Tick had been cut off. Even though he’d figured out all the clues, and was ready to perform the silly ritual in three days—he’d been cut off. Somehow Master George would know the first letter had been burned, which meant he’d think Tick had given up and was out of the game.

After everything, after all that work and sweat and danger, it was all over.

Tick was in the forest now, still running, dodging trees and brush, tripping and getting back up again, ignoring the scratches. He sucked at the air around him, forcing it into his lungs so his heart wouldn’t give up and die.

But then it finally became too much. He stopped, doubling over to take in huge, gulping breaths. Sunset had arrived and the woods had grown very dark, the trees standing as monuments of shadow all around him. When he finally caught his breath, he straightened and folded his arms around the Journal of Curious Letters.

There had to be a way to fix this. There had to be.

Tick knew that Master George somehow tracked what all of his subjects were doing. Tick didn’t know what kind of magic or futuristic device accomplished the task, but he knew his actions had been monitored. How else did Mothball and Rutger always know where and how to find him? Even in Alaska! Based on what Paul had said, they went there to give him a clue, not the other way around.

Surely Master George cared more about Tick’s intent than the mistake of Kayla burning the letter. And Tick’s intent was stronger than anything he had felt in his entire life. He wanted to see this through. He wanted to reach the end of the mystery.

He wanted it very, very badly.

Not sure if he’d finally flipped his lid once and for all, Tick screamed at the top of his lungs, belting out several words as loudly as his body could handle.

“MASTER GEORGE, I DIDN’T BURN THE LETTER!”

It hurt his throat and made him cough, but he shouted it a second time anyway.

Drawing in a deep breath through his torn throat, Tick concentrated. He had to do something. He had made his choice long ago to not burn the letter. That choice still had to mean something, didn’t it? If only he had chosen to take his journal with him to the library instead of leaving it where Kayla could find it.

He felt a funny tickle growing in the pit of his stomach, a reserve of energy he hadn’t known was there. A wave of warmth spread up from his stomach into his chest. The air in the woods stilled around him, as if the whole world hushed, waiting for him to make his move.