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afraid to see the look on Little’s face when she saw the ruined bear. Instead he pretended to be immersed in the map and handed the pillowcase to her without looking up.
    In truth it was not difficult to keep his attention on the map. The more he examined it the more spectacular a document it seemed to be. Every town and village, every dune and well and water hole had been carefully drawn and named, annotated with details of Baltinglass’s own travels in a fine pen. “Ahmet cures scorpion stings with fire,” read one tiny note, and another said, “Eat at the Hammam kebab houseif you have stainless-steel bowels.” There were tiny drawings of camels, their footprints marking out the desert trails, and even rough pen portraits of some of the characters that the explorer had met along the way. It was unlike any map Miles had ever seen, and he lost himself in it for some time.
    He became aware of Little kneeling on the chair beside him, examining the map with equal interest. She smiled and handed Tangerine to him. The bear’s head had been stitched back onto its rightful place. He appeared to have as much stuffing as he had had before—which was not a great deal—and his crooked smile was unchanged, but he flopped in Miles’s palm without a sign of life.
    â€œIs he . . . I mean, did you . . . ?” began Miles.
    Little shook her head. “I didn’t try, Miles,” she said. “The first time I sang him to life it was easier than I had expected. Now we know why, and I don’t think I could do it again while Doctor Tau-Tau has the Tiger’s Egg. Besides, with the Sleep Angels looking for us it’s better not to try. It might draw attention to us.”
    Miles nodded. He looked at the bedraggled bear that had been his constant friend for as long as he could remember, and forced a smile. “He’s just the same as he was to start with,” he said, trying to keepthe regret from his voice, and he replaced him carefully in his pocket, where he belonged. “Thank you,” he said to Little.
    There was a loud thump as Baltinglass of Araby heaved an enormous duffel bag out of the trapdoor and dumped it on the tiles. “That should do us,” he panted, mopping his brow with a large handkerchief. He climbed out after the bag and tapped his way to the table, where he deposited a pile of musty clothes. “Put them on you,” he said. “You should both find something to fit.”
    â€œWhere did they come from?” asked Miles.
    â€œThey were my own clothes when I was a nipper, and an even smaller nipper. Found ’em in my mother’s house when she passed on, and I never throw anything out.” He pulled up a chair. “Now,” he said, taking out his tobacco pouch and his pipe. “Did someone mention a Tiger’s Egg?”
    Little glanced at Miles. “That was me,” she said. “It’s a small stone that—”
    â€œÂ . . . contains the trapped soul of a tiger,” said Baltinglass before she could finish.
    â€œYou’ve heard of a Tiger’s Egg?” said Miles as he climbed into a pair of patched trousers.
    â€œHeard of it?” said Baltinglass. “I’ve heard every fib, fable and yarn that was ever told, and made up afew of my own into the bargain.”
    â€œThe Tiger’s Egg isn’t a fable,” said Little. “It’s what Cortado and Tau-Tau have stolen from Miles.”
    Baltinglass of Araby dropped his pipe and leaped to his feet. “Well, tan my trousers!” he yelled. “You mean I wasn’t just imagining jungle carnivores skating in my hallway? I thought that was just a touch of the old brain shivers coming back at me.”
    â€œThere really was a tiger,” said Miles, “and his soul is in Doctor Tau-Tau’s pocket.”
    â€œBells and bilgewater!” shouted Baltinglass. “This is worse than