“ ’Ere you go,” said Monsieur Valentin, returning from the back of the shop. He dropped a large, well-thumbed paperback on the desk. “This will get your tough little brain going. You can thank me later.”

The book was called The Answer. It was not unfamiliar. Wolf had seen it before in the military strategy section. It frightened him in some way, although it was impossible to say why this was. He’d read much more frightening-looking books, after all. He’d even dipped into the massive books he used as weights, and they were both terrifying in their own ways.

Monsieur Valentin was holding three dusty hardcovers. Wolf couldn’t quite see what they were, but one seemed to be called Preventing Apocalypse, and another was called something like Home Remedies for a Malfunctioning Crystal Ball. But perhaps Wolf had read it wrong. It had been upside down, after all.

The door tinkled and Monsieur Valentin was gone. Only a slight smell of onions and kittens remained.

Wolf blew out most of the candle-lamps and found a book of hard sudoku puzzles to take to bed with him. Great warriors needed to train their minds, too. And he found sudoku strangely comforting.

4

AFTER SHE HAD EATEN the last of the macarons, Effie followed Clothilde into the street. The saxophone still played above them, the musician seemingly lost in bar after bar of the smoothest jazz. The sun shone, but didn’t feel too hot. A man came out of one of the shops with several small dragons on his arm. They clucked and hooted and whistled. Their eyes were all silver or gold.

“Flying dragon?” he said to Effie. “I got a rare albino here if you want it.”

Effie gulped. Imagine actually owning a flying dragon! But they were probably very expensive. And not something she could easily take back to the Realworld with her either.

“Or how about a nice cake, lovey?” offered a woman with black curly hair, coming out of the cake shop. “I got the softest, densest, most delicious chocolate cake you’ve ever had, with a fresh cashew cream filling. Or maybe you’d like an iced bun? A fourflower horn? Oh, what about a nice big slice of flan Parisien? Made it just this morning I did with silken cloudcurd and fresh vanilla. Bright blessings to you anyway, child.”

“Are you interested in kharakter studies?” asked a stout man coming out from another shop. “You must be, as you’re an interpreter. Oh yes, I can tell from the caduceus in your hair. I’ve got a very wide selection of books and charts on kharakter, art and shade in my basement. Any of them is yours if you want it. . . .”