Alice grinned and reached out for the strange, slippery fabric of the labyrinth. Searching the library for scraps of magical power that had ripened in the vast collection since the last time she’d come through was still one of her primary duties, whenever Geryon didn’t have a more important errand for her. It had grown much easier, however, since her return from Esau’s fortress. Not only had her ability to sense the magic from a distance grown as her own power had expanded, but the Dragon’s labyrinthine abilities also let her step across the library in moments. Ending’s power over her own labyrinth was superior, obviously, but Alice could twist space as she liked as long as the labyrinthine didn’t stop her. It was one way she managed to fit in her lessons in Writing while still finding enough magic to satisfy Mr. Wurms.

It was also a power Geryon knew nothing about. She’d kept it secret when she’d come back from Esau’s, in spite of a few probing questions from her master about how, exactly, she’d defeated Torment. The more he didn’t know, she reasoned, the easier he would be to fool.

She gripped the fabric in her mind, folding it over just around the next corner, so that here became there. Ashes stepped ahead of her through the gap—he seemed to be able to sense the fabric as well, presumably as a result of his half-labyrinthine ancestry. Alice rounded the corner and passed into familiar territory, an aisle between two tight-packed shelves that led to Mr. Wurms’ table.

They found him sitting at his table, as always. He looked like an older man in a black suit, with a high, shiny forehead and thick spectacles, but Alice knew now that he wasn’t really human. Like Mr. Black, the big, surly groundskeeper, he was a magical creature in Geryon’s employ—not something the Reader had pulled out of a prison-book, the way Alice could summon the Swarm or Spike, but an intelligent being who’d agreed to serve.

He looked up at her approach, a cloud of dust rising from his clothes at the slight motion. Mr. Wurms spent most of his time filling thick leather volumes with tiny, precise script, only his fingers moving. When he saw Alice, he made an effort to smile, showing a mouth full of rotting teeth.

The first time she’d come to the library, Alice had been afraid of Mr. Wurms. There was a hunger about him, and his eyes, huge and blurry behind his spectacles, bored into hers in a way that made her uncomfortable. Now, though, Alice realized he was deliberately avoiding her gaze and his long, thin fingers twitched nervously.

He’s afraid, she thought. He’s afraid of me.

“Ms. Creighton,” Mr. Wurms said in his rasping, German-accented voice. “Have you had a good day’s hunting?”