Shrike broke her hands free and took Spyder by the shoulders, telling him gravely, "I am a princess and I order you to take off every stitch of clothing at once."

Happy to play the diplomat, Spyder did exactly what he was told.

Later, covered in sweat, focaccia crumbs and spilled wine, Spyder kissed Shrike on the neck and said, "Tell me more about the princess biz." Shrike was curled against his side, her head tucked into his neck. "Is your kingdom somewhere I would have heard of?"

"No. It's not even in this Sphere. Where I'm from, magic runs the world. Your Sphere built the internal combustion engine. In mine, we transmuted gold into lead."

"Do you miss it?"

"I miss my home. And my father."

"Did he escape?"

"He's dead. I don't even know where he's buried."

"What about your mother?"

"My mother died when I was born. I never knew her."

"Sorry. What's the best and worst part about princessing?"

Shrike thought for a moment, running a hand idly around Spyder's nipple. "The best part was the shoes and learning to fight. The worst part was state dinners where you had to be charming with a full mouth."

"Did the princess have a horse named Princess?"

She pinched his nipple. "I didn't call my horse Princess because he wouldn't have liked it. He was a hundred shades of gray and terribly sick when he was a colt. I nursed him and when he grew strong, I named him -Thunder."

"Thunder is just the boy version of Princess."

Shrike bit his ear.

"Why was your partner murdered?" asked Spyder.

"I don't know."

"Was it for someone you two killed?"

"Maybe."

"Does it have something to do with this new client?"

"I honestly don't know. But, yes, it could."

"Peachy," said Spyder. "By the way, when this is all over, can I tattoo my name on your ass, princess?"

"Kiss me and I'll think about it."

In Spyder's dreams, a man was flicking lit matches at him. The little flames arced out of the dark and hit him in the face, the arms, the chest. All around him was -machinery.

Age-grimed engines the size of skyscrapers blasted flames and blue-black smoke into a dingy green sky. A forest of enormous furnaces lay ahead of him and wretched workers (twisted limbs and curved spines, as if their backs had all been broken and not allowed to heal properly) shoveled pale things into the flames. When his eyes adjusted to the light, Spyder saw that the slaves (there was no other word to describe their condition) were shoveling whole corpses into the fire pits. Where there were no corpses, there were piles of desiccated limbs or putrid mountains of human fat. The crippled workers shoveled each of these into the furnaces as diligently as the corpse stokers.

The man was flicking matches again. "You're a fool," he said to Spyder. "A lost puppy. A sparrow with a broken wing, trapped on an ant hill. A little boy who's fallen down a well. It's enough to make a good man cry."

"Who are you?" asked Spyder.

"The opposite of a good man," said the stranger. Spyder could see him better now. He looked like one of the Black Clerks, but his movements were more fluid than theirs. "We have three brains, you know. A reptile brain wrapped in a mammal brain wrapped in a human brain. Really, we're three people. Which would you like to answer your question?"

"Where am I?"

"Over the rainbow. At escape velocity. Under the hill." The next match struck Spyder in the eye and he flinched. "But it's never too late to go back home."

"I want to. I want to go home."

"No, you don't," said the man. "You want to play." He rushed at Spyder, his broken black teeth bared in fury. He was one of the Black Clerks. Or what Spyder would look like if he were a Black Clerk. The man's skin was held loosely in place by hooks, leather straps and brass clasps. He pulled off his face to reveal some pitiful thing beneath, a blackened stick figure that smelled of roses and shit, leaking an oily yellow dew from every orifice.

"Let's see what's under your mask, little boy," said the Black Clerk to Spyder and he dug his spiky, broken nails into Spyder's face and began pulling away chunks of flesh. "What are little boys made of? Meat and tears and bones and fear, that's what little boys are made of!"

Spyder awoke with a stifled scream.

Sitting on a small, child-size chair that looked like it was intended more as a decoration than a functional piece of furniture, was a pale, small man in a brown suit at least two sizes too small for him.

"Who are you?" asked Spyder, hoping he wasn't about to start the whole dream over again.

The man stood up and made a small, stiff bow. "I am Primo Kosinski. I have been sent to fetch the Butcher Bird to Madame Cinders' home."

Spyder shook Shrike, then realized she was already awake and playing possum. "I heard him come in," she said. "I just wanted a little more sleep."

"I am to bring you to Madame Cinders at your earliest convenience." The words rushed out of the little man's mouth in a high, breathy voice.

"We heard you the first time," Shrike said. She snuggled closer to Spyder. "I'm not a morning person."

"It's afternoon, ma'am."

"Damn," she said. "All right."

The little man remained standing as Spyder crawled out of bed and began to look for his clothes. Primo's attention was anxious and unnerving. Like what a herd dog must make a sheep feel like, Spyder thought. "Would you sit the hell down and relax?" asked Spyder.

"Certainly." Primo sat, but it didn't help much. He perched on the edge of the little chair, his attention as keen as ever. "And close your eyes while she dresses," Spyder added. The little man closed his eyes and covered them with his hands.

"I don't care," said Shrike. "It's not like there's anything here worth lusting after right now." Spyder knew how she felt. Whatever kind of wine they'd been drinking, it left him light-headed, clumsy and oddly forgetful. Even when he found his clothes, it took him a few minutes to decide that they were his. It was some small consolation that Shrike, too, was moving slowly and painfully. The wine had kicked her ass, too. Good, he thought. At least we're starting out the day even.

"How far is it to Madame's?" Shrike asked.

"From here, perhaps three hours," said Primo, his voice muffled by his hands. "There is a boat and then the Blegeld Passage."

"You've arranged transport through the Passage?"

"Yes, ma'am. A very agreeable tuk-tuk. Very luxurious."

"There's no such thing as a luxurious tuk-tuk," said Shrike, pulling on her boots.

"Yes, ma'am."

The day was starting slow, but all right, thought Spyder. He remembered that Shrike had not wanted him to speak much. That request was working out fine since, once again, he didn't know what she and Primo were talking about other than they were all going somewhere and, happily, using a boat for part of the journey. He'd been on boats before, so at least he would recognize something.

When they'd dressed, Shrike ordered both Primo and Spyder out of the room. She stood in the doorway with the little book open flat on her hands and said a few words. As Shrike slapped the book closed, the bed and carpets were gone and room was back to its original dingy state. Even the dust hadn't been disturbed. Shrike tucked her cane under her elbow and took Spyder's arm. "Lead us to the boat, Primo."

"This way, please, ma'am." He hurried down the steps ahead of them as Spyder walked down with Shrike. Spyder couldn't tell if she was walking slowly because of the hangover or because she wanted to appear relaxed and indifferent to their voyage. In any case, it was pleasant to have her on his arm again. Though all through the walk, Spyder felt as if he were floating beside his body watching himself. He was so out of it, in fact, that Primo was handing them the boat tickets before he realized where they were.