“Don’t remember,” said Patch. “Years all blurred together. Left after a while. Joined a show. Not a good one. Did the Weasel Dance. Drop a dozen angry weasels in your pants and jump around while they fight. Crowds love it. Wore thick leather underneath to keep skin on my legs. Still uncomfortable. Weasels died in every show. All I got to eat, after. Semele’s shows are better. So’s the company. So’s the food.”

Rownie agreed. He was glad he didn’t have to do the Weasel Dance to keep himself fed—though a nightly meal of weasels would be better than no meal at all, and supper was rare in Graba’s household. Meals with the troupe were very much better.

He heard Graba’s voice in his head and memory. Did you eat what they gave you? Did you drink what they offered?

He checked his ears again to see if they had grown any pointier.

“How did the Change actually happen?” he asked, hoping for details. He wanted to know if he was Changing. He needed to know whether or not it would be a good thing if he did. “Was it from eating charmed food or something?”

Patch shook his head. “Can’t remember. Too long ago. Sorry.”

The sun set. The sky grew dusky and dim. The top of the ravine actually did seem closer now, and the view was just as wide and expansive as the one from the Fiddleway.

Something moved over Rownie’s head, and he heard pigeons. He felt the tips of wing feathers brush against his face as a pigeon dove between him and Patch.

It circled back around and dove again. Patch smacked it aside with his fishing pole. It screamed at him, indignant. More birds joined it with answering cries, and the air became a furious, screaming mess of wings and sharp feet. At least none of them are on fire, Rownie thought as he ducked beneath another dive-bombing pigeon. He tried to get the hatch open, to take shelter inside.

In one sudden moment, three birds flew at Patch’s face and knocked him off the wagon. He fell down and farther down.

Rownie crawled to the edge. He saw a splash far below them. That was all he saw.

Act II, Scene VIII

NONNY STOOD AT THE EDGE of the cliff and brandished a sling. She shot at the attacking birds until there were no more birds to shoot. Then the winch finished its work, and the crane hoisted the wagon up onto the ground.

Once they had untied the wagon, Nonny looped one foot through the dangling rope and hoisted herself back over the River, over the edge of the cliff.

“Find him,” said Semele. “Take the raft we left behind. We will meet you at home, yes.”

Nonny nodded, tugged on the rope, and plummeted down.

“He’ll be okay, won’t he?” Rownie asked.