“You can’t come,” said Chance. “There’s no point. Besides, it’s not safe to have you roaming about in a time and place where you’re not supposed to be. You might be seen.”

“I could hold her at the edge,” said the Trickster, his eyes alight with a troublemaker’s innate curiosity. “Or, better yet, give her a little of your power so she can open a window for herself.”

“No,” said Chance, frowning at him. “I know you love to experiment, but no.”

A quiet echoing whisper meant only for him came from the Trickster’s sly-smiling, motionless lips. She might be able to see things that we can’t.

Chance hesitated. That might not be advisable, he answered, also in silence.

We’ll take her memory anyway, won’t we? Come on. You had a sense of adventure once. Where did it go?

“Very well,” Chance said, speaking for Miranda to hear. “And you’re responsible for her, understand? Keep on the edges, and don’t get in my way.”

The Trickster smiled and moved instantly and invisibly to stand behind Miranda. He wrapped his arms around her, shocking a gasp from her. “I’ll keep her safe and sound,” he crooned with an impudent wink.

Paying him any further mind would only encourage him, so Chance simply opened a door and left, trusting them to follow instructions. His brother would charm when he wished and tease as he liked, and there was never any stopping him. He doubted Miranda could be scared off at this point; she was determined to solve the puzzle.

Chance found Lukas easily; the boy’s thread still hummed strongly from the previous encounter. Finding Lukas’s father was much harder. It was not that the boy lacked for intersection points with his father—rather the opposite. Grief had touched them all with a poignancy that made it difficult to identify which encounters were truly significant and which were merely sentimental. Deciding at last on a reasonably meaningful node, Chance focused on an ordinary scene: a small backyard in the middle of a row of squat, working-class town houses overshadowed by the rear view of a complex of taller City Administration buildings.

Lukas was playing football on a tiny patch of grass with two older children. His father was playing dominoes with a group of men on the back patio. Three women sat near the door in what appeared to be the kitchen, their enjoyment clear from their conversation, wine-drinking, and loud laughter. The men concentrated on their game, occasionally punctuating the general chatter with the explosive sound of tile slammed against wood.

“Annnnd, that’s me done,” said one with a final victorious crash of his last domino. He reached for a small black board propped up against the patio rails and ceremoniously chalked himself a stripe. “Ravi: three, Sherwyd: one, Niko: one, and Latky: nil.”