There was a little stream, somehow unfrozen in the ice, that ran and splashed and threw up tiny fountains of spray that sparkled like flying diamonds. And beyond the stream stood a man, calling us. He had an honest face and very bright blue eyes. He waved when he saw that we’d woken, and crossed the stream by jumping carefully from one rock to another. He looked tired. When he stood in front of us, he said, “I don’t need to ask who you are. There’s only one pair of girls on this mountain, I reckon. Here, I’ve got a letter for you.”

I thought I must be dreaming. But the paper he handed me—warm from an inside pocket—was real enough, so real that I recognized it as the note I’d scribbled in the mountain guide’s hut.

“But I wrote this,” I said, and my voice shook.

“Turn it over, miss,” he said.

I did—and leapt up straight away when I recognized the handwriting.

“Charlotte! Look! Miss Davenport!”

She sprang up too and leaned over to look at the note, and together we read it quickly.

It said:

My dear Lucy and Charlotte,

You may trust the bearer of this note with your lives. Please come down with him straight away. We shall discuss what is to be done when we are together. Lucy, your handwriting is atrocious. You must endeavor to correct it.

Your good friend,

Augusta Davenport

“Lucy, it’s her! It really is!” cried Charlotte.

I was nearly as delighted—but not quite. I pride myself upon my handwriting. I think it is distinguished, mature, and interesting.

“Well, shall we go, then?” said the man.

“Oh! Sorry—yes, of course!” I replied.

He was flapping his arms and stamping his feet, trying to look as if it was quite normal to be standing several thousands of feet up a snowy mountain.

“What is your name?” I said. “I’m Lucy, and this is Charlotte.”

“Max Grindoff,” he said, and we shook hands. He pointed to Herr Woodenkopf, beaming up at us from a boulder, his wig askew. “Good thing you set him up there,” he said. “I’d never have seen you else. He caught me eye as I came along—I couldn’t see you two at all, being as how you was lying down, like.”

Charlotte was overjoyed, and hugged Herr Woodenkopf tight. “See!” she said triumphantly. “I knew he was lucky!”

“I been having a rare old traipse about on account of you,” said Max. “Come along down and I’ll tell you what’s been going on. Are you the Princess, then?”

“Yes! But how do you know? Have you seen Doctor Cadaverezzi? Is he out of jail?”