“We shouldn’t allow amulets at all,” Chance hissed in anger, livid at being seen through so quickly. “That one left back there will do some damage yet. I’m not responsible. I’ve done what I can within my limits.”

The stranger shrugged. “For now. I must get back. There’s nothing more to see here.”

“Wait,” he began, but the stranger slipped away before Chance could ask any more questions.

Dizzied and sickened by the doubling, echoing vibration of the place, Chance ripped open an exit rift and left with more haste than skill. He stumbled into the center of the labyrinth, fell to his knees, and retched. Hands rested on his shoulders, tentatively concerned.

“Give him a minute,” he heard the Trickster say.

He was grateful, not only to Miranda for the human concern she showed but to his brother as well. The Trickster held the made-world steady as Chance collected himself, a gesture as good as physical support would be to a creature of flesh and blood. Slowly he raised his head.

“Well,” said the Trickster.

“Well indeed,” replied Chance. “I think I know where we must go next.”

He turned to look at Miranda. She was still touching him lightly with bewilderment in her eyes that he could be capable of showing such weakness. “I have to leave for a moment. Literally a moment, for you. Wait on us. You’ll be safe here.”

“Where could I go?” she answered, spreading her hands wide but tempering the helplessness of the gesture with a shaky smile.

The Trickster helped him to his feet. Chance thought for a moment, his resurrected memories swirling, settling, and organizing themselves. Then he looked at his brother, a look that held all the information they needed. Quietly they flashed out from the center of the labyrinth.

—

As far as twilight years went, she had fared well. Her daughter-in-law was loyal to family, and family was marriage as well as blood, so even after her sons were long dead and their children scattered in fortune from obscure poverty to indifferent affluence, she had the good luck to be housed and fed and cared for in the tenement of a Freeman. The infirmities of age were her only afflictions, and she eased them as best she could—sitting by the window for the warm sun and the fresh breeze, looking out at the sea to soothe her tired, clouded vision with its cool, deep blues, and humming to herself as recent memories faded and old ones took their places with a strength that was more than mere nostalgia.

When Chance and the Trickster appeared beside her, she did not startle or scream.

The Trickster leaned in to whisper to Chance. “She’s completely senile. She can’t help us.”

“Oh, yes, she can. She will.”

The Trickster frowned at him. “Don’t overreach yourself. Will Uriel permit this?”