“It’s grand,” she said, surveying the glitter of velvets, snakeskins, and manny jewelry that covered nearly every surface. “Is that where you sleep?” She gestured up at Magpie’s little bunk.

“Aye, home sweet . . .” Magpie’s words trailed off when she saw that her patchwork curtain was yanked askew. “What the skive?” she growled, flying to it and not seeing how Poppy’s eyes widened in shock to hear her curse. Her book lay out on her quilt. She always put it under her pillow, and she always drew her curtain closed. She thought immediately of Lady Vesper. Her eyes narrowed and she sniffed the air, detecting in it a scent of intrusion. It wasn’t faerie, though, but creature. And there was a hint of something else, clean as snow and utterly foreign.

“Magpie,” said Poppy, who’d been watching with curiosity as the huntress awoke in her friend. “What is it?”

“Someone’s been in here,” Magpie answered, reaching for her book. She could feel her protective spells were still intact so she was startled when a slip of paper dislodged from the pages. It fluttered to the floor at Poppy’s feet, a trail of light unfurling behind it like the tail of a comet. Poppy picked the paper up and Magpie could tell her friend didn’t see the blaze-bright aura that hung on it, slower to fade than the brief traceries she’d seen that morning flying into Never Nigh. Poppy handed the paper to her and she took it and sniffed it like a feral creature.

The strange pure smell was strong on it. Wary, Magpie turned the paper over and read it, and the ferocity left her eyes and was replaced by puzzlement.

“What?” Poppy asked.

“This wasn’t in my book before,” she answered.

Poppy moved to her side and looked at the paper. It was writ in an elegant script.

Magruwen’s Favorite

To a batter of lily flour, oats, honey, and beetle butter, add:

(1) half walnut shell of fish’s tears
(3) strokes of tangled wind
(1) shadow of a bird in flight
(1,000) years of undreamed life

Stir together with twig from a lightning-struck tree and bake until a porcupine quill inserted in the center comes out clean. Place in a starling’s nest to serve.

“Magruwen!” exclaimed Poppy. “But . . . who put it there?”

“Flummox me,” Magpie said. “I haven’t told anyone but you and the tree why I’ve come!”

“Could the crows have put it here?”

“Neh. They’d just give it to me.”

“A mystery, Magpie!” Poppy said, excited. “And a riddle! What can it mean, a thousand years of undreamed life?”

Magpie puzzled on it. “Undreamed life? A life that hasn’t started yet, that hasn’t even been dreamed up . . .”

“But something you can bake into a cake?”

“Like an egg? There’s a life inside that hasn’t been dreamed up yet.”

“And will never be life, if you crack it into a cake.”