“Claire,” Sophie groaned, burying her face in her palms, though her fingers couldn’t hide her pink cheeks. “I already confessed that I made up the unicorn following us. You know that. The ‘mane’ was just the silver thread from my Gemmer dress to, you know …” She hesitated. “Convince you.”

Claire shook her head so hard that she could feel her bun wobble. “No, Mayor Nadia burned our Grand Test dresses, remember? They were completely ruined from our escape from the Citadel!”

Sophie looked as though someone had slipped ice down her neck. “You mean … the mane was real?”

“Yes!” Claire said triumphantly. At last, Sophie was listening! “I think if we go back to the old campsite, we’ll find more clues. We just need some chimera or a few pairs of Seven League Boots, and we can go right now!” She took a deep breath, flushed by her discovery. Even though she’d been standing still, she felt like she’d just ran the mile at Field Day. But unlike the end of a race, no one was cheering. Instead, Sophie was biting her lip.

“I’m not trying to be a pain,” Sophie said apologetically, “but …” she shrugged helplessly. “I can see the unicorn in my dreams, and I know he’s not at Woven Root.”

Her words were like an anchor, and Claire, who had felt like she’d been flying for the last few minutes, plummeted back to reality. A reality where Queen Estelle still had all the power, the Crown of Arden would never be reforged, and an old stone well could never be fixed.

“Claire,” Nett said suddenly. “Do you still have the mane?”

“No—yes!” Claire said. “I think I do!” She reached into her Hollow Pack, and after a little bit of ruffling, found it attached to a clean pair of socks. Meanwhile, Nett went rummaging through Nadia’s Spinner supplies and returned with a small wooden frame: a loom.

He pressed it into Sophie’s hands. “Go on, then,” he said. “Do it!”

Sophie frowned. “Do what?”

Nett blinked in surprise. “Spin! You’re still a Spinner, aren’t you? Do what Spinners do. Weave the tale out from the mane; ask it where it’s been, what it’s seen.”

“She’s not a Spyden, Nett,” Claire said, his words uncomfortably reminding her of the encounter with the beast.

“No,” Nett agreed. “But she is a unicorn. Go on, Sophie, just try!”

Stubborn lines set in around Sophie’s mouth, but as she looked at Nett—eyes still red-rimmed from crying—she seemed to reconsider. “All right,” she said. “I’ll try.”

They all took a seat on a few overlarge petal-stuffed cushions surrounding the tree-stump table. Sophie took the gleaming strand of unicorn mane and began to weave it, over and under the weft threads. Over and under. Over and under. The unicorn mane began to shimmer. To shine.