Only, there was nothing usual about his daily business anymore. He’d been lonely as a child with an ill father, but that loneliness had been eclipsed by his years of solitude at the Top of the World. And yet, having someone else close at hand who pointedly ignored him made him feel worse than he ever had before.

This hadn’t been the case when Jack had scaled the mountain. There had been the swapping of laughter and stories. When Jack had asked Peregrine to escape with him, Peregrine felt comfortable enough beneath Leila’s disguise—especially now that the witch had been blinded—to be secure in his decision to stay and sabotage the witch’s experiments. The world would go on as it should, none the wiser, for as long as he could manage it. “When Jack was here, he spoke of his family as if he’d only just left them.”

“Did he? It was so long ago, I barely remember.”

“It wasn’t that long ago.” Betwixt did tend toward hyperbole. “But the day Saturday arrived—”

“That day I remember.”

“Saturday mentioned not having seen Jack since his voyage to the White Mountains. Do you think something’s happened to him?”

“Oh dear. I hope not.”

“As do I,” said Peregrine. “The Goddess of Luck seemed to be ever at his side; I only pray she still is.”

“Luck can be bad as well as good,” Betwixt pointed out.

“I wish I had better luck with Saturday,” said Peregrine. “I want to help her. What’s so terrible about that?”

“You’re just bothered that she doesn’t give two figs for you,” said Betwixt.

“Of course I am. Do you think the skirt is putting her off? I fear it makes her see me as weak.”

“I think the witch has put her off more than you or me,” Betwixt suggested. “To be honest, I don’t believe she’s seen you at all, weak or not, since she’s been here.”

The idea took away some of Peregrine’s bluster. He didn’t want to think of what would happen when “Jack Woodcutter” finished all the witch’s tasks and still couldn’t find the eyes. “She’s obsessed with that room. She’ll work herself into the arms of Lord Death at this rate. What kind of person burdens herself so much when help would be given freely and willingly?”

“A very strong person. And a very stupid one.”

Peregrine laughed. “Spoken like a true cat.”

“Why don’t you just ask Saturday herself about her intentions?”

“She’d have to stop burying herself in bird dung long enough to talk,” he said.

“Then the Goddess of Luck is with you this day.” Betwixt tilted his head to the sloping archway through which Saturday was determinedly making her way to them. There was a rake in her hands and fire in her eyes.

Everything about her was so familiar to him, as if he’d known her for a lifetime. Pity she didn’t feel the same. They could have been such good friends.

“Hmm.” Peregrine leaned back and casually picked up the lute again. He wanted his image of lassitude to irk her. He should have been ashamed at this pointless goading. He wasn’t.

“Jack Woodcutter! As I live and breathe.” He yawned, and then instantly regretted it: Saturday reeked like a sewer. “Just between us girls,” Peregrine whispered, “that cologne doesn’t suit you.”

“Good morning, Lie-la.” Saturday purposefully mispronounced the name. Oh, he did like her gumption. Shame about the brattitude. “Or day, or afternoon, or evening, not that anyone can tell.”

“Every greeting is welcome in a land beyond time,” Peregrine said poetically, plucking idly on the lute as if he might compose a song with the words.

“Then I should have hugged you and mugged you with slime,” Saturday rhymed glibly.

Peregrine was surprised at her show of cleverness and continued the verse. “Look at Woodcutter! Not bad with a rhyme.”

Instead of answering in kind Saturday turned her face to the floor, as if someone had just scolded her for having fun. “It was a game I played with my brother. Peter, not the one you know.”

Not the one he knew, and not the one she sought. So many siblings! Peregrine could hardly imagine a family so large. “My compliment still stands. If I had your gift, I would write a hundred songs to your malodorous beauty.”

“First, you’d have to learn how to play,” she said. At the snuffled sound of cat laughter, Saturday raised her lantern and spotted the gryphon. “Hello there.”

“Well met, Miss Woodcutter.”

While she had her lantern held high, Saturday turned slowly and examined the sparkling pillars in this cave, like castle turrets made of fairydust. The fingerstones here looked like tall, dripping candles waiting to be lit. It was one of Peregrine’s favorite spots.

“All these caves look mean,” said Saturday. “Full of teeth, like they intend to eat me alive.”

Peregrine blinked at the scene, trying to see it with new eyes. He’d felt the same way when he’d arrived, but in the period that followed the caves had changed. Mellowed. As he had. “The longer you stay, the kinder they appear.”

“Is it true that time doesn’t properly pass in this place?”

“Oh yes,” answered Peregrine. “There is no day or night here, only sleeping and waking. The sun and moon pass overhead, but Lord Time and his brothers have no hold on this mountain. We could live up here a thousand years and never age or die.”

“How do you know?”

Peregrine shrugged. “I’m not dead yet.”

He dodged the swat she intended for him. “You try my patience.”

“Take care with that. If he decides he likes your patience, he’ll take all of it,” Betwixt chimed in.

Saturday pointed at the gryphon with the rake. “Did you used to be the beetle-thing?” Peregrine had to give her credit; he hadn’t caught on to Betwixt’s nature so quickly. Her cleverness aggravated him, but he quashed the feeling. Now that she’d finally come to him, he did not want to ruin it.

“I was. Forgive me for not introducing myself earlier. My name is Betwixt.” The gryphon bowed his head.

“Is that really your name? Or is ‘Betwixt’ a part you’re playing as well?” She looked askance at Peregrine. He simply shrugged his shoulders helplessly.

“It might have been something else so long ago, I’ve forgotten it. Betwixt is the only name I have to give you.”

“I’m sorry,” said Saturday.

“It’s not that bad a name,” said the gryphon.

“I mean that you’ve forgotten your old name,” she corrected. “That happened to a brother-in-law of mine when he was enchanted. Are you enchanted? Is there anything I can do to help? I’m a maiden,” she said bluntly.

“So am I!” said Peregrine.

“You are an im—” Saturday stopped before she finished the insult. Her restraint surprised him. He really wished she’d stop impressing him. It made her lack of interest that much harder to bear.

“Cat got your tongue?” Peregrine asked her.

Betwixt yowled in nasally feline laughter.

Saturday stuck out said tongue to prove that she was still in full possession of it. “I need help,” she said.

Finally! Peregrine resisted the urge to hug the lute giddily. “You need a bath” was all he said in reply.

“Are you going to help me or not?” said Saturday. Her knuckles around the rake handle were white.

“Are you asking or not?”

Saturday put her head down, sighed, and started again. “The witch gave me this”—she thrust the disgusting rake in Peregrine’s direction—“and told me to clean her wretched bird’s nest.”

Peregrine backed away from the rake. He didn’t want it to accidentally touch him. “And . . . ?” he prompted.

“The cursed thing doesn’t work! The more soiled peat I rake, the more there is, multiplying instead of diminishing. It’s some sort of foul magic.”

Peregrine wrinkled his nose. “Something in this cave is certainly foul.”

“I gave up on the rake and tried shoving out the moss with my bare hands for a while.”

“Oh no,” said Betwixt.

“Oh my,” said Peregrine. He wasn’t sure even he had the stomach—or the nose—for that level of degradation.