The ferryman drummed his fingers on the pole. They made a clicking sound, like dice.

OH, ALL RIGHT THEN. BUT—AND I WANT TO BE CLEAR ON THIS—THERE IS TO BE NO SINGING!

Roland dragged the girl onto the boat. The bogles kept clear of that, at least, but as the ferryman pushed away from the shore, Big Yan kicked Roland on the boot and pointed upward. Scribbles of orange light, hundreds of them, were moving across the roof of the cavern. There were more of them on the opposite shore.

"How's the Plan goin', Mister Hero?" asked Rob Anybody quietly as he climbed down from the boy's helmet.

"I'm waiting for the opportune moment," said Roland haughtily. He turned to look at the not-Tiffany. "I'm here to get you out," he said, trying not to look directly at her eyes.

"You?" said the not-Tiffany, as if the idea were amusing.

"Well, us," Roland corrected himself. "Everything is—"

There was a bump as the boat grounded on the farther shore, where the bogles were as thick as standing corn.

"Off ye go, then," said Big Yan.

Roland pulled the not-Tiffany along the path for a few steps, and stopped. When he blinked, the path ahead was a writhing orange mass. He could feel the little pulls on him, no stronger than a breeze. But they were in his brain, too. Cold, and nibbling. This was stupid. It couldn't work. He wouldn't be able to do it. He wasn't any good at this sort of thing. He was wayward and inconsiderate and disobedient, just like his…aunts…said.

Behind him, Daft Wullie shouted, in his cheerful way, "Make yer aunties proud of ye!"

Roland half turned, suddenly angry. "My aunts? Let me tell you about my aunts—"

"No time, laddie!" shouted Rob Anybody. "Get on wi' it!"

Roland looked around, his mind on fire.

Our memories are real, he thought. And I will not stand for this!

He turned to the not-Tiffany and said: "Don't be afraid." Then he held out his left hand and whispered, under his breath: "I remember…a sword…."

When he shut his eyes, there it was—so light he could barely feel it, so thin he could hardly see it, a line in the air that was made up mostly of sharpness. He'd killed a thousand enemies with it, in the mirror. It was never too heavy, it moved like part of him, and here it was. A weapon that chopped away everything that clung and lied and stole.

"Mebbe ye can make a Hero all in one go," said Rob Anybody thoughtfully, as bogles scribbled themselves into existence and died. He turned to Daft Wullie. "Daft Wullie?" he said. "Can ye bring to mind when it was I told ye that sometimes ye say exactly the right thing?"

Daft Wullie looked baffled. "Noo that ye mention it, Rob, I dinna recall ye ever sayin' that, ever."

"Aye?" said Rob. "Weel, if I had done, just now would ha' been one o' those times."

Daft Wullie looked worried. "That's all right though, aye? I said somethin' right?"

"Aye. Ye did, Daft Wullie. A First. I'm proud o' ye," said Rob.

Daft Wullie's face split in an enormous grin. "Crivens! Hey, lads, I said—"

"But dinna get carried awa'," Rob added.

As Roland swung the airy blade, the bogles parted like spiderwebs. There were more, always more, but the silver line always found them, cutting him free. They backed away, tried new shapes, recoiled from the heat of the anger in his head. The sword hummed. Bogles curled around the blade and squealed, and sizzled into nothingness on the floor—

—and someone was banging on his helmet. They'd been doing so for quite a while.

"Huh?" he said, opening his eyes.

"Ye've run oot," said Rob Anybody. His chest heaving, Roland looked around. Eyes open or shut, the caves were empty of orange streaks. The not-Tiffany was watching him with a strange smile on her face.

"Either we get oot noo," said Rob, "or ye can hang aroond and wait for some more, mebbe?"

"An' here they come," said Billy Bigchin. He pointed across the river. A pure mass of orange was pouring into the cave, so many bogles that there was no space between them.

Roland hesitated, still fighting for breath.

"I'll tell ye whut," said Rob Anybody soothingly. "If ye are a guid boy an' rescue the lady, we'll bring ye doon here another time, wi' some sandwiches so's we can make a day o' it."

Roland blinked. "Er, yes," he said. "Um…sorry. I don't know what happened just then…."

"Offski time!" yelled Big Yan. Roland grabbed the hand of the not-Tiffany.

"An' don't look back until we're well oot o' here," said Rob Anybody. "It's kind of traditional."

On the top of the tower, the ice crown appeared in the Wintersmith's pale hands. It shone more than diamonds could, even in the pale sunlight. It was purest ice, without bubbles, lines, or flaw.

"I made this for you," he said. "The Summer Lady will never wear it," he added sadly.

It fit perfectly. It didn't feel cold.

He stepped back.

"And now it is done," said the Wintersmith.

"There is something I have to do, too," said Tiffany. "But first there's something I have to know. You found the things that make a man?"

"Yes!"

"How did you find out what they were?"

The Wintersmith proudly told her about the children, while Tiffany breathed carefully, forcing herself to relax. His logic was very…logical. After all, if a carrot and two pieces of coal can make a heap of snow a snowman, then a big bucket of salts and gases and metal should certainly make him a human. It made…sense. At least, sense to the Wintersmith.

"But, you see, you need to know the whole song," said Tiffany. "It is mostly only about what humans are made of. It isn't about what humans are."

"There were some things that I could not find," said the Wintersmith. "They made no sense. They had no substance."

"Yes," said Tiffany, nodding sadly. "The last three lines, I expect, which are the whole point. I'm really sorry about that."

"But I will find them," said the Wintersmith. "I will!"

"I hope you do, one day," said Tiffany. "Now, have you ever heard of Boffo?"

"What is this Boffo? It was not in the song!" said the Wintersmith, looking uneasy.

"Oh, Boffo is how humans change the world by fooling themselves," said Tiffany. "It's wonderful. And Boffo says that things have no power that humans don't put there. You can make things magical, but you can't magically make a human out of things. It's just a nail in your heart. Only a nail."

And the time has come and I know what to do, she thought dreamily. I know how the Story has to end. I must end it in the right kind of way.

She pulled the Wintersmith toward her and saw the look of astonishment on his face. She felt light-headed, as though her feet weren't touching the floor. The world became…simpler. It was a tunnel, leading to the future. There was nothing to see but the Wintersmith's cold face, nothing to hear but her own breathing, nothing to feel but the warmth of the sun on her hair.

It wasn't the fiery globe of summer, but it was still much bigger than any bonfire could ever be.

Where this takes me, there I choose to go, she told herself, letting the warmth pour into her. I choose. This I choose to do. And I'm going to have to stand on tiptoe, she added.

Thunder on my right hand. Lightning in my left hand.

Fire above me….

"Please," she said, "take the winter away. Go back to your mountains. Please."

Frost in front of me….

"No. I am Winter. I cannot be anything else."

"Then you cannot be human," said Tiffany. "The last three lines are: ‘Strength enough to build a home, Time enough to hold a child, Love enough to break a heart.'"

Balance…and it came quickly, out of nowhere, lifting her up inside.

The center of the seesaw does not move. It feels neither upness nor downness. It is balanced.