“If your door ever reappears, if you ever find yourself back in a world that you don’t want any part of, look up Eleanor West’s Home for Wayward Children, and see if you can get your parents to send you there,” said Christopher. “You’ll be with people who understand.”

The Baker frowned. “Right,” she said finally. “But that’s not going to happen, because I’m going to stay here forever.”

Cora and Christopher, who both knew better, exchanged a look, and said nothing. There was nothing appropriate to say.

“That’s lovely for you, miss, but we’d like to get back to school and back to the business of looking for our own doors,” said Kade politely. “Can’t you whip up a new batch of nonsense for Sumi, so we can put her all the way back together?”

“I don’t know how,” said the Baker, sounding frustrated. “Nonsense happens on its own. It’s in the air, the water—the ground.”

“Which is made of graham crackers,” said Cora.

“Exactly! It makes no sense, so it makes more nonsense. I can’t just whip up a batch of something that doesn’t have a recipe.”

“Can’t you improvise?” Cora shook her head. “Please. We’ve come so far, and we’ve already paid for this. Sumi needs help. Sumi needs a miracle. Right now, you’re the one who makes the miracles. So please.”

The Baker looked to each of them in turn, finally stopping on Rini, who was still weeping, even as she seemed less and less tethered to the world.

“All right,” she said. “I’ll try.”

*   *   *

WHEN THE BAKER had beckoned to Sumi, Sumi had gone willingly. How could she do anything else? This was the divinity of her chosen world calling her home, and even as a combination of skeleton and shade, she knew where she belonged.

Kade had helped the Baker lift Sumi up onto a long metal table that looked, if seen from the right angle, disturbingly like the autopsy table that used to occupy the basement, the one where a girl named Jack had slept and dreamed of a world defined by blood and thunder. Then he had stepped back, along with the others, and watched as she got to work.

The kitchen had no walls, and no pantry. When she needed something, she would step outside its bounds and reach down into the junkyard surrounding, coming up over and over again with the right ingredients in her hands. Eggs, milk, flour, butter, vanilla beans and ginger roots, they were all there, waiting for her to scavenge them out of the dust. She didn’t seem to understand that this was strange, that when the rest of them looked at the junkyard, they saw only failures, not the building blocks of new successes. This wasn’t their place. There was no question that it was hers.