Since it was on their route and not a deterrence to where they needed to go—or where they thought they needed to go, anyway—Winnie was determined to win. Every obstacle she managed to drag the boat through or flung by with a narrow yank on the wheel showered the floor with gold coins.

By the time they had churned to sweet stillness, Ahmad was queasy and staggered out of the boat, barely taking note of Winnie’s disappointment.

“The coins turned into trading cards of the Architect!” She fanned them out, scowling at them as the images smirked and preened. Ahmad glanced briefly. The boy depicted on them was more or less his age, but also older in a way. Perhaps it was the bottomless dark of his eyes, or the bruise-like circles around them.

Ahmad shuddered and looked away.

“Let’s give Ahmad a moment to breathe,” T.T. chirruped as he bounded out of the back of the boat. “It is odd that the Minaret hasn’t flared again, but I suppose the MasterMind and the Architect are cooking up another new trick. We’ll have to be ready for it.”

“Before we leap straight into strategy, can I call for a first aid field trip?” Winnie held up her finger ruefully. Ahmad hissed in sympathy at the angry red cut across it. “The sharp edges of those Machi Men were no joke!”

T.T. nodded. “Might as well. You can see more of the city, too.”

The first stop was one of the main streets, apparently, for shopping: broad with large archways, rooftop gardens spilling over like Rapunzel’s hair down buildings where people milled in and out, carrying items under their arms like richly etched teapots and sacks of fine spices.

They found a seller that offered bolts of lush gauze woven by spiders with uncomfortably cunning, human eyes. Apparently, Band-Aids weren’t a thing.

“Healthier for you than anything woven or spun elsewhere,” the woman chattered cheerfully as Winnie cautiously extended her hand. “You’ll hardly see a scar afterward.”

“But will the nightmares be worth it?” Ahmad couldn’t help but blurt out. Winnie elbowed him in the side.

“Stop it. You’re making me nervous.”

Ahmad stepped back. He was still haunted by a bad dream from back when he was probably five and six: a horrendous, looming montage of metallic mandibles, sticky webs, and needle-thin legs tapping across stone.

It didn’t comfort him at all that the spiders’ gaze never left him, even as the one chosen out of those hanging down from the shop’s awning carefully wound strands around Winnie’s wounded finger.

Vijay Bhai, too, had backed away, whistling tonelessly under his breath as he poked at a screen advertising digitally printed tapestries and customized bedsheets.

Winnie, though, was enchanted.

“This place is incredible,” she said in awe. “I wish our spiders at home were this cool.”