Eleanor nodded. “The world-walker is all about connections, but it’s not just connecting. I can pull things out. Like when I brought the hedgewitch to us. Or when I pulled the Stories out of the books and put them into us. I’ve never tried to Empty a world, obviously, but I think that I could. If I tried.”

“Could you, though?” Pip asked. She looked intently at Eleanor. “I’m not talking about the magic. I’m talking about you. This would destroy the People Who Look Away. Kill them. Could you really do that?”

“If it meant saving everyone? Yes,” Eleanor said.

“We’d have to trap them in the gray world long enough for you to do it,” Pip said.

“Okay,” Eleanor said. “So let’s back up. Make the plan. What’s step one?”

“We could—” Otto started, but Pip held up a hand to stop him.

“Step one,” she said seriously, looking at both of them, “is remembering that we are in this together. The three of us. We have beaten everything the People Who Look Away have thrown at us. We’ll beat this, too.”

“Because we’re the Heroes Three,” Eleanor said with forced levity.

“No. We’re Pip. And Eleanor. And Otto,” Pip said. “That’s all we ever needed to be. You were right, Eleanor. We’re going to win this because we’re us.”

“Because we’re us,” Otto agreed.

Eleanor gave a small smile, trembling but true. “Because we’re us,” she echoed.

“Though the magic sword doesn’t hurt,” Otto added. They laughed, and for a moment, it didn’t matter that they had Stories coursing inside of them, that there were villains prowling outside. They were just Pip and Otto and Eleanor, and they were friends, and they were enough.

Twenty-Three

They sat and talked and planned. And when they were done, they went to find the others. Pip went to talk to Jack; they would be working together. So would Otto and the hedgewitch.

Eleanor went to find Wander.

She didn’t have to go far. The strange, dreamy woman was in the drawing room, where Jenny painted when the light shone through the windows in the afternoon. She was looking at one of Jenny’s unfinished paintings—a forest with a crescent moon shining between the trees.

“Wander?” Eleanor said as she entered. Wander lifted one of her hands, so odd-looking, turned the wrong way on her wrists, and touched a finger to the canvas. One of the half-painted trees filled itself in at her touch.

“You’ve been planning,” Wander said. “That has never been my strong suit. But each of us is different. Each telling of the Story is its own. You’ll be the last. The Story will fade into you, and find its end. I’m glad.”