“Nice try,” Fifer said snidely after the clip harmlessly skittered across the floor. “I’m glad you’re so terrible at magic. Did you run out of sledgehammers?”

“At least I still have other components!” said Frieda. Again, her voice seemed to be coming from a slightly different place. Fifer peered toward the spot, knowing that eventually the woman would run out of invisibility paintbrushes. Simber turned sharply in the air toward the head mage’s voice. He swept along the wall, nice and low, trying to catch her or anyone who might be sitting on the top of it. But there was a scrambling sound that Fifer could just barely hear above the noises happening on the lawn, and a few pebbles and bits of silt filtered down in the front west corner of the mansion. Fifer turned carefully, catching Simber’s eye and pretending she could see Frieda.

“Do you have her in your sights too, Simber?” Fifer called out.

“I do now,” Simber said, playing along.

“You are a terrible liar, traitor!” shouted Frieda. More silt filtered down, this time from above the mansion’s main doorway. “Everyone knows you are putting Artimé in danger. You won’t survive this.”

“You can surrender if you like,” Fifer said calmly. “Or I can freeze you from here, and you’ll probably fall to the ground and break into a thousand pieces. It’s up to you.”

“You’re out of components!” Frieda cackled. “I hardly think you should be threatening me. A freeze spell? That’s your answer? Weak.”

There was another scraping sound, and then a flash of color. A tiny swath of Frieda’s robe was in plain sight. Her invisibility spell was wearing off.

Fifer glanced at Simber, giving him a warning look, and he circled, pretending he hadn’t seen it.

“Simber, you don’t deserve to be the head mage’s right-hand cheetah!” Frieda shouted angrily. She threw a handful of heart attack spells at the statue, but they didn’t hurt him in the least. “You abandoned me. You turned away from the head mage. How could you fail so badly? What kind of servant are you?”

“The worrrst kind,” said Simber, dolefully playing his part. “Apparrrently.”

Fifer breathed a sigh of relief—Simber was nobody’s servant, and he was smart enough not to take the bait. But she knew Frieda’s words must have hurt him deeply. “Simber’s on the side of Artimé. We all are. All but you.”

“What are you talking about, you silly little pirate child?” said Frieda with a laugh, but there was an edge to her voice. “You and your siblings brought the Revinir in sight of Artimé, ready to attack us with her dragons. This threat is all your fault, and I have the majority of the people on my side in agreement! Listen to them all rioting because of the way I’ve been treated!”

Fifer kept her expression stony and lifted her chin slightly, feeling a small surge of confidence. There was no rioting, only a few people shouting. She ignored the woman’s name-calling. She could tell she’d gotten under Frieda’s skin. And now, whether the head mage knew it or not, Fifer could make out the shape of her robe. If Frieda wouldn’t surrender, it was almost time to make a move. Fear leaped into Fifer’s throat, but she swallowed it back down.