The others huddle in the parlor as I ascend the rickety wooden steps. Just like the lower floors, the hall upstairs is littered with old junk. Sagging cardboard boxes line the walls, and I’m forced to wedge myself sideways to open the first door I come to. Flipping on a light switch, I gape at the contents of a cluttered bedroom. The room smells old, like the basement of the boys’ home where I lived when I was human. It’s filled with vintage things: A sewing machine with a huge metal pedal. An old Hoover vacuum cleaner with giant wheels and a placard that says 1912. A radio with actual dials. And a turntable for vinyl records I’d bet Amber would kill to get her hands on.

The floor creaks as I step inside, reaching for a reel-to-reel film projector like the one my mother used to play old home movies on.

“Don’t touch anything with those wet hands.” Auggie’s voice rises up the stairs. “I spent years rebuilding everything in that room. Every piece of it is worth more to me than you are.”

I back out of the room, turning off the light and closing the door behind me to search for towels. I find them in a closet farther down the hall and pile them into my arms before descending the stairs.

“I assume you’re here because you need help cleaning up this mess.” Auggie gestures loosely to a huge console television as I distribute the towels to my friends. The TV is older than I am. Maybe even older than Amber. Auggie adjusts the rabbit ears on top, bringing the images into focus. The muted black-and-white weather report casts gray light over Kai’s face as she sleeps. Her breathing’s shallow, her face ghostly pale.

“We had nowhere else to go,” I explain. “Doug’s lost control of his magic. The entire place was coming down. We evacuated as many Seasons as we could through the tunnels.”

“And Doug?” he asks. “Where is the staff?”

“He got out. I assume he has the staff with him.” And Fleur. But I doubt Auggie cares much about that.

He lifts his chin, studying me down the length of his hawkish nose as if he’s forming some opinion of me. “And you thought I could help you find him.”

“No, I . . .”

Auggie turns for the door to the cellar. I rush after him, remembering all the tools and gear and equipment he has hidden down there. “Wait, can you?”

“No.” He snaps the chain hanging from the ceiling. A lightbulb flickers on, illuminating the narrow turn in the creaking steps as he descends them. “Too many Seasons running amok. Too many storms. Too many power outages. . . . Finding Doug will be next to impossible unless he wants to be found.”