“Name four,” said the captain. “I’m running out of things to tell the penswifts.”

Meralda sighed. “You might suggest that the lights are reactions of Tower structural spellworks to modern ward spells,” she said.

“That sounds good,” said the captain. “Quite reasonable.”

Meralda paused at a door. “No one will believe it, of course,” she said.

“No, they’ll go right on blaming Otrinvion,” agreed the captain. He glanced warily about. “The latest popular explanation is that our famous dead wizard is warning us that the Hang are up to no good,” he whispered.

Meralda rolled her eyes. “Oh,” she said. “I see. Otrinvion the Black, champion of the public good.” She shook her head. “Well-known for his selfless altruism.”

The captain shrugged and opened the door, looking back at Meralda with a grin. “Just so,” he said, motioning Meralda through. “I’ve got things to attend,” he said. “The Vonats are due in tonight, and we’ll want to fluff their pillows beforehand.”

Meralda laughed and waved, and the door shut, and she was alone in the brightly lit hall.

She made for the west stair. The palace was oddly deserted, while everyone, even the serving staff and the guards, gathered near the Gold Room for a glimpse of the Hang. Meralda’s footfalls were loud and fast, and she thought of the Tower and the long, winding stair.

Flashes, she thought. Red and white. Bright enough to be seen from the flat. A possible interaction between my failed ward spell and what?

“Structural spellworks,” she whispered, with a small frown. Six centuries of mages had poked and pried at the Tower for traces of just such spells, hoping to glean from them some hint as to how the monstrous structure was erected.

Not one single spell had ever been detected, much less isolated or studied.

Meralda reached the west stair landing, and heard the Bellringers speaking and laughing from their post above.

Meralda banished her frown and mounted the stair. “Good morning, Thaumaturge,” said Kervis, as she clambered up. “What will we be doing today?”

Meralda brushed back a stray lock of hair.

“Chasing shadows,” she said. “What else?”

Meralda put down her pen.

About her, the laboratory whirred and clicked and sparkled. Meralda rubbed her eyes and twisted in her chair, finally lifting her arms high over her head and stretching until her back popped and some of the stiffness fled.

Her desk was covered with architect’s papers, and they were covered with sketches of the Tower and calculations for the latching spell. Meralda sighed and shuffled papers, searching through them for errors or omissions. Finding none, she opened a desk drawer, pulled a fresh page from within it, and set about her final set of calculations.

Done, she stared at the numbers.

“Two hundred and forty-two,” she said aloud. “Two hundred and forty-two unique refractive spellworks. Minimum.”

Let’s see, she thought. Sixteen days remain, which means that even if I started today, I’d need to shape, cast, and latch fifteen refractive volumes each day until the Accords.

Meralda took in a slow, deep breath. She wasn’t sure if it was panic or rage or a mixture of both that welled up in her chest. Fifteen spells a day? More, if either the Tower latch or the refractive spells needed refinement?

A knock sounded at the laboratory door.

“Thaumaturge,” said the king. “Open the doors.”

Meralda sprang to her feet and marched for the doors. She felt the blood drain away from her face. If Yvin is here, she thought, he’s probably got the entire Hang delegation with him, and he’s idly promised them I’ll levitate the palace by lunchtime.

Meralda reached the doors. As she turned the doorknob and pulled, the king spoke again. “Open for your king!” he cried, his voice lifting to a shout. “Open, lest I halve your pay and turn your laboratory into a stable!”

Meralda barely had time to lift an eyebrow and step backward as the doors swung open.

Before her stood a red-faced, open-mouthed palace guard. In his right hand he held a large bird cage, draped over with a white bed sheet. The guard’s expression was one of extreme and sudden horror.

Kervis and Tervis, wide-eyed, flanked the lad, though their own twin faces were masks of barely concealed mirth.

The birdcage spoke. “Good morning, Mistress,” it said, in Mug’s voice. “Take me inside, won’t you? All this swinging about has left me quite ill.”

The guard, a young lad unknown to Meralda, thrust the birdcage out to her. “He asked to be brought here, Thaumaturge. The door guards approved it.”

Meralda took the bird cage. The guard saluted, turned, and fled. Kervis, straight-faced, quietly shut the laboratory door.

“I’m impressed,” said Meralda. “How did you manage this?”

A single red eye poked out beyond the bed sheet. “I sang,” said Mug. “‘La Volta’ from Nights in the Sun. I did all four voices,” he added, proudly. “Friend and music lover Mrs. Whitlonk called for Doorman Smith. I asked him to call for a guard, a bird cage, and a bed sheet, and here I am, ready to serve,” he said. The eye turned away from surveying the laboratory and fixed itself on Meralda. “How do you stand it?” he asked. “The world, spinning and moving about like this-ugh,” he said, retracting his eye.

Meralda bore him to her desk, cleared a space of papers, and set the cage gently down.

“No more spinning, at least for the moment,” she said. “May I remove the sheet?”

“Please do,” said Mug. Meralda lifted the bed sheet, and Mug blinked in the light.

“I see things haven’t changed here,” he said, peering about in all directions at once. Half his eyes fell upon the papers scattered across Meralda’s long desk. “You’re making progress,” he added.

Meralda shrugged. “Some,” she said. She frowned at the bird cage, and tilted her head. “You’ll lose leaves if you sit here all day without the sun,” she said. “Wait a moment.”

Meralda walked quickly to the west wall, where old Goboy’s scrying mirror stood, glowing faintly behind its blanket. Meralda grasped it by both sides and pulled, dragging it carefully across the floor until it rested beside her desk, leaning against a cabinet filled with second century glassworks.

Mug regarded the covered mirror with all of his eyes. “That’s old Goboy’s scrying glass, isn’t it?” he said. “Still have to keep it covered, I see.”

“It is, and I do,” replied Meralda. She reached out, grasped the plain blue blanket that covered the glass, pulled it away, and let it drop to the floor.

For a moment, her reflection looked back at her. Meralda brought her hand to her lips, considering her words. The Meralda in the mirror, hands still at her sides, smiled and took a single step forward, as if she were about to step out of the frame and into the laboratory.

“Spooky,” said Mug.

“Mirror, mirror,” said Meralda, as her reflection winked and put forth its right hand, palm up, beckoning Meralda to take it, and follow. “Show me sky,” said Meralda, forcing herself to meet her reflection’s gaze. “Sky, above the palace, and none of your tricks. I’m not in the mood. Is that clear?”

Meralda’s reflection drew back its hand, blew Meralda a kiss, and vanished. Sudden bright sunlight poured from the glass.

“Ahhh,” said Mug, swiveling his leaves toward the light. “Better. Thank, you, Mage,” he added.

Meralda kicked the blanket aside and pulled back her chair. With a sidelong glance at the mirror, which showed only blue sky and the top half of a slow-moving airship, she sat, and regarded her papers.

“I’m glad you’re here, Mug,” she said, with a sigh. Meralda considered Mug’s aversion to travel and sought out a pair of his blue eyes. “What made you do it?”

“Well, what sort of assistant perches above the kitchen sink all day when his thaumaturge is off casting eldritch spells in the palace?” said Mug. “A poor one, that’s what,” he added, quickly. “So I decided a bit of traveling was in order, until this ordeal is done.” He tossed his leaves dismissively. “It’s not so bad, really, once one gets over the nausea, the vertigo, the feeling of one’s roots falling as the earth plummets away.”