A dark gray haze burned off the Trickster’s body like steam from a hot road in rainy season. More liquid than smoke, it coiled out with a motion that warned of sentience and independent power. He raised his hands and began to weave and braid the black gossamer before him. His eyes remained closed, but his face was intent with an inward gaze as the web grew dense, thick and wide, billowing up and out like a sail.

“That should be enough,” he whispered, resting his hands on his knees once more. “Come closer.”

Chance did not know what to expect, and yet he went forward and stood below the canopy that now hid the stars. The web settled over him like a collapsing tent and brushed his skin with a vibrant thrill that was at once terrifying and familiar. He did not fight it as it sank into him with caution, maintaining a distance that was skin-deep from his own quintessence yet swaddling him completely.

“What is this ?” he asked, not daring to guess.

“A partial shadow. He won’t expect you to be able to touch him, but now, with my covering, you can.”

“Clever,” Chance said. “And generous. Thank you.” He frowned, suddenly comprehending the Trickster’s unusual stillness. “But . . . you have weakened yourself.”

The Trickster tried to shrug but only managed to twitch a shoulder briefly. “I wouldn’t have been much good in a fight anyway.”

“Then at least go where you can be protected. Go to Patience. She can look after you and keep Miranda safe at the same time.”

“I think I will do just that,” came the quiet reply. “I can think of a few other ways to make myself useful. Good hunting, brother.”

Chance flexed his fingers within his new skin, almost wanting an excuse to linger, but he did not indulge himself. He nodded a farewell to the Trickster and turned away to enter the labyrinth.

BOOK II

MEMORY

CHAPTER TEN

“Why me?” Miranda whispered.

After Chance and the Trickster had departed, she had become still and quiet, like a child wearied by crying. Now, pulling awkwardly away from Patience, she stood up and surveyed her surroundings, turning fully to see all around and above her. Somehow, in all her scrutiny, she managed to avoid looking directly at the strange woman who had been consoling her.

“Where is Chance now?” she asked.

Patience pressed her lips together. It might have been an almost human gesture of caution. It might have meant nothing. Even if she was of the same ilk as Chance and the Trickster, she was far less readable.

“I want to go home,” Miranda snapped. “I don’t care who you are or what happened just now. I want to go home.”

Patience remained seated on the floor, her hands folded in her lap, her gaze lowered. “You cannot. He is looking for you.”

Miranda’s anger gave way to confusion. “Chance is looking for me?”