Rownie was tired beyond tired, but he did not sleep. Not yet. His thoughts spun like the workings at the center of the Clock Tower—always moving, always turning, never still.

He wondered what Graba might know about Rowan and his whereabouts, what sort of hints and inklings she might have. He wondered how he could possibly get her to tell him what she knew. Graba did not share, but she did bargain, and Rownie had gone on many market errands for her. He knew how to bargain. To offer a deal he needed to have something Graba wanted—and he had one thing that she did.

He made a choice, and after that he slept.

Act III, Scene V

MORNING LIGHT CREPT THROUGH the downstream clock face. A stained-glass sun ticked upward from the very edge of a glass horizon.

Rownie woke after just a few hours’ sleep. The rest of the troupe still seemed to be unconscious. He heard snores and saw lumps of blankets on the other bunks. He couldn’t tell who was snoring. It might have been Essa.

He sat up on the edge of his bed. The masks still lay on the floor where they had fallen. Rownie put on his coat, picked up the fox mask, and found himself a breakfast of dried fruit and cold flatbread in the pantry. It felt strange to take the food. It felt like stealing, even though he knew that it wasn’t, even though Essa had told him that it was perfectly fine to snack from the pantry cupboards. In Graba’s household, every hungry mouth was on its own.

He sat on the floor, chewing shriveled fruit pieces with the fox face on his knee, and he wondered where Graba might have moved her household. He needed to find her—or to find someone else who could find her.

He had a message for Graba.

Rownie stood and tucked the fox mask inside his coat. This also felt like stealing. He told himself that it was only borrowing, and hoped he would have the chance to bring it back. Besides, the fox had followed him last night, all on its own.

He took in a long breath, and headed for the staircase.

“Good morning to you, Rownie,” said Semele, before he had gotten very far.

Rownie jumped. “Morning,” he said, nervous and guilty feeling.

Semele did not look as though she had slept. She picked up a fallen mask and considered it sadly.

“Cracked all the way through,” she said. “It is not a hopeful sign to see this one broken. We carved it from a block of alder, offered willingly by a living tree. Cypress is best for mask making, but alder is also good, and a very fine wood for boats and bridges. The Fiddleway has wooden bones of alder wood, in among the stone.”