So, when Dawn appeared in his dreams that night, the bright light of The Gingersnap Café all around her, he didn’t hesitate to take the chair opposite her and make his request.

  “Dawn,” he said. “I need to talk to Xavion.”

  RULE 30:

  ISOLATE THE COMPONENTS

  Dawn

  Typically, Dawn woke up after her dreams with Ambrose bearing a brief feeling of normalcy. A fleeting assurance that everything was fine, that Ambrose was really just down the street, brewing his morning potions and ready to meet her for coffee and gossip about his latest customers.

  But seeing him the night prior, shaken and scared and spouting strange requests, she woke up wishing she could huddle under the covers and go right back to bed.

  “Have a nice day!” she called to her last customer before lunch, her voice strained and eyes bleary. It didn’t help that all of Rosemond Street was frantically discussing Dawn’s observations through the rose statue, its light distracting her from her shop duties. She flipped the store sign to Closed, then opened up the statue’s scroll to check the latest in the conversation.

  I don’t like it, Viola had written, followed by an unfamiliar script, one unnecessarily flowery for something as simple as the rose statue.

  You don’t like it? Xavion had written back. He asked to speak to me! What could he possibly want from me? I know nothing about Aphos! I will not have the pressure of this damned rescue fall on me—I’m already quite saddled with his infuriating number of level seven brews, thank you very much.

  The next message was from Banneker’s shop, but the writing was in Eli’s blocky hand.

  When I last talked to him, he kept mentioning dragon plasma or something. I kept trying to tell him just to lie low, not do anything, we’ll get him out ourselves.

  Not do anything? That was Grim’s handwriting, the letters large and perfectly aligned. You really thought Beake was going to just sit there and wait for us?

  Sherry’s response came as Grim’s words were still appearing on the paper. Dawn, did it sound like he was in danger?

  Dawn could feel the scared tremor in the question, and she tried not to echo it herself in her response.

  He didn’t say much, but I don’t think so. Then, after a thought: How about I bring some wine over tonight? I’ve got a bottle from my birthday I’ve been waiting to open. Think we all need it.

  The responses rolled in immediately.

  yes please

  Oh, thank the gods.

  Just one bottle?

  The bell over the door tinkled, drawing her away from the statue.

  “We’re closed—!” she started, then smiled, relief settling on her shoulders. “Oh. Hey, Rory.”

  “Hey.” Rory grinned. “Just thought I’d stop by.” She pulled a bouquet out from behind her back—wildflowers from the Elwig Market, spilling out of twine-wrapped paper in a joyous burst of pink and purple. Dawn’s nerves evaporated just looking at them.

  “You have no idea how much I needed these.” She gave Rory a kiss and took the flowers. Rory nodded to the statue, which still flashed a frenetic white.

  “Does it have anything to do with that?”

  Dawn sighed as she dug up a vase, then placed the flowers next to Ember’s water dish. The phoenix salamander slowly blinked and reached for the thickest stalk, testing his weight on them.

  “I talked to Ames last night,” she said. “I don’t know what’s going on, but he’s not doing great, so…” She reached up on her tiptoes and pulled the wine bottle off the shelf. “Sounds like I gotta dust this off for tonight. You wanna join?”

  She silently begged Rory to say yes. The last time she had pulled some wine off the upper shelf, it had earned her their first kiss.

  But Rory hesitated, setting both elbows on the counter. “I would, but I’ve got to work late tonight. My editor wants an update on the Ambrose story as soon as possible.”

  All at once, the nerves that had unspooled at the sight of the flowers coiled back up in her stomach. That wasn’t true. She had seen the note. She knew that wasn’t true.

  Her chest tightened. She had to call it out, but the words lodged in her throat, unwilling to lead herself down that path. While she floundered, Rory reached for the wine bottle.

  “But if I can manage to get out of work at a decent time”—she glanced out the window—“maybe I could⁠—”

  “I saw the note,” Dawn blurted out.

