But for all her wisdom, Ymeene still could not solve their biggest problem: how more than one hundred peculiars could live in a space that was only three hundred feet from end to end. Once established, a loop can be made to hold more time, but not more space—and Ymeene had only enlooped their small camp’s few dozen tents. They hadn’t much food, and though their stores reappeared each day with the cycling of the loop, it was never enough to feed all of them. (Outside their loop a hard winter had set in, so there was little to be hunted or foraged; they were more likely to find a roving gang of normals than a meal, for the normals had become obsessed with finding the peculiars who had disappeared right in front of their eyes.)

Ymeene was talking it over with Englebert one night as they sat around a crowded cook fire.

“What are we to do?” she said. “If we stay here we’ll starve, and if we leave we’ll be hunted down.”

Englebert had removed his head and placed it in his lap so that he could scratch the top of it with both hands, something he did when he was deep in thought. “Could you make a larger loop someplace with plentiful food?” he asked. “If we’re careful not to be seen, we could all move.”

“When the weather thaws, perhaps. We’d likely freeze to death in any new loop I made now.”

“Then we’ll wait,” he said. “We’ll just have to starve a little, until a good thaw comes.”

“And then what?” she said. “More peculiars in need will come, and soon we’ll outgrow that loop, too. A limit will be reached. I can only handle so much responsibility.”

Englebert sighed and scratched his head. “If only you could copy yourself.”

A strange look came over Ymeene’s face. “What was that you said?”

“If you could copy yourself,” Englebert repeated. “Then you could make multiple loops, and we could spread out a bit. I worry about putting so many of us in one place. Factions will divide us and fights will break out. And if, Heaven forfend, something tragic were to happen to this loop, the population of peculiars in Britain would be halved in a single stroke.”

Ymeene was facing Englebert, but her eyes were staring past him.

“What is it?” he said. “Have you thought of a way to copy yourself?”

“Perhaps,” she replied. “Perhaps.”

The next morning Ymeene gathered the peculiars and told them she was going away for a while. Ripples of panic spread through the crowd, though she assured them she’d be back in time to reset the loop. They begged her not to go, but she insisted it was crucial to their survival.

She left Englebert in charge, assumed bird form, and flew out of her loop for the first time since its creation. Soaring over the frozen forests of Oddfordshire, she asked the same question of every bird she saw: “Do you know any birds who can turn into humans?” She searched all day and night, but everywhere she went the answer was no. She returned to her loop late that night, tired and discouraged—but not defeated. She reset the loop, dodged Englebert’s questions, and flew out again without a moment’s rest.