“Here,” she said, handing the soggy hat back to him. He flinched away.

She frowned. “What’s wrong?”

Thorn’s mouth turned up slightly at the edges, and his forehead wrinkled in embarrassment, but Claire could see a tiny bit of fear in his eyes.

“If it works, I mean—that’s jumble magic!”

“So?” Claire asked, confused. “Royalists use jumble magic, like the Diamond Tree Vault.”

“True,” Thorn admitted. “But that’s because Queen Estelle ordered it, and she’s, you know, a legendary ancient queen …” His voice faded away.

Claire pulled her hair into a tight bun at the nape of her neck. There was no time to deal with Thorn’s prejudice now, but Claire knew that if Aunt Nadia ever did become the ruling queen of Arden, the guilds would have a lot of adjusting to do. “Ready?” she asked. When Thorn nodded, she began to count. “One, two, three!”

They pulled the hats on. This time, she didn’t have to wonder if the magic was working.

Something cool and slimy seemed to drip down her face, as if she’d cracked a raw egg against her head. The feeling spread as the fabric clung to her, tucking itself over her mouth and under her nose … and then over her nose. For a moment she felt like she couldn’t breathe! But then the Make-a-Face seemed to know what it had done, and there was a soft tickle as the fabric inched away from her nostrils. Claire inhaled deeply.

The fabric began to dry, and as it did, the mask grew heavy, making it hard to wiggle her eyebrows or wrinkle her nose. And then the squelching stopped. The fabric lay still.

Tentatively, she raised a hand to her cheek. Smooth, warm skin met her fingertips but … Claire frowned as she felt the planes of her face. Her nose felt shorter, and her cheeks felt as round as apples.

“Claire?” a deep voice rumbled, and she turned to see Anvil. Or, actually, a not-quite Anvil.

It was Anvil’s eyes, dark as coal, that looked at her, but the expression of amazement—something about the way the eyebrows twisted—seemed very much like Thorn. Claire whooped. “You look like—” She stopped, her hands flying to her throat.

“Are you all right?” Thorn asked, hurrying over to her.

“Yes,” Claire whispered, but she heard again what had so startled her: Aquila’s voice, dry as fire but just as warm, coming from her lips. She cleared her throat and spoke louder. “Even my voice is different!” She plunged her hand into her trousers and pulled out the little silver mirror. With a click, she flipped it open.