“Oh, believe me, I’m not. But my mom’s great. What happened with my father wasn’t her fault.” I glanced at my watch. “We should get going. Ready?”

“Ready.” In the Honda, Sinclair pulled out a folded map of Pemkowet produced by the PVB. “I’ve mapped out a route that covers a lot of historical highlights.” He traced it with one finger. “That ancient librarian’s been a big help with the research. You know the one I mean? Looks like she’s a hundred and fifty years old? I think she actually remembers a lot of this stuff.”

“The Sphinx?”

He looked startled. “Is that what she is?”

“That’s what I’ve always heard.” I was curious. “What does her aura look like?”

Sinclair frowned. “It’s very . . . muted. I assumed it was because she’s so old. Sometimes that happens when people are near the end of their lives. But maybe it’s because she’s powerful enough to suppress it.”

“Is that how it works?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I’m learning as I go. If I’d stayed with my mother—” He fell silent.

Ohh-kay. I had a feeling it wasn’t a time to pry. “Don’t worry,” I assured him. “I’m making it up as I go along, too. I can’t guarantee this summoning will work, and even if it does, it could backfire. Asking fairies to conform to anything that resembles order is a lot like herding cats.”

He tapped the map on his thigh. At the risk of repeating myself, I have to say it was exactly the right kind of muscular. Must be all the bicycling. “Was it incredibly stupid of me to bring a map to show them?”

“Honestly?” I said. “I have absolutely no idea.”

The destination I’d chosen was an overgrown meadow behind a site just off the highway where a small motel had once stood. It had been condemned and torn down ages ago, and no one had developed the property since. The nature preserve might have seemed like a better bet, but at this time of day, there was a good chance of running into tourists, and I needed privacy.

We hiked past a stand of pine trees and into the center of the meadow, which was filled with indigenous plants and wildflowers—Queen Anne’s lace, chicory, butterfly weed, hawkweed, joe-pye weed . . . come to think of it, a lot of perfectly lovely flowers with rather unfortunate names. We even passed one of Mr. Leary’s writing spiders, almost as big as the palm of my hand, with vivid yellow and black markings, sitting in the center of its web. Sure enough, a zigzagging ladder bisected the spiral orb of its web. I checked discreetly to make sure nothing was written there.