Nonny came up the staircase with a sling in her hand, and Patch came limping behind her. Rownie cheered to see the both of them, a wordless shout of happiness and relief. She had found Patch. Nonny had found him. Graba hadn’t killed him with her birds.

“Thank you, my dear Nonny!” Thomas said as he climbed to his feet. “I am so very much obliged, and my heart sings to see you both safely here. However, I really do wish you had not smashed that mask. That plaster had soaked up well over a century of theatrical brilliance, and as I recall it was not an easy thing to make.”

“Shut it, scowly trousers!” Essa came sprinting from the other end of the tower and knocked both Patch and Nonny to the ground with a tackling hug. Patch held his leg and winced. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” said Essa. “Are you hurt? Is it bad? Are you actually drowned and you just came back to haunt us? I hope not. I would hate it if you said even less than you usually do.”

“Not dead,” Patch grunted. “Just soggy. Found driftwood to hold on to.”

A bird mask, now embodied, swooped above them and flew among the whirling cogs and levers of the clock. Another followed.

Thomas scowled. “Does anyone have the slightest idea why this might be happening?” he asked. “Anyone? And, Rownie, I will have my sword back, thank you kindly. You were very brave to reach for it, but please wait until we’ve trained you in the use of swordplay before you start swinging one of these about.”

Rownie handed over the blade. “I get to learn swordplay?” he asked, his voice hushed and reverent. This was quite possibly the most magnificent thing that anyone had ever said to him.

“Yes, of course,” said Thomas, impatient. “It is a skill that actors must have. Epic combat unfolds in a great many of our performances.”

“And this means that a great many of our masks know how to fight, yes,” said Semele. “That is not currently a helpful thing.”

More masks pulled forward, snapping their strings or yanking their nails from the walls. The air beneath them thickened into bodies, and embodied masks surged through the tower. Only the River remained in its place.

Another armed mask revenant approached the troupe. It seemed to be smiling at first, its carved expression light and jovial—but then the face tilted, and from that angle the same mask took on a look of sober intensity. It held a curved sword.

“This is Bidou,” Thomas announced. “I will face him.” The old goblin brandished his own blade with a flick of his wrist, and stood ready. His pride had clearly suffered in his earlier duel.

“Weapons,” Essa said. “The rest of us need some. Rownie, there’s a crate of sharp things right over there, and you should help me fetch them please.”