Thisbe and the other two started brainstorming more and more ideas, some of them a little extreme. But by the end of their session, Florence had a long list of things to work on with her most skilled component creators. “Just remember,” she said before she dismissed her pupils, “you only have so much room in your component vests. Too many spells might make it even harder for you to have the best mix in your arsenal. We need the exact right combination. And the number one thing that we need to figure out is how to stop the Revinir.”

The young mages still didn’t have the first clue how to do that. And despite the progress they’d made, it seemed more and more like the Revinir was unbeatable.

Finding Her Groove

Almost everyone in Artimé was planning to dress up in lavish costumes for the ball—far more than just wearing masks, like they’d done in past years. To Fifer’s great consternation, Thisbe hadn’t put an ounce of thought into hers. Finally, after much prodding on the morning of the party, Thisbe went to the theater to look for something to wear. There she found Samheed sitting in the auditorium reading an old book under one of the stage spotlights.

“What are you reading?” Thisbe asked him.

Samheed looked up and closed the book. Like many volumes in Artimé, its pages were thick and wavy and yellowed from water damage, because most books arrived by washing ashore from some unknown place—likely coming to them through the Dragon’s Triangle like Kaylee and the grandfather scientists had.

“I just finished it,” Samheed said, holding up the tome. Absently he wiped a tear from one eye. “It’s a book of plays I found in the Museum of Large library some time ago. I’d been meaning to read it.”

“Is it sad?”

“The one I just finished is sad, but that’s not why I’m crying.”

“Then why?”

“The writing reminds me of Mr. Appleblossom, my old instructor.”

“Oh,” said Thisbe solemnly. She didn’t remember him, but everyone knew that Mr. Appleblossom had died fighting for Artimé. “How does it remind you of him?”

“Mr. Appleblossom used to speak in iambic pentameter rhyme.” He opened the book to the last page and gazed at it. “This play is written in blank verse—which is unrhymed iambic pentameter. But the rhythm is similar enough to hear his voice in my head.”

“I’m sorry you’re sad.”

“I miss him.” Samheed shrugged and smiled. “I miss a lot of people. What can I do for you?”

“Oh—I just need a costume.”

“For tonight?”

“Yeah. I’ll just get a cape or something.”

Samheed frowned. “I thought you of all people would have been planning something very special.”