When Claire and Sophie had escaped from Stonehaven, they had tracked Anvil and Aquila to a dusty cottage. But Queen Estelle had found them first. She’d frozen their blood into rubies and left the cousins to stand in the cottage forever. But after Nadia rescued Claire and Sophie from the Drowning Fortress, they’d finally trusted the mayor enough to tell her about the Malchains’ awful fate. Nadia had immediately sent Woven Root scouts to collect them, and now they were standing safely in their own tent, with a whole cohort of alchemists attempting to turn their blood back into liquid once more.

Now, Claire reached into her pack and handed Anvil’s Kompass to Thorn before slipping Aquila’s compact mirror of polished silver into her trouser pocket. She looked at Thorn expectantly. “On the count of three?” she asked.

“I’ll go first,” Thorn interjected. “I don’t think anything should go wrong, but in case I messed something up, better for a Spinner to handle it.” And before Claire could protest, Thorn slipped the hat over his head.

Nothing happened. Five full minutes passed before Thorn finally pulled it off with a frustrated sigh. “I don’t get it,” he said. “It feels like the threads want to work, but it’s like they’re, I don’t know, too tired to stand up. As though …” He trailed off, blue eyes somber.

“As though what?” Claire prompted.

“As though the magic in Arden really is dying.”

But magic wasn’t fragile in all parts of Arden. Claire had seen powerful magic before. Big magic. Wondrous magic. Woven trees that could hide an entire village. Sewn packs that could contain as much potential as a seed and be just as light. The shining flanks of copper chimera as they galloped, pranced, and snorted in the sun. In Woven Root, one could still find the powerful magic that most believed was lost to the past.

“I have an idea,” Claire said, and hurried to the Rhona, which curved calmly through the orchard. Kneeling on the bank, she reached into the water. It was icy cold, numbing her fingers, but she scooped up a bit of river sand. Remembering how she’d once shaped it into a dolphin, she began to rub the sand into the hats Thorn had knitted, letting the wet grains bury themselves in the yarn.

“What are you doing?” Thorn asked, crouching down next to her.

“Where I come from, artists use strips of linen coated with plaster to make molds of people’s faces for masks or whatever,” Claire explained, tugging his hat away from him. She scooped grit onto it. “And plaster is basically just fancy sand. When it hardens, it helps the cloth keep its shape, making a perfect copy.”

Claire brought her wet hands to her lips and blew warm breath on them. Her fingers were cold, but she was pretty sure she could feel a slight hum in her bones.