“Hey!” came Amos’s voice from across the parking lot. “What are you doing?”

The woman’s talons released, and Maren leapt up. “Come on!” she yelled as she ran. Without a second’s hesitation, Amos dashed after her. Maren didn’t look back; she didn’t hear the click-clack of Obscura’s shoes, but it didn’t mean they were safe. She grabbed Amos’s sleeve and pointed at a lone taxi idling beside the bus stop.

“Do you have money?” she gasped as they splashed through puddles and dodged around slow-moving visitors clutching flower arrangements and balloons.

“Yeah.”

“Good, because I’ve only got quarters.” As they skidded to a stop by the cab, Maren finally looked back. No sign of Obscura, which was somehow scarier than her chasing them. Amos tugged the taxi’s door open and let Maren climb in first. “Can you take us to the typewriter store just off Main Street?” she said to the driver. “Quickly?”

“You got it.” The driver hit the gas before Maren had time to find her seat belt. As the cab zoomed out onto the street—into traffic where any number of cars could smash right into them—Maren’s heart punched her ribs as she stuck her hand into the seat crack, rummaging through crumbs and trash and God knew what else, but she couldn’t find the seat belt buckle.

“Here.” Amos held up the belt for the middle seat, and Maren slid over. With her seat belt clicked and pulled tight, she could breathe again, though the taxi tore along at a speed that made her want to shut her eyes. She pulled out her phone and called Lishta, but there was no answer at the dream shop, and her cell phone went straight to voicemail.

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” said Amos.

“It’s over.” Maren tapped out a text message:

I’m on my way to the shop. If Ms. Malo/Obscura Gray shows up, DO NOT LET HER IN.

“What is?” said Amos.

Maren squeezed her eyes shut and took a slow breath. She could cry about this later. Right now she had to fix it. Step toe toe heel step heel went her stubborn foot that wasn’t going to let her cry. Step toe toe heel step heel.

“Hey.” Amos poked her arm. “What’s over?”

Maren clutched her phone to her chest. “That whole situation I couldn’t tell you about.”

The cabdriver caught Maren’s eye in the rearview mirror, and she broke off.

“Sorry to interrupt,” said the driver, “but which way do you want me to go to get around the parade?”

“Around the what?” said Maren.

“Main Street’s closed all day for the fishermen’s festival parade.” The driver flicked at the map on his dashboard-mounted phone. “We can take Steeplechase or Applewood.”

“Whichever is faster,” said Maren.