“And you’re younger! You should be able to run faster!” Mom had said before overturning a bucket of clean water over both their heads.

The memory continued—but how? Claire should have hit the wall already! She should be in smithereens! Slowly she opened her eyes. Her mouth dropped open as she saw that not only had she somehow maneuvered around the wall, but that she was now speeding through the Historium’s front doors, mercifully left open by Thorn and the guards. But though she was racing through Needle Pointe’s narrow and twisty streets, Claire didn’t so much as bump an elbow or scrape a knee, and townhouses and bridges were seemingly whisked away a split second before she would have crash-landed into them.

It was the weirdest sensation. Even though Claire knew she was moving—even though wind whipped against her, blowing her braids back and pulling her cloak—she felt as though she were staying absolutely still. As though she were a needle in a sewing machine, staying in one place but still crossing yards of fabric as hands twisted and tugged the material beneath. And like the needle, Claire bobbled and lurched, feeling at every moment that she would somehow fall flat on her face. But she never did. Instead, the boots whisked her out of Needle Pointe and into the wilds of Arden.

Trees and narrowboats and meadows swept by her toes so fast that they looked like stretched shadows. As Claire skidded across the landscape, her arms windmilling at her sides, a jolt of laughter leaped from her, surprising herself and a herd of sleeping cattle, which thundered into a stampede at the sound. But she wasn’t in any danger. They were already gone, yanked away before hooves could trample her. An orange-streaked shadow swept by, probably a lantern-lit village. Giddily, Claire wondered if anyone looking out their windows could see her, and if they did, what they thought she might be: a fleeing deer, a touchable breeze, the friendly passing of a ghost.

A whisper from a unicorn.

Slowly the streaks around her shortened and started to take solid shape again. The world was slowing down, and at last, the earth itself seemed to rise up just a bit to reach the sole of her cowboy boot.

In a single step, she had traveled seven leagues. Which, Claire supposed, was something more than a mile, but she wasn’t really sure. Breathlessly, she looked around.

There was no sign of Needle Pointe, or its ships, or even its towering cliffs. Now, the tallest thing she could see was a row of squat fruit trees. She’d exchanged a bustling port city for an orchard, and instead of salt, there was only the sweet fragrance of crushed apples.