A girl. She wears dark leathers and looks soaked to the bone. Which is strange, because you haven’t seen a rain cloud in days. Ratty hair hangs in dripping tangles across a pale forehead. A very pale forehead. You’ve never seen someone with skin so pale in all your life. Her eyes are like a pair of mismatched moons. You can’t help noticing how chaotically the girl’s chest is heaving, how insubstantially thin she seems compared to the solid wall behind her.

“Lost, sweetie?” you ask.

The girl ignores the question. “Who are you?”

“Pippa, of course.”

She squints at you. Then notices your horse. The sight of it widens her eyes.

“This is the world with the horses.”

All you can do is stare. The world with the horses? What is she, a fool?

“I’m sorry, but who let you in here?”

“The gods left the door open. I was the first one through.”

She grins at that, like she’s done something marvelously wicked. The words make so little sense that you find yourself repeating them slowly. “The gods left the door—”

But then you cut off as understanding strikes. Whatever your mother did. Whatever deal she struck with the Madness. This girl is the spirit your mother spoke about. She is here to help you if you’re wise enough to guide her into it.

“What’s your name?”

She stares back. “Quinn.”

“How’d you get here, Quinn?”

“I rode the lightning,” she says, like that makes all the sense in the world.

You remember the words your mother said. You remember what the spirit wants.

“Freedom,” you say softly. “Help me win, and I’ll give you your freedom.”

There’s a flash of bright blue. The girl vanishes from where she’s standing and appears on the back of your horse. She wraps her cold, ghostly arms around you.

“Deal.”

Chapter 21: Distraction

I stand, stretching my arms and shaking my legs loose. The attendant is waiting in one corner, gear piled in her arms. I look through my gear before nodding to her with satisfaction.

“I’m ready.”

She opens a lacquered wooden box. The inside’s been carved to make space for two particular items. Ayala explained both of them before the Races. One is less familiar than the other. The Ashlord lifts that object up. A sleek, black wristlet. It’s made of some kind of flexible leather. It stretches to slide over my hand before gripping back against my skin. I turn it around my wrist until the digital standings are faceup. Three empty slots glow in the early light:

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