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translation, her vision doubled, and a strange image entered her mind: the silhouette of a woman, but none she knew. Strangely enough, a name pushed itself against her thoughts as well. Was that normal?
    She lowered the fortuity box and narrowed her eyes at him. “Who’s Lira?”
    Mg. Thane’s expression did not waver, nor did his stance, but for a moment Ceony could have sworn his eyes flickered dark and back. Only . . . no, they weren’t quite as bright as before. Perhaps it was the late-growing sun outside the library window, but she didn’t think so.
    He tapped two fingers against his chin. “Interesting.”
    “Who is she?”
    “An acquaintance,” he said, and he smiled, all in the mouth. “I think you may have a natural talent for this, Ceony, which is a benefit to both of us. Practice with that, and with the storybook—I’d like to see its full illusion by Saturday. In the meantime, why don’t you unpack your bags?”
    Mg. Thane said nothing more on the subject of the fortuity box. Instead, he walked to the door and poked his head out into the hall, shouting, “Breathe!” He waited a beat, and then called, “Jonto, would you come up here and help with this mess?”
    Ceony set the fortuity box on the table, wondering if Mg. Thane’s “mess” referred to the snowflakes, or to her.

C HAPTER 3

    C EONY , WITH P IP ’ S D ARING Escape tucked under her arm, picked up a few snowflakes herself until Jonto showed up at the door. Still somewhat unnerved by a live skeleton, regardless of its docile (and papyric) constitution, Ceony excused herself. She stowed one of the smallest snowflakes into her skirt pocket to take with her. For studying.
    Mg. Thane had already vanished into his bedroom, so Ceony vanished into hers as well. She set the book and her hat on the table, then hefted her suitcase onto the bed beside the beige capeline hat she had brought with her.
    The latches on the suitcase opened with two clicks. Her green student’s apron lay on top, a last-minute packing decision, just in case she needed it. She set it aside and pulled out her blouses and skirts, shaking each in an attempt to unwrinkle the fabric. Fortunately the paper magician had remembered hangers in the closet; Ceony took her time hanging up each item of clothing.
    She paused on the last skirt, her thoughts shifting from where on earth she would stow her under-things and pistol to the revelation about her scholarship. Fifteen thousand pounds . Where would she be today, if not for that money? Scrubbing some aristocrat’s floor, hoping she had saved enough to enroll in cooking classes?
    And why had Mg. Thane given the money to her in the first place? She had never met him before today—she would have remembered. The scholarship had no title, no recurrences. Ceony couldn’t believe she had merely been filtered through and selected due to good grades for a one-time donation, as he seemed to imply.
    Had she?
    What sort of man was Magician Emery Thane, to donate such a large sum to a complete stranger, and one he didn’t even request for apprenticeship?
    As Ceony returned to her suitcase, she began to wonder just how much a magician made. It must be a grand sum, unless Mg. Thane hoarded money the way he seemed to hoard all the other knickknacks in the house. Ceony hoped for the grand sum. She would feel terribly guilty otherwise. Perhaps it would be better not to pry, but he couldn’t stop her from thinking on it.
    For now, though, she’d put it aside and focus on the task at hand. She reached into her suitcase, filled now with her makeup, barrettes, journal, and a library card that would do her no good here, so far away from any library she knew, when again her thoughts took a turn. Her hand went to the turquoise dog collar wedged in the corner beneath her under-things. She held it up, running a thumb over its frayed ends, worn from too much chewing. She had taken Bizzy’s tag off yesterday and given it to her mother, who now looked