Mothball sat, not taking her eyes off Priscilla, whose suddenly pale face made her look like she might never speak again.

“Now, er, we do need to talk of this matter,” Master George continued. “Sato here has put together a summary of his interviews, and the reports of people going insane are numerous, indeed. Something is very wrong, and it’s spreading throughout the Realities at an alarming rate. Almost

like a—”

“Disease,” Nancy Zeppelin said. “Like a disease.”

Master George paused, studying the beautiful woman as he thought about what she said. She didn’t look back, staring at the table in front of her with a blank expression.

“Yes,” he finally said. “Yes, quite like a disease, actually. The pattern shows it spreading from a fragmented Reality—all cases link back to it eventually, with no exception. It is exactly like a disease or a virus.”

“Need a sample, then. One of the crazies,” Mothball said.

Before Master George could reply, an urgent knock rapped at the closed door from the hallway. Finally. Perhaps now they would have some answers. He stood up. “Mothball—”

The door opened before she could do anything. A wave of relief washed through Master George as he saw one of his oldest friends enter the room, though he looked like he’d just taken a bath in a pile of dirt—his overalls were filthy.

“Master Sally,” George said, smiling.

Sally grinned through his thick, red beard. “It was harder ‘an findin’ a tick on a grizzly bear, but I did it.”

“Did what?” Rutger asked, shocked.

“I found dem kids a’yorn.”

Part

2

The Beast in the Glass

Chapter

15

Nice Mistress Jane

Frazier Gunn was worried about his boss.

As he walked up the winding stone staircase of Mistress Jane’s tower, enjoying the smell of burning pitch from the torches ensconced on the hard granite walls, he wondered which version of her would answer the door. The flickering, spitting flames cast haunted shadows that seemed alive, hiding and reappearing like dark wraiths. A team of seven servants maintained the torches throughout the Lemon Fortress, even though Jane probably could have lit the place using only her growing abilities in the mutated Chi’karda.

But she had her own way of doing things, and that was that.

Frazier felt a trickle of sweat slide down his right temple as he passed the halfway point. He’d been sick the last few days, unable to keep any food down, and he felt the effect of his illness now. He almost paused to rest, but his pride wouldn’t let him. He kept moving up the staircase, step by step.

His thoughts slid back to Jane’s recent mood swings—episodes of inexplicable kindness mixed in with the usual displays of anger and violence. He’d witnessed with his own eyes several of the bizarre occurrences. Just the other day, he’d almost swallowed his own tongue when he saw his boss help her servant Brainless clean up a broken dish Jane had slammed against the wall. The child’s face had paled during the incident, sure it was a trap, but when they finished, Jane apologized for losing her temper, dismissed her with a wave, and went back to work.

Frazier would’ve been less surprised to see a duck-billed platypus knock on his door and ask for tea.

Rumors of other surprising acts had spread through the castle like flames through a heat-wilted cornfield. Stories of kind words, apologies, thank-yous, compliments. Tales of Jane using her special powers to help servants lift heavy objects. It was crazy. Frazier had known this evil woman for years, and he couldn’t reconcile in his brain how it could be the same person. And yet, interspersed among these un-Jane-like anomalies, there were many moments where she exploded in rage, sometimes worse than ever before.

The whole thing was fishy, and in an odd way, Frazier longed for the days when Jane acted the tyrant every minute of every day. At least then he’d known what to expect.

He finally reached the top step, pausing to take three long breaths to calm his heart. He wiped the sweat from his face, not wanting Jane to see him so weak. After a very long minute, he finally crossed the stone landing and knocked on her wooden door.

It disappeared in a swipe from left to right, as if it had slid into the stone. It was only a trick, however, a manipulation of Chi’karda. Jane loved using her power for such trivial things, always opening her doors in creative and unexpected ways. One time she’d simply made it explode outward in a spray of dagger-like splinters, permanently scarring the poor sap delivering her mail.

Jane stood there, dressed in a simple yellow gown, her feet and hands bare. Her emerald eyes shone, almost glowing like green embers. Something was off, though. For a second, Frazier couldn’t figure out why she looked so odd, but then it hit him.

Jane had a layer of stubble growing across her head, tiny black sprouts of hair. Never—not once since he’d first met her so long ago—had Frazier ever seen so much as one hair on her head. She’d always insisted on baldness for some mysterious reason. Frazier balked and looked toward the floor, almost as if he’d caught her unawares coming out of the bath.

“Good morning, Mistress,” he said, keeping his eyes down. “I’ve come to report the latest on the Barrier Wand, and to, uh, report some interesting news.”

“Frazier, dear Frazier,” Jane said, her voice soft. “Please, come in.”

He looked up to see she had moved aside, gesturing toward her large, yellow velvet couch, beside which a fresh fire burned in the comforting hearth, its bricks freshly painted her favorite color. Clearing his throat, using every ounce of his will to avoid a single glance at her head, Frazier stepped past her and took a seat, sinking into the wonderfully comfortable cushions.

Mistress Jane sat next to him on his right, crossing her legs so that she faced him only a foot away. The fire reflected in her bright eyes, seeming to ignite them into some odd, molten metal. Frazier didn’t like this. No, he didn’t like this one bit.

“Frazier,” Jane said, reaching out to caress his arm, just once, before clasping her hands in her lap. “I know people are talking about me—about my . . . change.”

Frazier cleared his throat, faked a cough, hoping to buy time. He didn’t know how to respond to this. “Um, yes, Mistress, the servants have said some very . . . um, nice things about you. They are, of course, very grateful when you, uh, show them kindness.” He stopped; every word that came out of his mouth sounded worse than the one before it.




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