  Rory’s shoulders tensed…then slumped, and she turned back around. The silent gesture only made Dawn’s heart pound harder.

  “I saw it on your desk,” she continued. “I know your editor rejected the story on Ambrose weeks ago. Why are you still working on it?”

  Rory straightened, her gaze on Dawn’s face wavering. “I wanted to help. I couldn’t just leave, not after knowing he was kidnapped⁠—”

  “You didn’t know him then,” Dawn said, “and you didn’t really know me, either.”

  “But I knew how to help⁠—”

  “And how do you know how to help?” Her questions were picking up speed of their own volition, plucking at her doubts and Eli’s questions. “You’ve only been in the Scar for a few years, and yet you know everything about Aphos. You can’t go down there, but you gave us perfect directions. Look, I can’t say I’m not grateful, but…” She took an uneven breath. “Please be honest with me. What are you really doing here?”

  Rory set the wine bottle on the counter with a quiet thunk.

  “I haven’t…only been in the Scar for a few years,” she murmured, her gaze fixed on the wine label. “I did grow up in Deepriver, but before that, I was born here.” She took a breath. “In Aphos.”

  Dawn thought back to the articles piled on Rory’s desk, the repeated images of Mila, the head of Aphos. The shape of her eyes, the angle of her nose… She searched Rory’s face. “You’re related to that woman, aren’t you? The leader?”

  “That woman,” Rory said, tapping her nails on the counter, “is my mother.”

  Her ensuing words came out in a desperate tumble.

  “I don’t—I’m not with Aphos, all right?” she said. “I hated that place. I knew what my mom was doing, and I—I left when I was a kid to go live with my dad. I never lied about any of that. But I couldn’t…” She toyed with her jacket sleeve. “I couldn’t just let it go, knowing what she was doing down there. I got into reporting and came back to the Scar to work on the magical crime beat, hoping I’d…”

  The sourness of the hidden truth laced Dawn’s words. “You’d what?” she said. “Take down Aphos yourself?”

  “I don’t know,” Rory retorted, then immediately softened as she ran her hand through her hair. “Take down her, at least. She doesn’t know I’m here. If she finds me out, finds out what I’m doing, I don’t…I don’t know what she’ll do to me. If she’ll kick me out, or try to—twist me into coming back…” She waved her hand, batting her own fear out of the air. “So, I did what I could without stepping foot inside Aphos. I gained contacts, tracked her work through their gossip. Meddled where I could.”

  Dawn let her words sink in. Rory was no spy or enemy, she told herself. She was on their side, helping Ambrose while simply trying not to get caught herself.

  But one of the words had its claws in her, refusing to let her relax and allow the revelation to pass.

  “Meddle,” she repeated. “Is that why you’re helping us? To meddle in her affairs?”

  Rory swallowed. “Look, if Ambrose is rescued, it’ll be a huge blow to her stupid little empire⁠—”

  The claws deepened.

  “Empire?” Dawn recoiled. “He’s not a—a pawn for you to move around. He’s my best friend.”

  “I know that⁠—”

  “Have you just been using all of our work to get back at your mom?”

  Rory stared at her—then her expression went cold.

  “Oh, like you haven’t been using my knowledge to get him back.”

  “You offered!” Dawn gestured to the bakery outside. “Weeks ago! When did your editor reject the story? Before you even stopped at our door?”

  Rory remained silent, her lips in a line. Dawn’s thoughts uncoiled while her nerves tightened painfully.

  “Was the rest of it real?” she asked, her voice warbling. “The dancing, the stories, the kiss—or was I just a pawn, too?”

  “A pawn,” Rory repeated with an icy, barking laugh. “As if someone like you could ever be a pawn⁠—”

  “I certainly feel like one,” Dawn spat. Anger grew behind her eyes, thorns building up in her teeth…

  She released her tight grip on the edge of the counter. No, this wasn’t the sinkhole. She wasn’t going to do anything she would regret.

  “Please leave,” she managed, every word shaking. “I just—please go.”

