Alice wasn’t sure what would happen then. If her father was alive, then she would go to war to get him back, if that was what it took. Just finding out the truth had seemed so difficult, she hadn’t thought much on what to do afterward.

“I think you’re right,” she said. “He seems more interested in figuring out how Vespidian found me, and you and I already know the answer to that.”

“And speak of the devil,” Ending said, then chuckled. “Our large friend has come to find you.”

“Mr. Black?” Alice asked, surprised.

“Yes.” Teeth gleamed as the cat yawned. “He’s looking for you.”

“I’d better go,” Alice said.

“Much as I’m tempted to keep the lummox wandering around for hours, you’re right.” Ending let out a low rumble. “Interesting. Geryon wants the library locked down and the defenses checked. Something serious must have happened.”

Alice guessed that Ending had a mental link to communicate with Geryon, as she did with her own creatures. “Is something attacking us?”

“Not yet. But whatever he wants you for . . .” Ending paused. “Be careful, child.”

“I’m always careful.”

“Be very careful. Now go and find Mr. Black before he gets frustrated and starts breaking things.”

Alice nodded. She patted her pocket to reassure herself that the three acorns were still there, and hiked to the edge of the clearing, pushing through the jungle to one of the narrow gaps between the monolith/shelves. On the outside, she started walking back the way she’d come. Only a couple of turns later, she was back among the orderly shelves of the mundane library, and the next aisle she took led her directly to Mr. Wurms’ table.

“I told you,” came Mr. Wurms’ voice, as dry and dusty as the old scholar himself. “I haven’t seen her.”

“Daft girl,” Mr. Black rumbled. “Always wandering where she’s not wanted—”

Alice stepped out from behind the shelves and cleared her throat, and they both turned to face her. Mr. Wurms worked at the intersection of two wide aisles, where he had a long trestle table piled high with books. Some of the stacks looked precarious, and most of them were covered with a thick layer of dust, as if they hadn’t been touched in a long time. Mr. Wurms himself was normally draped in dust too, bent over his table for days at a time, only his quill pen scritch-scritch-scritching through stacks of yellow paper.

Mr. Black loomed next to the frail-looking scribe. He was tall and massively broad in the shoulders, and a wild mane of black hair, beard, and mustache gave his face a bestial appearance, with only his eyes visible. Those eyes narrowed when he saw Alice, and he shifted uncomfortably.