Rownie reached for the broken mask. Semele handed it to him. The face looked simple at first, unadorned and without expression—but then he saw a smile when he held it at one angle and a thoughtful frown when held another way. The eyes also changed, seeming to close at a downward tilt.

“What’s it a mask of?” he asked.

“This is the UnChanged Child,” Semele told him, “though it is changed now by breaking. By tradition this is the very first face a new maskmaker attempts, and the very last face to be mastered.”

“But you didn’t start with this one,” Rownie said, remembering.

“No,” said Semele. “I began with the River, and worked in stone. I am a fair bit older than most traditions are.”

Rownie gave her back the UnChanged Child. “I’m sorry it’s broken,” he said.

“This is no fault of yours,” she told him. “I mean that truly, yes.”

“Thanks,” Rownie said, “but all of this might still be mine to fix. I think I can help find my brother, or at least get a little news about him.”

Semele nodded. “Take good care of the fox. It is old, that one.”

“I will,” Rownie promised, and felt sheepish about concealing the fox in his coat. “Wish me luck.”

“Break your face,” Semele said, with sincerity and kindness. “That means luck,” she added. “I do not actually remember why it means this, but it does.” She gave another mournful look at the broken face in her hands.

“Oh,” said Rownie. “Good, then.”

Outside it rained in sudden spurts and starts. The sun peered out from behind clouds, as though shy. Then it hid itself again, and again the sky rained. All the ordinary traffic of the Fiddleway kept their heads down. Beasts and persons, both gearworked and not, seemed to see only their own feet in front of them. They paid no notice to the boy who emerged from an alleyway and climbed the stone steps of the Clock Tower.

A single pigeon stood perched on the rusting chains. Rownie had hoped to find one there. It pecked at the chains with a little tap-tap noise. It looked confused. It looked as though it wondered where the curse bag had gone.

“I took it,” Rownie told the bird. “I broke it. Tell Graba, if you have a little piece of Graba in your head. Tell her I broke the curse, and you can tell her something else besides.”

The bird stretched both wings and scratched underneath one of them with its beak. It acted like it didn’t notice Rownie and could not be bothered to notice him.

“It doesn’t have any of Graba,” said Vass, behind him. “It has a piece of me instead.”

Rownie turned around. He stood like a giant and stayed where he was. It helped that he stood a few steps above Vass, on the stair. This brought them eye to eye.