  Rory opened her mouth…then snapped it shut, backed away, and left the store, the bell above the door clanging lifelessly above her.

  Dawn stared at the Closed sign swinging on the door handle. Through tears, she opened the wine bottle and scrawled a messy note on the statue scroll.

  Change of plans. Someone come drink with me now.

  RULE 31:

  DEBATE

  Ambrose

  Ambrose went to sleep and found himself, bewilderingly, on the debate stage at Potion Con.

  “Oh, come on.” He rolled his eyes and looked down at the other end of the stage. “Really?”

  Xavion shrugged. “I didn’t know what else to project.”

  “You could’ve projected anything.” Ambrose folded his arms. “A field, a street, a tavern—and you chose this? What, did you want to try for a rematch now that I have nowhere to run?”

  “I wouldn’t”—Xavion smiled sharply—“dream of it.”

  Ambrose desperately wanted to punch them.

  “Now,” they said, wandering toward him with their hands folded behind their back. “What has the great Ambrose Beake running to me in his time of need?”

  “Well, I’ve been kidnapped, if you haven't noticed.”

  “I am running your shop. I believe I have noticed.”

  “Then you’ll be delighted to know that I’m trying to aid in my own rescue,” Ambrose said. “And…I need your advice.”

  Xavion’s eyebrows rose.

  “Consider it a debate topic, of sorts,” he added quickly. “I’ll give you my ideas on what I should brew and you tell me why they won’t work, until we find one that will.”

  Xavion straightened and took their normal position on the stage. “Very well. What’s the purpose of this potion of yours?”

  “Something that can get Nat and me out in case Rosemond Street can’t help me.”

  Xavion stared at him but didn’t question the premise. “And what did you have in mind?”

  Ambrose mentally ran through the notes he had jotted down and hidden under his mattress, as if that would help him remember them better. “Flight, initially.”

  Xavion shook their head. “There’s a shield over the sinkhole. You won’t be able to fly out.”

  Ambrose had guessed as much, based on what Eli had last told him of his plans—but he had to rule it out to be safe. “A teleportation brew, then.”

  “I’ve seen Aphos’ unique teleport signature myself,” Xavion said. “You won’t be able to apply it to a potion.”

  “Invisibility?”

  “There is nowhere to go in that sinkhole. Turn invisible before them, and they will simply catch you.”

  Ambrose started to pace; Xavion remained still on the other side of the stage. How infuriating—to be standing in a sinkhole the day of the demonstration, so close to the sky and to freedom, only to not be able to reach it.

  He rattled through his other notes, other potions that he had less confidence in but had to rule out to keep his mind from going in circles—and, of course, nothing worked. Xavion, in their usual way, found flaws in every single one of them, shooting them down without effort. Ambrose had hoped this sort of conversation, if one could call it that, would gradually coax out a grand idea, a unique, masterful brew that would buoy him to victory⁠—

  But nothing came, and by the end, they stood there in silence on a stage without an audience. Xavion hadn’t moved, but their expression had fallen, their stance less haughty.

  “It isn’t going to work,” they said quietly. A desperate fire flared in Ambrose’s chest.

  “I have to do something⁠—”

  “Are you sure you cannot make what they want you to?” Xavion asked. “Actually make a passable true illusion potion for them?”

  Ambrose snorted. “What I made for them at the last demonstration was a Guild-defying disaster, a mere stopgap to fool them. I can’t actually make a true illusion potion, not by myself in a—a stupid, windowless room⁠—”

  “You wouldn’t be doing it alone.” Xavion stepped forward. “You have your knowledge, what you wrote down of your predecessor’s old notes, and unfortunately for myself”—they took a breath—“you have me in this illustrious dreamscape.”

  Ambrose looked around him—at the convincing illusion the circlet on Xavion’s head had built. The solid floorboards under his feet; the sound of his voice bouncing off the makeshift walls; the faint smell of the food court wafting in from the tunnels…

  “Wait,” he said. “Is there a way I can do this? Create this sort of illusion in reality?”

