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He reached over to twist the key in the lantern beside his library desk, letting the clockwork d down and the light spin out. He was surprised at the sense of accomplishment he felt. He tucked the pile of sheets under his arm, grabbed the books hed been working on, and walked through the library. It was latehe had probably missed dinner. Hed been so close, he hadnt been able to stop. The library was a maze of bookshelves, though most of them were only about five feet tall. Other people worked in some of the alcoves, their lamps giving each one a flickering light. The building would close soon, expelling its hermitlike occupants. Joel passed Ms. Torrent, the librarian, then pushed his way out onto the green. He crossed the grounds in the near darkness, trying to decide if hed be able to beg some food off the kitchen staff. However, hed just finished something bighe didnt want to go eat; he wanted to share it with someone. It isnt even ten yet, Joel thought, glancing toward the Rithmatic campus. Professor Fitch will still be up. Hed want to know that Joel was finished, wouldnt he? Decision made, Joel took off across the grounds, passing between pockets of light shining from clockwork lanterns, with their spinning gears and shining coils. He passed a familiar figure sitting on the green outside the Rithmatist dormitory. Hey, Melody, he said. She didnt look up from her sketch pad as she drew by the light of the lantern. Joel sighed. Melody, apparently, knew how to hold a grudge. He had apologized for his wisecrack three times, but still she wouldnt speak to him. Fine, he thought. Why should I care? He moved past her quickly and arrived at Warding Hall with a spring in his step. He climbed the stairs to Fitchs door and knocked eagerly.

IN THE YEARS WHEN her middle name was Trouble, Zee had a habit of stealing boats. Her father never suspected her of any wrongdoing. He let her run free in those early days after her mothers death. He was busy being a pirate reenactor, an odd leap for a man whod been a literary scholar all his life. But those were desperate times, and they were both weary from constantly carrying their loss, unable to put it down except in those brief moments when they could throw themselves into something beyond the reach of their memories. In her fantasy world, the one where she could forgive herself for what happened that year, Zee liked to think that her father, Finch, would have been proud of her skills as a thief. In her wildest dreams, she pictured him joining her adventure, a huge leap for the professor, but not for the pirate he was quickly becoming. She had a preference for speedboats. Anything that could do over thirty knots was fair game. There was little security back then, and most of the keys (if there were any) were hidden somewhere on the boats themselves, usually in the most obvious place imaginable. The game was simple. She would pick a boat that looked fast and sleek, give herself exactly five minutes to break in and get the engine started, and head out of the harbor toward the ocean. Once she passed the confines of Salem, she would open up the engine and point the bow straight out toward Bakers Island. Later that night she would return the stolen boat. There was only one rule. She could never return a boat to the same mooring from which she had stolen it. It was a good rule, not just because it presented an additional challenge but also because it was practical. If she put the boat back on the same mooring, she would be much more likely to get caught. Everyone knows that the last thing any good thief should do is revisit the scene of the crime. Usually Zee would abandon the boat at one of the public wharves that lined Salems waterfront. Often it was the one at the Willows, the first wharf you came to when you entered the harbor. But when the cops started looking for her, she began to leave the boats in other, less obvious places. Sometimes she would jump someone elses mooring. Or she would leave a boat in one of the slips at Derby Wharf, which made it easy to get away, since she lived so close. Only one time did she mess up and misjudge the fuel level. She was all the way up by Singing Beach in Manchester when the engine died. At first she didnt believe she had run out of gas. But when she checked the fuel again, her mistake was clear. Fighting the panic that was beginning to overtake her, she tried to come up with a plan. She could easily swim to shore, but if she did, the boat would either drift out to sea or smash against the rocks. For the first time, she was afraid of getting caught. In a strange way, she was grateful that there were no other boats around, no one she could signal for help. Not knowing what else to do, she let the boat drift. She looked up at the moonless sky, the stars brighter than she had ever seen them, their reflections dissolving in the water around her like an effervescent medicine that seemed to dissolve her panic as well. Here, floating along with the current, staring up at the heavens, she knew that everything would be all right. When she looked back down at the horizon to get her bearings, she found she had drifted toward shore. A dark outline of something appeared in her peripheral vision, and, when she turned to face it, a wharf came into focus and, on the hill beyond it, a darkened house. She grabbed an oar and began to steer the boat in toward shore, catching the onsweep of tide that propelled it broadside toward the wharf. She grabbed the bowline and jumped, slipping and twisting her ankle a little but keeping the boat from colliding with the wharf. She tied up, securing bow and stern, and scrambled over the rocks to the beach. Then she made her way up the road toward the train station, limping a bit from her aching ankle but not really too bad, all things considered. Zee wanted to take the train back to Salem, but it was past midnight, and the trains had stopped running. She thought about sleeping on the beach. It was a warm night. It would have been safe. But she didnt want to concern her father, who had enough to worry about these days. And she didnt want to be anywhere in the vicinity of Manchester when they found the stolen boat. So she ended up hitchhiking back to Salem. Not a smart thing to do, she thought as she walked to the Chevy Nova that had stopped about fifty feet ahead of her and was frantically backing up. It was a woman who picked her up, probably midforties, slightly overweight, with long hair and blue eyes that glowed with the light of passing cars. At first the woman said she was only going as far as Beverly. But then she changed her mind and decided to take Zee all the way home, because if she didnt she was afraid that Zee would start hitchhiking again and might be picked up by a murderer or a rapist. As they rode down Route 127, the woman told Zee every horror story she had ever heard about hitchhiking and then made Zee give her word never to do it again. Zee promised, just to shut her up. Thats what all the kids say, but they do it anyway, the woman said. Zee wanted to tell her that she never hitched, that she wasnt the victim type, and that she had only thumbed a ride tonight to cover a crime shed committedgrand theft boato. But she didnt know what other cautionary tales such a confession might unleash, so she kept her mouth shut. As she was getting out of the car, Zee turned back to the woman. Instead of saying thank you, she said, in a voice that was straight out of a Saturdaymorning cartoon show shed watched when she was a little girl, Will you be my mommy? She had meant it as a joke. But the woman broke down.

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