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minutes, they ignored each other. Georgie continued messing around with her cigar box and her black tape, and Milo sipped his hot chocolate, acutely aware of the paperback tucked in his back pocket.
    When he’d emptied his mug, he finally spoke up. “Hey—Miss Moselle?” he asked awkwardly. “Can I get you anything? More hot chocolate?”
    â€œNo, thanks,” Georgie replied. “Don’t worry about me. And you can call me Georgie, if you want.”
    Milo paused on his way to the kitchen and looked at the box she was occupied with. “What is that, by the way?”
    She held it up. “Pinhole camera.”
    A camera? Made out of a cigar box? That was enough to distract him from both the empty mug in his hand and the book in his pocket. “What’s a pinhole camera?”
    â€œYou can make a camera out of just about anything,” Georgie said as she handed the box to him. “As long as there’s an opening for light and a surface to capture it and turn it into an image. Do you know anything about photography?”
    â€œNope.” Milo turned it over in his hands. Georgie had taped up all the edges, but there was a hole cut into the front of it. He tried to look inside, but all he could see was darkness.
    â€œThere’s nothing to see right now,” Georgie told him. “When I’m sure I’ve sealed up all the light leaks, I’ll put photo paper in there. That hole will be the aperture.” She took the box back and smiled at it. “I’ve always wanted to make one. I’ve just never tried before. Of course, this one isn’t finished yet, but I think . . . yes . . . I think it’ll work. It needs a name, though.”
    Milo laughed. “A name? For a camera?”
    â€œSure. All the coolest ones have great names. Hasselblad, Rollei, Voigtländer, Leica . . .” She held up the box between them as if her palm were a pedestal and declared, “I shall call it the
Lansdegown.
” She gave Milo a sharp, mock-accusing look. “Unless you think it doesn’t
deserve
a name. Unless, in your vast cigar-box-camera wisdom, you think it’s not
good enough.
”
    â€œNo, no, it does, it does.” He forced himself to look solemnly at the box. “Lansdegown it is. What’s it mean, though?”
    â€œLansdegown?” Georgie tilted her head. “Don’t you know?”
    He thought hard. “Nope.”
    â€œI bet you do,” she said with a little smile. “I bet you’ve just forgotten. See if you can remember what
lansdegown
means, and then you can tell me if you think it’s the right name for my camera.”
    Milo reached into his pocket and held out the paperback. Surely she wouldn’t be angry. She would understand it had only been a mistake. “I took this when we were cleaning up—I didn’t realize I had it in my hand. I meant to bring it back to you earlier,” he said, “but I forgot. I’m awfully sorry.”
    â€œAha! I thought I’d forgotten to pack it.” Georgie smiled. “No problem. You ever read it?”
    How odd. All that running around with this book, and he hadn’t even noticed what it was called. The cover was plain, just heavy red paper with the title stamped on it in gray letters. “
The Raconteur’s Commonplace Book,
” Milo read, pronouncing the unfamiliar word carefully. “I don’t think so. What’s a raconteur?”
    â€œIt’s an old-fashioned word for a storyteller. This is a collection of folklore from hereabouts. You might know some of the stories.” Georgie took the book and flipped through it, then handed it back open to the second chapter. “Know this one?”
    â€œâ€˜The Game of Maps.’” Milo shook his head again. “I don’t think so.”
    He held it out to her, but the blue-haired girl just waved her hand. “Read a few. See what