered her hood. Quicksilver could not help but flinch at her grotesquely marred face—her bulbous, scarred nose, her mottled skin. “An interesting question,” she said again, ignoring Quicksilver. “But I don’t think it’s really thequestion you want to ask, is it?” Her eyes twinkled. “Odd and wonderful, how we land on the same name every time. Some things, I suppose, never change.”
    Sly Boots tugged on Quicksilver’s coat. “Let’s run. She’s worked some kind of magic on us. Where are we? Have we gone mad? Oh, stars help us. . . .”
    The stranger quirked an eyebrow. “The boy’s not wrong. Who is he, by the way? I’ve never met him before. He’s new.”
    â€œHow do you know . . .” Quicksilver’s voice shook and then gave out. She reached for Fox, and he bumped his cold nose against her palm.
    â€œYes, little thief? How do I know what?”
    Quicksilver looked into the stranger’s eyes and saw that they were violet as the near moon. Bright and sharp, they did not look as old as the rest of her, and there was something about those eyes—the shape of them, their mischievous light—that struck Quicksilver as familiar.
    Something uneasy fluttered in her stomach. “How did you do this? How did you make it—”
    â€œHow did I make it night?” The stranger waved her hand carelessly at the stars. “Even I can’t do that much. It was a simple spell that kept you and your breathless little friend immobileand hidden for a time, until I was ready to meet you.” The stranger’s eyes cut to Fox; the corner of her mouth twitched into something like a frown. “And your dog, of course.”
    â€œTeach me,” Quicksilver blurted, though it was not what she had meant to ask: Who are you? Why do you care about me and Sly Boots?
    How do you know my real name?
    â€œQuicksilver,” Sly Boots hissed, “what are you doing ?”
    The stranger smiled. “Why should I teach you anything at all?”
    Quicksilver’s words spilled out before she could stop them. “I’m the best thief in all the Star Lands.”
    â€œThen why should you need me?”
    Quicksilver wished Sly Boots were not hovering quite so close, and that he would stop whispering, “What’ll we do, what’ll we do ?” over and over.
    â€œBecause I want to really be the best thief,” said Quicksilver, flushing, “and not just say I am. Because I want to find out what happened with those wolves.”
    Because, whispered her deepest heart, I want to find my parents, and maybe magic will help me do it.
    She squared her jaw and tried to imitate the haughtiest ofAdele’s expressions. “Because I’m not afraid of witches.”
    The stranger’s smile was slow and horrid, revealing crooked black-and-yellow teeth. “Not yet, you aren’t.”
    Sly Boots squeaked something unintelligible.
    â€œWell?” Quicksilver insisted, though her throat was dry and Fox would not stop whimpering. “Will you do it?”
    â€œI will, and this very night too,” said the stranger, “if you can tell me this one thing.” The stranger leaned close, and her breath smelled not of rot, but of snow—crisp and clean. “How do I know your real name, little thief? Tell me, in three guesses’ time, and I’ll teach you everything you want to know, and more.”
    Then she stood, returned to her stool, arranged her cloak about her in voluminous folds of night, and waited.

.7.
T HREE G UESSES

    F or what seemed to Quicksilver like the longest stretch of time she had ever endured, she stood watching the stranger, and the stranger sat staring back at her.
    Sly Boots nudged her foot. “I