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through the market, a few troglods shot her a curious look, but most of them continued bustling on their way, squabbling and bargaining, picking over the booths—which were, Liza saw, filled with all the little nips and bops that always seemed to get lost: stray socks and old keys; lipstick tubes and sunglasses; used Post-it Notes and packs of gum.
    Liza remembered what her father had once said: Glasses don’t just get up and walk away by themselves . And it was true. The troglods were walking away with them. She realized, with a jolt, that everything she had mysteriously lost over the years—her sheet of butterfly stickers in second grade, her favorite crystal barrette, the locket she had inherited from her grandmother—might very well have ended up here, at the troglod market.
    She realized, additionally, that she had seen a troglod before. She recognized the wrinkly brown backsides.
    â€œThere was a troglod in my yard only last week,” Liza burst out. They were nearing the end of the market, where it was a little quieter. “I thought it was a gnome.”
    The rat let out a peal of laughter. She whipped out a handkerchief and dabbed the corner of her eyes, which were smeary with mascara. “A gnome! Bless you. What an idea.”
    â€œSo … gnomes aren’t real?” Liza asked.
    The rat stared. “Of course they’re real . But who ever heard of a gnome living all the way down here? The gnomes are northern creatures. Wouldn’t be caught dead beneath the eleventh parallel.”
    Liza felt warmth flare in her stomach. So Anna had been right about the gnomes—they did like the cold.
    But that meant she had probably been right about the spindlers, too. The warmth drained out of her at once. She thought about the last time she had asked Anna what on earth the spindlers needed souls for—how Anna’s face had gone paper-white, how her eyes had gone blank and frightened, like someone suffering from a bad shock. How she had shaken her head sadly, without saying a word.
    The rat sensed her change in mood. “Come on,” she said, and scuttled on.
    Liza put a hand in her pocket and squeezed the baseball pressing into her thigh. And even though she was not Above, and was not standing with her face in the fir tree, she allowed herself to make a wish.
    This one I will tell you:
    Please, please, please. Let me rescue Patrick in time .

Chapter 6

T HE L UMER -L UMPEN
    T hey moved into an area of dense forest. All the trees were covered in layers of thick, green moss, as though they were draped with fuzzy blankets. The air smelled like wet, new earth, and Liza saw large, jewel-colored butterflies flitting through the trees. It was clear, however, that the path was well-traveled. Above their heads, the same pale, glowing lanterns were nestled among the canopy of vine- and moss-covered branches, which reminded Liza of long fingers encased in green woolen gloves, knitted tightly together.
    Every so often, the rat would stop abruptly, remove a cracked pocket mirror from her lunch box, and stare at her own reflection, while Liza danced impatiently behind her and bit back the urge to tell her to move on.
    Once the rat produced a tube of lipstick, which she slathered liberally over her pink lips, whispering, “Just a little more color …” Another time she removed a small makeup compact—Liza would have sworn it was one her mother had lost only a few weeks earlier—and patted and pouffed her face until she looked as though she had gone face-first into a snowdrift.
    With every minute that passed, Liza had a harder time controlling her impatience. Finally she couldn’t stand it any longer. “Excuse me,” she said. “I don’t mean to be rude, but—but—”
    The rat blinked at her expectantly. Her black eyes looked even darker above her powder-white nose.
    Liza faltered under the rat’s stare. “I mean it hardly seems