“When I speak a spell like that, who’s really listening?” Saturday asked her companions while they waited. “Certainly not the mirrors themselves.”

“They say gods are the conduits,” said Betwixt. “That is the reason for the rhyme: so the gods know you wish to perform a spell, with their blessing.”

Saturday was skeptical. To the best of her knowledge, she and Peter had never drawn accidental attention with their Wood-born nonsense. And yet, she could easily picture the gods laughing at their witticisms. “The gods do have a sense of humor.”

As if in response to her statement, five mirrors and a shard by the brazier burst into brilliance.

Peregrine cried out and threw his arm over his face. “Gah! You’d think I would have been prepared for that!”

The brightness had pierced Saturday’s own skull as well. As she waited for the glare to die down, she offered another one of those silent prayers to the ether and whatever god she now knew was listening. No matter what the looking glass showed her, she wanted Trix to be alive. Preferably alive and safe.

The five mirrors showed the same vision at the same time, and then a few more joined in. The room began to warm from the magic. The familiar scene before them was the one from Monday’s looking glass, though now Saturday knew what she witnessed. Saturday watched as the earth split below her and water sprayed to the heavens. Mudslides swamped forests. Flocks of birds fled the treetops. Relentless rains flooded houses and farms. Men, women, children, and animals alike were swept away by the angry tides.

Saturday’s shivering now had nothing to do with the cold. “This is what I’ve done,” she said. “This is the chaos I created. I don’t understand how you could love a destroyer of worlds.”

She could not turn away from the images, but she felt Peregrine’s hand slip inside hers.

“The earth brought storms and floods long before you came. It created mountains and valleys and oceans many years ago, without your help.”

“The only constant in this life is change,” added Betwixt.

“But all those poor people . . .” said Saturday.

“I see suffering, but I don’t see death,” Peregrine pointed out. “You don’t know for sure that you’ve killed anyone.”

“I have no right to cause so much pain.”

Peregrine squeezed her hand. “Look at them, Saturday. These are the people of your world. These are the people you will save when you stop the witch.”

“When we stop her,” said Betwixt. She felt the catbird’s reassuring presence at her side.

“And we will,” added Peregrine.

“Yes,” said Saturday. “We will.”

The visions blurred and the cave swam with colors— almost half the mirrors in the room were awake now. The colors resolved to settle on Trix. Saturday gasped.

Her brother’s lifeless body was caught up on the back of a sea serpent. It was violet-scaled and segmented, but its movements were graceful and fluid. Large spines rose up from its head like stiff plumage. As it swam, the serpent tilted its head back so that the spines created a basket in which Trix’s body was easily contained for transport.

Saturday worried about Trix’s body remaining underwater for so long . . . but, too, she wondered at how the monster could swim with his head kept back at such an odd angle. Slowly, more of the scene was revealed. The monster had two more heads. One looked as lifeless as Trix.

Three heads. Saturday knew this beast. She had seen it herself from the deck of her sister’s ship: the mythical lingworm. What had Thursday said to her? No Woodcutter is in danger from that particular lingworm. Her sly pirate sister had seen more than just a creature through that blasted spyglass, but she’d said nothing! She wanted to slap her sister for keeping secrets. Well, at least whatever Saturday was witnessing was not a threat to her brother. That must mean he was still alive. But Saturday hadn’t been on the pirate ship for days now . . .

The mirrors grew bright again. This time when they dimmed, the mirror’s eye looked up from the base of a tree.

“He’s alive!” A dozen Trixes perched on a dozen branches in the looking glasses before her, every one of them alive and well. Saturday screamed in delight and grasped at the consoling arms Peregrine wrapped around her. “That’s Trix! That’s my little brother! He’s alive!” She wanted to weep with the joy of knowing she had not killed him . . . or possibly anyone. Beside her, she heard Betwixt’s wings flutter in happiness.

Trix had a golden apple in his hands. The vision flashed and he stood before a pretty young girl, but Saturday could not make out her features, outshone as they were by the brilliant gold of the apple’s skin. Trix split the apple—a feat Saturday wasn’t quite sure how he accomplished with his simple knife—but the two pieces he cut were not equal.

It was a trick. Saturday remembered this from one of Papa’s stories. Did Trix know the story too? He was clever enough, to be sure, but he didn’t look as though he had any supplies with him except that knife. He was mud-spattered and must have been starving. But he could not give in to his basic needs. Generosity must win out.

“Give her the larger half!” Saturday yelled at the looking glass. It was a silly gesture, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself. Her voice felt cold and flat; the mirrors pulled the words out of her, but they died in the air. Trix couldn’t hear her. There was no way he could. And yet, he turned his head and looked back over his shoulder at something before holding out a hand . . .

Before Saturday could see the outcome, the scene changed again. This time Trix was at the top of another, even taller, tree. Saturday wasn’t worried; Trix had always been at home in the treetops. It was where he’d been found by Papa that fateful winter’s day when he’d become part of their family.

She was warier of the eagle that sat beside him. The bird looked almost as big as their house. Despite the raptor’s wicked beak and talons, which made Saturday shudder in memory of her capture, Trix’s face was unafraid. He and the eagle both looked out over the massive horizon. As they did, so too did the mirrors’ eyes reveal what they saw. Plains and scattered forests spread out before them, leading to hills and valleys with harsh white peaks beyond. The largest of the mountains, dwarfing its brethren in size many times over, rose into the clouds and beyond. The Top of the World.

Saturday blinked. She didn’t know if these looking glasses revealed the past, present, or future, but in this vision her brother was looking right at her.

She cried with all her might: “I’m here! I’m trapped! I’m here!” Over and over again she yelled into the thick, cold air, as if she might force the words through the mirrors and beyond.

She lunged toward the largest looking glass—at least, that’s what she meant to do—but at the first footstep she collapsed. With Peregrine’s arms still around her, she sent them both toppling to the ground. Her energy, forced once more to go on long after it was spent, gave out. The mirrors, every one now responding to Saturday’s outpouring of power, went dark.

For a second time, Saturday’s soul surrendered to blackness.

Saturday woke where she had fallen: in Peregrine’s arms. She did not see hide nor wing of Betwixt. The brazier had burned down and her muscles were screaming. Despite the amount of heat radiating from Peregrine’s body, she was beginning to think that she would never truly be warm again, but then she remembered the heated lake. And the crystals. And the mirrors. And Trix. Saturday sat up and gasped.

Her body scolded her for her lack of proper stretching and the continued lack of her healing sword. She bent one limb at a time, slowly, attempting to placate her muscles before they seized up completely and her entire body became one large cramp. She knew better than to give in to her boundless enthusiasm, and yet she never seemed to be able to stop once she was in the thick of things.