Thursday the Pirate Queen—Peregrine remembered Jack’s stories well. There was sure to be a certain amount of mischief on that ship, and this girl was doubtless the only maiden aboard. Peregrine tried to wrap his mind around the inadvertent spell Saturday had cast.

“You were too humble with regard to the extent of your god powers,” he said.

“I did that?” she asked softly.

“Yes,” said Betwixt. “You did.”

So everything Cwyn had told them in the armory was correct, though Peregrine hadn’t thought he’d be witnessing an example so soon. “You can work a magic mirror.”

“I guess?” Saturday replied with little emotion. “I mean, I don’t know. My eldest sister can. Does. Whatever. I don’t have any magic.”

For someone so strong, she was excessively hard on herself. Beauty and godstuff may not have been the fey powers she wanted, but they were powers she possessed, and it was foolish of her to eschew them.

“Cwyn said you could control magic,” Peregrine reminded her, “not that you created it.”

“There is no need to create magic here,” said Betwixt. “Magic permeates the walls around us. You appear to siphon it far more easily than the lorelei can manage.”

Saturday remained defiant. “But I don’t know anything about magic.”

“You don’t have to know about it to wield it,” said Peregrine.

“Still, it’s a good idea to know about it so you don’t get anyone killed,” said Betwixt.

She threw up her hands. “How can you say that, while you look to me to lead you to your death?”

“I still have hope,” said Betwixt. “I believe in heroes.”

“What about you?” Saturday asked Peregrine. “You don’t believe we’ll survive the dragon, do you?”

She would value his honesty more than pretty words. “I don’t. But our lives don’t end here. There is still a spell to stop and a witch to kill and a dragon to wake, and I plan on doing all that next to the woman I love.”

He did not expect smiles and shouts of jubilation at his statement, which was good, for he did not receive them. Saturday’s brow furrowed. “You love me?”

Once more, he thought it best to be honest. There wasn’t time left to play games. “The gods have sent me dreams my whole life of a wild young woman with golden hair and bright eyes. I have always been in love with her. I had thought she was Elodie. Turns out, she was you.” He made no move to touch her.

“But what about Elodie? What about your betrothal?”

The last thing Peregrine wanted was for Saturday to think he was not an honorable man. “Elodie is a girl I never knew from a fate I was never meant to have,” he said. “True to Leila’s curse, I have experienced a long and fruitful life on this mountain. We may die up here in the next few moments, but I want to live those moments with purpose, filling them with as much as I possibly can. Don’t you?”

“Yes,” she answered, and he was pleased to see that her eyes were bright again. He hoped the last things he saw before his death were those eyes.

“We should make a plan,” said Betwixt. “The witch may be comfortable enough walking into this spell blind, but I’m not.”

“Agreed,” said Peregrine. “She’ll be preparing her cauldron even now. We’ll usher Saturday to the farthest end of the mountain with her bag of ingredients to lure the witch away from her lair. Then, Betwixt, you and I can—”

Saturday raised a finger. “I just have one question.”

“Yes?”

“You said I could work a magic mirror. Do you see a mirror anywhere?”

“Ah,” said Peregrine. She had a good point, which meant there was even more to her abilities than he had originally believed.

“And what does ‘ah’ mean where you come from?”

“If I may,” said Betwixt. “My dear, I believe you are a Transformer.”

“A . . . what?”

“Perhaps ‘mutant’ is a better word,” said Peregrine.

Saturday grimaced. “No. That sounds worse.”

“Changer? Transmograficationist?” Peregrine drew the long nonsense word out, making up each syllable as he went along.

“That sounds ridiculous,” said Saturday.

“That sounds familiar,” said Betwixt.

“Whatever you want to call it,” said Saturday, “I know I can’t change myself at all. If I could, I’d be taller.” She smiled at her joke. It was so nice to see her smile.

“Shapechanging is different,” said the shapechanger. “Cwyn described you as a vessel. Think of yourself as a tool through which magic uses itself to alter itself.”

“You are an enchanted weapon, all on your own.” Peregrine indicated the runesword still at his hip.

Saturday thought about it a moment. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“It will,” said Betwixt.

“So . . . magic is using me?”

“This time it did, yes, like a petulant child wanting to be noticed. But only because you are ignorant.”

“This conversation is making me feel so much better,” said Saturday.

“Cats,” Peregrine explained.

“You are not a chalice or an athame, an inert object with no say in how you are used. You have the power—if you’ll excuse the expression—to choose what is done with the magic around you.” Betwixt lifted his wings to indicate the cave. “Like transforming crystals and other reflective surfaces into magic mirrors.”

“Or axes into swords.” Peregrine hadn’t meant to say the words aloud, but they echoed in the chamber nonetheless.

Saturday turned to him. “How in the world do you know about that?”

Peregrine tapped his temple. “Visions.”

“The more you tell me about them, the more unsettled I feel,” said Saturday.

“Imagine the subject of them landing on the doorstep of your prison,” said Peregrine. “You are, quite literally, my dream come true.”

“Now you’re being preposterous.”

“And you’re being obtuse,” he said. “But I think I can help. There’s somewhere I need to take you.” He stood and offered a hand. Predictably, she ignored him.

“Another place like this?”

“Not as beautiful, but hopefully as illuminating.” He took up the sack of mushrooms and moss, adding to it a pomegranate, a goblinfruit, and two more ripe tomatoes. “For the journey,” he said, tossing the sack over his shoulder. And because he had food, she followed him.

13

Mirror, Mirror

SATURDAY ONLY knew they’d reached their destination when Peregrine lowered the torch to light a brazier he’d come upon. She stayed by the brazier as the coals captured the flame. In her bare feet, wet hair, and damp clothing, it hadn’t taken her body long to freeze back into an icicle. Her eyes followed Peregrine as he walked the perimeter of the room, lighting wall torches as he had done in the crystal cave. These sconces were more elaborate and perfectly anchored into the icerock, like the ones on the walls in Rumbold’s palace. The brazier, too, was a work of art, not a crude stone fire pit like the one she’d woken up beside.

The light fought the darkness and quickly won. As each torch was lit, so was its reflection.

Saturday was standing in a cave of mirrors.

There were mirrors propped against every pillar and outcropping. Some had even frozen into the walls. Large and small, plain and ornate, broken and intact, they reflected the firelight, the occupants of the room, and each other. Some of the thicker frames boasted carved woodland animals and gargoyles and demons and cherubs and lively trees and flowers. Every graven thing with eyes to stare did so, and their expectant gazes never left Saturday. Betwixt spread his wings in front of one particularly impressive mirror that Saturday guessed was about as wide as her house. Behind him, a thousand Betwixts stretched similarly into infinity.

“Is this one of the witch’s caves?” Saturday whispered. “Will she find us here? She will be looking for me soon.”

“It will take her some time to prepare for her spell,” said Peregrine. “And like the garden, the witch does not know this cave exists. I’m not sure where Leila obtained these mirrors, or how long it took her. Some were scattered throughout the caverns, but I collected them here.”