“The paintings don’t add together to reveal where the Shadow Gate is,” Alex said. “They are the Shadow Gate. The frames are, anyway. I think the gate was an actual wooden structure the sorcerer made. Just like with the golem’s tablet: you need the tablet to hold the power or . . . reach the power; the object is part of the magic. I think the sorcerer made the gate as part of his . . . spell. Then it was dismantled and the pieces were disguised as all these frames and scattered all over the place. That’s why they needed to steal the physical objects. That’s why it’s not always been the same eleven paintings on the list, like Evelyn said—they’ve sometimes switched the frames to different paintings. And that’s why the robots kept coming when you were going to slash the canvas, Grandad, but stopped when I was going to burn the frame. Well? What do you reckon? Are you all right, Grandad?”

Alex’s grandfather sat repeatedly clenching his left hand, then stretching it wide, wiggling the fingers. He looked up and smiled.

“Never better. Although, I feel a little embarrassed at not putting that together myself. I think you’re right, Alex. Seems rather obvious now you say it. And I just gave them one of the frames they needed. Old fool. Well, regardless, our immediate job remains the same: we have to get to the final painting—the final frame—before they do. Evelyn?”

“I have to make a phone call,” Kingdom said. She pulled into a large and depressing-looking service station. While she stepped out and got on her phone, Alex’s grandfather and Harry disappeared toward the shopping area.

The dogs grew alert as Metz groaned again. His eyes opened. He sat staring, trying to get his bearings, and traced a finger gently over the fresh wound on his neck.

“You okay?” Alex asked.

“Like coming back to life,” Metz croaked, then smiled. “And what is happening out in the world, young man?” The dogs stared at him curiously.

“Evelyn’s finding out about the last painting,” Alex said. He gestured out the window. “Or trying to, anyway.”

Kingdom was making animated, frustrated gestures in the rain, clearly in a heated argument with whoever she was speaking to over the phone. She clutched her head, then bent double. A few moments later, she killed the call, sat back behind the wheel, and let out a small but heartfelt scream through clenched teeth.

“Infuriating old duffer,” she said. “Sounded about two hundred years old.”

“Uh, did you . . . find out?” Alex asked. “What the painting is?”