She walked over to him, her feet tap-tap-tapping as she did so. She stopped and held out a hand, which he took and shook quickly before letting go, a shudder of nausea trembling in his stomach. Master George’s most hated enemy stood inches from him.

Tick cleared his throat. “I . . . I thought you were bald.” He didn’t know what else to say, what else to do.

Mistress Jane smiled, though it was empty of humor or kindness. “Yes, I was bald for a very long time. So very long.” She stared past his shoulder as if remembering something sad from her past. “And it was quite . . . painful to grow it back so quickly. Painful, but sweet. That’s how the Chi’karda works in the Thirteenth, after all.”

Tick swallowed, fidgeted on his feet. He was so lost and confused and scared. His mind spun; his heart thumped.

Mistress Jane caught his eyes again, then continued. “So many things have changed, boy. I’ve changed. Do you understand?”

Tick couldn’t speak. He slowly shook his head.

Jane nodded. “Yes, we have a lot to talk about. A lot.” She reached out and took his hand, squeezed it. “Reginald wanted me to kill you, you know? That was my task.”

“Kill me?” Tick managed to say, almost a squeak.

Jane’s eyes closed and opened in a long, drawn out blink. “Yes, I was supposed to kill you. And I could have, easily—I crashed your spintrain to make Chu think I was at least trying. But I knew you’d survive.” She paused. “But you and I are going to turn the tables, Atticus.”

“What do you mean?” Tick pulled his hand away from hers.

Jane paused again before answering. “As dangerous as you and that baboon George may think I am, Mr. Higginbottom, Reginald Chu is far, far worse. Far worse. And you and I are going to stop him. Forever.”

~

Paul stared at the door for a full two minutes after it closed behind Tick, tempted to rip it back open and chase after his friend. But after all they’d been through—after all the things they’d seen Chu do to them—he knew the warning scrawled across the wood was for real.

Finally, he looked away, turned his back to the building. A fresh burst of pain exploded up his arm and into his shoulders, making him cry out before he could stop himself. For the hundredth time that day, tears welled in his eyes.

“Best be gettin’ on,” Sally grunted, glancing one last time at the door. “Better get that little sack of taters Rutger workin’ on dat nasty limb a’yorn.” His eyes fell to Paul’s swollen arm. “Dat don’t look so good.”

The lumberjack started walking away, making a straight line toward an area that looked just like the miles of dull nothingness in every other direction. “Come on, rug rats!” he yelled over his shoulder.