“Yes . . . well, no . . . not the spider,” she mumbled slowly. “It feels like I’m missing four legs now. I don’t like it. Maybe no shadow at all. I don’t know. I’m tired.”

He touched her hand briefly, took up the small shadow, and drew back until the room faded to gray fog. Years as a human had not yet taken from him the ability to see in multiple ways, and so even as he stood aside, he could see the true Miranda more clearly, her eyes closed and body upright, walking slowly on the broad stones of the labyrinth with the concentration of a high-wire artist.

He looked away and caught Patience observing him watching Miranda.

“You never do things singly,” he mused. “There is more to this than Miranda’s permission. What are you doing?”

“You should ask,” Patience scoffed gently. “I have seen you weave a web so threadbare that you had to go back and fill in the gaps before you could hope to catch anything.”

“And what are you hoping to catch? Or should I say whom?”

He did not expect a direct answer, and Patience did not disappoint. “It would be good if Miranda were to find out who is truly responsible for the murders in the City.”

“You’re giving us that much reality within the labyrinth?” he said, astounded. “I mean—”

“I understand what you mean. Reality is, after all, relative, but yes, I am giving you enough information to be able to uncover the truth. My own hands are somewhat tied, but a little natural curiosity from a trickster may be overlooked.”

Hands tied. The Trickster did not question her further. He had long ago discovered that Patience had a strange regard for some unknown set of rules—rules that did not at all apply to the small powers at his junior level. Part of him did not wish to know, and so he moved on to another question. “I assume I can take appropriate action depending on what I find?”

She smiled at him, a little sadly but with great affection. “I am counting on it.”

He blinked, fighting a surge of unexpected and complex emotion. For a moment she had sounded just like his mother—his human mother, Paama. It was the tone of mingled pride and exasperation that had been a common feature of his teenage years. Then he shook himself free of sentimentality. If he started thinking of Patience in human maternal terms, there was no telling what he might let her get away with. Instead he nodded curtly and turned back into the flow of the labyrinth.