The voice sounded in her mind. It reminded her of the Dragon, the way it had spoken to her when she’d entered Esau’s fortress. But this voice was older, smoother. In some way Alice couldn’t quite understand, it seemed kinder. She ought to have been terrified, but she felt nothing but a wave of gentle concern.

Alice. Wake up.

I’m . . . tired. So tired . . .

You are in danger. Wake up now, or sleep forever.

I can’t.

You can.

The great eye shifted its gaze, pupil narrowing. Alice turned her head, an effort that was almost too much for her, and heard the tiniest sound. A snap, like a twig breaking underfoot.

There was a crack at the bottom of the mirror. It was only a few inches long, crooked like a bolt of lightning.

Wake up. The voice grew fainter. I will see you again.

The eye closed, leaving only darkness.

Alice stared at the tiny crack. She took a deep breath, what felt like the first real breath she’d taken in ages. Something was falling away from her mind, like she was pushing herself up from under a heavy sheet. She was still unutterably tired, but her lassitude was replaced by sudden fear, and her heart broke out of its lazy rhythm and slammed in her chest.

They were pulling her into the mirror. Very slowly, inch by inch. The mirror-Alices had gathered around, taking hold of her arms, her legs, her hair, and bit by bit they were lifting her up and taking her into their domain. It felt like slipping into a very cold bath—her left hand was already inside, and her fingers tingled and then went numb.

She jerked her right hand, but there were too many of the mirror creatures, and she was too weak. Desperately, she scrabbled for her threads, but she didn’t have the mental energy to hold on to them, and they slipped through her grasp as though they were made of the same slick glass as the mirror.

“Ours,” the mirror images whispered in her ear. The mouths on their porcelain masks had twisted into broad, toothy grins. “Ours, ours, ours forever.”

Alice jammed her right hand into her pocket, pulling hard against the grip of the mirror images. Her fingers found the silver watch, fumbled past it, and took hold of the last of her acorns. She put all the energy she had left into a grab for the tree-sprite thread, and for a bare moment she had it. She let its power stroke the acorn.

Grow, she told it. Just grow.

Then she flicked it, between finger and thumb, at the base of the little crack in the mirror.