“Let’s start with the kiss.”

The kiss. The thought made Peregrine’s knees tingle, and every fiber in his body that wasn’t furious smiled. “Okay. So . . . you were right.”

“While that’s usually true,” said Betwixt, “that’s not the answer I was looking for.”

“Does Saturday look familiar to you?”

“Of course,” said the chimera. “She looks like Jack.”

“That’s what I thought too. At first.” They came to a split in the tunnel. Peregrine decided there was more work to do in the kitchen, so he selected the one on the left. “And then I realized I’d seen a face like hers more recently than that. So have you.”

The chimera whiffled through his beak. “I have?”

“It was her eyes that did it. Her eyes and that mad grin as we prepared to fight.”

“When you dropped your sword.”

“She looked at me with those bright eyes filled with fury, and I knew.” He’d known her then for who she was, just as he’d known his heart and soul were lost forever. He should have recognized her when the gods delivered her to his doorstep.

“You knew that I was right?”

“I knew that Elodie of Cassot was not the woman in my visions.”

Betwixt yowled. “Oh, gods. Your infernal sketchings. That was Saturday?” The catbird yowled again in affirmation. “That was Saturday!”

Peregrine balanced the tear-stained gauntlet and the torch while he lifted his skirt to maneuver around the small pillars and rock shelves in the floor. “‘Infernal.’ So apt a description.” Here and there the runesword scraped against the calcite, leaving a trail of glittering snow in his wake.

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to change my shirt and wash my face. I will not be kissing that girl again until she’s had a proper bath. Then I plan on burning a few of my possessions before the witch can get her claws on them. Want to help?”

Betwixt swatted at Peregrine’s skirt with a paw. “That’s not what I meant.”

“You mean what am I going to do about being in love with Stubborn-Britches Woodcutter when I’m betrothed to another woman?”

The gryphon’s chuckle was more of a fluttery purr. “It is a dilemma.”

Peregrine raised a finger. “You’re not seeing the bigger picture, my friend. As a traitorous birdie-witch just told us, we’re all about to die. That pipe dream I had of returning to the world? Never going to happen. For once, I hope that after all this time dear Elodie was smart enough to carry on without me.”

“I hope so too,” said Betwixt. “For her sake, and yours.”

Peregrine was too wound up for serious conversation. Having reached the kitchen, he walked straight up to the shelves that contained most of his pantry items. He carefully poured the last few gryphon’s tears into an empty vial, and then slipped the vial into his pocket. The next vial he picked up and threw into the fireplace. The glass broke and spiced mold spilled everywhere. The smokeless coals began to emit strange violet fumes.

“So, since our happy, comfortable lives will be cut short in the very near future, I feel that we should live every second as if it were our last.” A hammered helmet full of dried mushrooms exploded against the back wall. Several pieces of coal shot out of the chimney alcove and sizzled as they burned shallow holes in the icerock floor. “Don’t you agree?”

“I’m not so sure,” muttered the chimera.

Every piece of armor held something in this pantry, and Peregrine was of a mind to destroy it all. A pauldron of brownie teeth followed the mushrooms.

“I am free to love Saturday Woodcutter all I want. I can hug her and kiss her and fight her and reveal my deep and abiding love for her as we’re freezing to death on the mountainside or sucked through a demon hole. Which would you prefer?” He dumped out a poleyn of dried seeds he’d been saving. There was nothing to save them for now.

“You’re still upset,” said the chimera.

“Right again!” cried Peregrine. “Why have I never realized just how astute you are? We should celebrate. A shame there’s no alcohol. We could have a toast.”

“You never liked it anyway,” said the chimera.

“Not the point! But since there’s no alcohol, I say we continue burning things.” Having reached the back of the shelf, he extracted Leila’s handmade book of recipes and spells. The pages were a mixture of parchment and animal skins and other substances that Peregrine was happy not to know. Several loose sheets fluttered to the ground as he carried it to the fireplace. He snatched them back up again—every shred of this book must be destroyed. Leila herself had instructed as much in the frontispiece, and now Peregrine knew why: the lorelei needed more avenues for her power like the world below needed a waking dragon. He’d risk forgetting these tidbits of wicked wisdom in the short time they had left in this prison.

“Peregrine, I’ve never seen you like this,” said Betwixt. “Should I be worried?”

Peregrine did not answer, watching the fireplace as the flames licked the pages. The edges blackened and curled in on each other. The smoke that rose from the book was chartreuse and white, and the overpowering smell of cinnamon filled the room.

“Snip-snap-snurre-basselure. Is this a housecleaning or a tantrum?” The witch entered the kitchen through the entrance farthest from the fireplace.

Cwyn remained safely back against the wall. Smart move. Peregrine wanted to throw the pyrrhi in the fire as well. Betwixt shook his feline head in disapproval at the murderous look in his friend’s eyes, and Peregrine backed down. As a fire witch, Cwyn more than likely would have basked in the burning.

The bird’s blind mistress wandered closer, sniffing her way to the fireplace. “Dinner, perhaps? A new recipe? Or could it be . . . a spell?” This last choice made her the happiest. “I do detect the distinct presence of your handiwork! It’s been so long, I thought perhaps I imagined it. My darling daughter, walking in her mother’s footsteps! I am so proud of you.”

It wasn’t impossible for humans to perform some small magic spells, but Peregrine could evoke nothing like the elemental manipulation the lorelei played at, nor did he know how to fake that distinctive burned cinnamon smell. She had forced him to attempt working magic a few times, but the amount of energy required had drained him to the point of exhaustion within moments. He’d begged the witch to forgive the loss of aptitude she’d once seen in her daughter and allow Leila to excel at her own pace.

Now he would have to pretend he’d learned something.

“You honor me, Mother,” said Peregrine, dreading the imminent maternal contact.

The witch awkwardly hugged Peregrine, pressing her frail body against his lean, muscular one. “Tsk, tsk. So skinny,” she scolded. “We’ll have to work harder at fattening you up, my sweetie.” Peregrine attempted to block her from the fire, but she pushed him aside as she followed her nose. “What’s this?”

At the flick of a bony wrist, Cwyn crossed the room and landed on the witch’s shoulder. Peregrine wrinkled his nose at the bird in disgust. The raven squawked back at him.

“Play nice, dearies,” said the lorelei. She waved her hand; the top layer of icerock melted into the fireplace and extinguished the coal in a puff of rancid steam.

“What have we here? Lovely things. Mushrooms . . . brown-ie teeth . . . ooh, and the pungence of a nicely fermented mold.” No stew Peregrine had ever made had garnered a grin as wide as the one that now split the lorelei’s ghastly face. “And seeds. Hmm. Oh yes.”

He’d hoped that the charred seeds would be indistinguishable from the coal dust. Of more dire importance, though, was Leila’s spell book. Some things even the raven couldn’t unsee. The witch pinched the book between two blue fingers and held it up. The crisp black pages dripped purple blood.

“Cauldrons are used for more than just laundry, child. Remember that. It’s easier to alter ingredients in a pot than in the”—she sniffed the pages—“fire. Not Earthfire or coal but proper, elemental fire. Plus seeds from life yet to be, and pages from life that once was. I’ve been doing it all wrong.”