  “Certainly not,” Xavion said, their retort instinctive. “The circlet’s magic is too specific. Its components are entirely dependent on the delicate interactions between…” They looked around them and trailed off, their mind taking the same path as Ambrose.

  “Delicate interactions that could be smoothed…” Ambrose grinned. “By esther?”

  Xavion couldn’t help themself. “Shut up.”

  “So, I was right?”

  “No.”

  “Tell me I’m right.”

  Xavion huffed and took one more hard look at the room; their silence was a victory in and of itself.

  “How long do you have to make this potion?” they finally asked.

  “One week.”

  Xavion sighed, then cracked their knuckles. “Then thank all the gods you’re Ambrose Beake, because no other potioneer I know could pull this off.”

  RULE 32:

  RUN MORE TESTS

  Dawn

  Rosemond Street had five days until the rescue, and every shop radiated a forced cheeriness.

  Customers milled thoughtfully between stores, taking little heed of the strangely quiet artificer, jeweler, and potioneer. The usual lunchtime crowd gathered around the open-air forge, watching Sherry work with a taut smile on her face.

  And in The Midnight Snack, Viola compulsively cleaned, the metal foot of her leg clinking all around the shop.

  “Still can’t believe it about Rory,” she muttered when she got close to Dawn’s table. “Here. On the house.” She set a cup of tea in front of Dawn, the plate adorned with a hibiscus flower and a vanilla cookie. Dawn gave her a wan smile.

  “Appreciate it,” she mumbled. In the spare time she had before opening her own shop, she had decided to post up here in a little corner of desserts, sadness, and denial. She wasn’t alone, either—Eli had arrived minutes later and promptly placed Tom in her lap.

  After all, it was difficult for a corner to be sad if Tom was there.

  “You tell me if you need anything else, all right?” Viola patted her shoulder, smiled at Eli, then headed straight for the broom propped against the wall.

  Yesterday, all of the merchants had devoured both the bottle of wine and the news about Rory in minutes. Banneker had sworn up and down that he should’ve seen the signs in his tea leaves. Sherry had courageously talked Grim out of confronting Rory directly, only to then swear she was going to do it herself. Eli had…

  Well, in the moment, he had rushed off to the bakery and ordered a dozen emergency cupcakes, but this morning, the news seemed to have caught up with him. He slouched over the table, his coffee going untouched. When Tom reached for the flower on the teacup, he took it and wedged it between her broom bristles—but it barely brought a smile to either of their faces.

  “She didn’t just lie to you,” he finally said. “She lied to all of us.” His gaze darkened. “What if she had been working for Aphos? She knew our every move for weeks.”

  “She isn’t working for Aphos.” Dawn rubbed her face in exhaustion. Her warring thoughts had kept her up all night, turning her last conversation with Rory like she would the handle of a wand until her mistakes came out shiny and unmissable. “She was trying to help.”

  Eli gave her a look.

  “She was!” Dawn retorted. “She just…”

  “Was using us?”

  “And we were using her right back.” She sighed and sipped from the tea—there was no spell in the drink, but the floral notes in the tea helped wake her a little. She used the brief moment of wakefulness to force her thoughts in a different direction. There was no staying in the corner of sadness forever—there was a rescue plan to finish.

  And that plan was barely limping along.

  “Any word from Banneker on the invite?” she asked hopefully. Eli shook his head.

  “No progress,” he said flatly. “No working invite, no way in.”

  Dawn hugged Tom closer. If Rory wasn’t here—and despite looking out the window every few minutes, she wasn’t—then someone would have to take the rest of the mission into their own hands.

  And she certainly couldn’t mope while Ambrose’s life hung in the balance.

  “Come out to the tavern with me tonight,” she said without thinking. “The Aphosian one down south.”

  Any of the merchants would have balked at the idea—it was too risky, so close to the rescue—but Eli perked up immediately.

  “What do you have in mind?” he asked. Dawn crunched on the vanilla cookie in thought.

 

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