“Apparently he’s lurking around telling people they stink like old pirates,” muttered Amos, jamming his shoulder into the unmoving window.

Henri flapped over to the dressing table and let out a gloppy white dropping before hopping onto a pile of papers. Maren nudged him out of the way and picked up the notebook on top. Inside she found a list of names, with Ernesto Perez at the top, followed by Maisie Mae and Mark Zottery, whose name had been crossed out. A line of check marks marched across the page after their names. Maren flipped through the next few pages, which were covered in hundreds of other names, many of which she recognized from town. Only a few had check marks after them, but Maren knew the rest were just waiting for Obscura to give them nightmares.

Imagine who I can control. Imagine what I can make them think. The evil woman’s words echoed in Maren’s mind.

“Look at this.” Amos opened a folder filled with blurry photocopies. “She’s got info on the whole police department, everybody who works at the town hall and the mayor’s office, the department of public works, the board of selectmen, even the school board.”

Maren’s stomach felt like it was full of caterpillars. She sifted through the pile and found architectural plans for a massive, ornate theater, as well as for shops and restaurants and cafes. Even a school building. Maren couldn’t begin to imagine what kind of school Obscura would run, how she’d force the kids to behave.

“Whoa.” Amos pulled a black poster from underneath the bed. Silver designs of moths and thorny vines lined its borders, and in elegant silver script, it read:

The Shadow Theater

Featuring the Exquisite Obscura

Grand Gala Opening

January 5 at 7 p.m.

Attendance Is Mandatory

January was less than six months away. Maren had no idea how Obscura would manage to renovate the whole theater by then, but she also had no idea how she herself would survive six months in the woman’s clutches if nobody came to rescue her. And there was no way Lishta could live that long asleep. Maren’s hands went cold as she replaced the papers in the pile.

Somewhere downstairs, a door slammed.

“JOLIE MADEMOISELLE, JOLIE, JOLIE,” yelled Henri.

Maren’s chest seized up. “We need to get back to our rooms,” she whispered. “So she won’t know we figured out how to escape.”

Amos started to protest, but she stuck her finger in his face. “I have a backup plan. Trust me.”

He sighed. “Okay. But I really hate that room.”

“Me too.” Maren made sure the rows of pointe shoes were straight, then crept toward the door. “Don’t you say anything about us,” she warned Henri, but the bird was busy poking around in the sewing box, probably looking for safety pins.