“I bet they’re vultures,” I murmured, thinking of all the magicians who visited Hereswith to glean information about the doomed fortress in the clouds. Vultures was the word we used for such people, because they only wanted stories from us before traveling to the mountain doors—the sole passage to the summit, where Seren’s abandoned stronghold waited for someone to arrive and break the curse. One could reach the fortress if they could merely open the mountain doors, which sounded quite simple until one realized the doors were enchanted and impossible to open since the curse first fell a hundred years ago. But it didn’t deter ambitious magicians from trying, and using us along the way.

“Miss Clem,” Lilac whispered. “If they’re vultures . . . why are they asking for your father?”

Her question gave me pause. She was right; when vultures arrived, they wanted to speak to mountain descendants, not the town warden. My voice wavered when I said, “Then they must be here to challenge my father for Hereswith.”

It had been a good while since such an event had occurred. So long, in fact, that I had almost forgotten it always hung as a possibility.

I was ten years old the first time it happened. Two older magicians had come to town on the heels of the southern wind, just before the new moon, and had challenged my father for the right to guard Hereswith from nightmares. A year after that, another set of them had arrived, keen to win the town that thrived in the foothills of the infamous mountains. In both instances, the magicians at least had the courtesy to write to my father a fortnight in advance, informing him of their intentions. And while it didn’t seem fair, the newcomers could lawfully win the title to become warden of the town and displace my father, but only if they defeated the nightmare before Papa did.

He had vanquished the challengers in both instances. But my father was ill tonight. I would most likely face the new moon on my own, and I had never encountered competition when it came to a nightmare’s defeat.

“Are you going to speak with them, Miss Clem?”

I glanced at the baker, who had crossed her arms and was glaring in the direction of the men. “No, I’m not,” I said, relieved the Brambles had refused to open the door to them.

“Then I will.” Before I could ask what she planned to say to them, Lilac marched out into the market and drew their attention with a sharp whistle.

I remained lurking in the stall, and while I couldn’t hear what the baker said, I saw her point to the northern street. Point to where Mazarine’s mansion sat visible on the hill, catching the last hue of the sunset.