She lowered her voice to a whisper as she spoke this last, and both of them glanced quickly over at Prince Lír; but he was sitting on a stool in the corner, evidently writing another poem. “Gazelle,” he murmured, tapping his pen against his lips. “Demoiselle, citadel, asphodel, philomel, parallel…” He chose farewell, and scribbled rapidly.

“We will never find the way,” Schmendrick said very quietly. “Even if the cat told the truth, which I doubt, Haggard will make sure we never have time to investigate the skull and the clock. Why do you suppose he piles more work on you every day, if not to keep you from prowling and prying in the great hall? Why do you think he keeps me entertaining him with my carnival tricks?‌—‌why do you think he took me as his wizard in the first place? Molly, he knows, I’m sure of it! He knows what she is, though he doesn’t quite believe it yet‌—‌but when he does, he’ll know what to do. He knows. I see it in his face sometimes.”

“The lift of longing, and the crash of loss,” Prince Lír said. “The bitterness of tumpty-umpty-oss. Cross, boss, moss. Damn.”

Schmendrick leaned across the table. “We can’t stay here and wait for him to strike. The only hope we have is to escape at night‌—‌by sea, perhaps, if I can lay hold of a boat somewhere. The men-at-arms will look the other way, and the gate—”

“But the others!” she cried softly. “How can we leave, when she has come so far to find the other unicorns, and we know they are here?” Yet one small, tender, treacherous part of her was suddenly eager to be convinced of the quest’s failure, and she knew it, and was angry at Schmendrick. “Well, but what about your magic?” she asked, “what about your own little search? Are you going to give that up too? Will she die in human shape, and you live forever? You might as well let the Bull have her then.”

The magician sank back, his face gone as pale and crumpled as a washerwoman’s fingers. “It doesn’t really matter, one way or the other,” he said, almost to himself. “She’s no unicorn now, but a mortal woman‌—‌someone for that lout to sigh over and write poems about. Maybe Haggard won’t find her out after all. She’ll be his daughter, and he’ll never know. That’s funny.” He put his soup aside untasted and leaned his head into his hands. “I couldn’t change her back into a unicorn if we did find the others,” he said. “There’s no magic in me.”

“Schmendrick—” she began; but at that moment he jumped to his feet and rushed out of the scullery, though she had not heard the king summon him. Prince Lír never looked up, but went on drumming meters and sampling rhymes. Molly hung a kettle over the fire for the sentries’ tea.

“I’ve got it all but the final couplet,” Lír said presently. “Do you want to hear it now, or would you rather wait?”