Von Sudenfeld stood by the van, watching them. The bald man sat at the wheel. They had opened the van’s side door, and by the stark light inside Alex saw it was kitted out as a mobile workshop, a mix of electrician’s tools, engineering gear, and medical equipment. Robot parts were stacked on shelves. Fliers hung upside down from the ceiling. Von Sudenfeld straightened as Zia brought him the old empty wooden frame. He inspected it briefly, slanting it in the light, then slipped it inside the van, slamming the door.

Zia returned to the Silver Phantom, balanced her cushion on the driver’s seat, then perched on it, impatiently watching Beckman and Alex until they were all inside again.

“If we’re quite ready.”

She stretched to reach the pedals, the engine roared, and soon they were on the main road, hurtling southward, the other vehicles following. At a certain point, the van bearing von Sudenfeld, the bald man, and the old picture frame peeled off onto a road that split away in another direction. Zia tooted the horn jubilantly as they went.

“There it goes,” she sang, bouncing on her cushion. She revved the engine. “Vroom-vroom! What a lovely big motorcar! I think I’ll keep it. If there are still any roads left after.”

Metz’s limp form bobbed beside her as she enthusiastically spun the wheel, changing lanes. He gave one faint, confused groan, then fell silent again.

At spots along the dark horizon, distant fireworks flowered, reds, golds, and greens flashing and fading. As they slowed to enter a village, a giant flare exploded just above, sending down a sparkling shower of intense purples and blues.

“Look, bunny,” Zia said as they crawled along the main street. “Celebrating Walpurgis Night. See how funny they are? Happy little fruit flies.”

The town’s Walpurgis Night celebrations were in full, noisy swing. Cavorting forms crammed pavements in the wavering light and shadows of swaying lanterns. Music pulsed. It seemed as if half of the town’s inhabitants had dressed up for the occasion. Everywhere Alex turned, people loomed at the car in outlandish masks of painted wood and papier-mâché: merry gangs of devils, witches, and wolves, alongside other, weirder, more obscurely grotesque and twisted faces.

“‘When people put masks on, they’re really taking their masks off,’” Zia announced in a haughty, professorial tone. “Has your grandaddy bored you with that philosophical pearl yet, Alexander? That used to be one of his very favorite bits of puffed-up windbaggery. Although, to be fair, on nights like this, I can see what he means.”

A small bonfire had been set up at an intersection. As Zia nudged the Rolls past, happy witches and devils took turns leaping through the flames, using pitchforks and broomsticks like little vaulting poles. A circle of people cheered them on, waving bottles. In the flickering firelight, the masks seemed alive.