“Is she dead?” whispered Iago.
The Marquess breathed deep and even. The Panther of Rough Storms bent his ponderous black head and bit her experimentally, the way one pinches oneself to test whether one is dreaming. She did not move.
“I don’t think so…,” said September fearfully.
“I ought to take her away somewhere. Somewhere quiet. I think a bier of some kind is traditional in these cases.”
“Shouldn’t she … go back now? That the clock is working?”
“I’m not an expert. Maybe she is back. Maybe she is dreaming of tomatoes and her father. I hope not.” The Panther meowed horribly. “I did love her. In her sleep, she looked so like Mallow. I kept thinking, One day, she’ll wake up, and it’ll be like it once was, and we shall all have a nice cake and laugh about how silly things got.”
A distant shatter and crash echoed through the Lonely Gaol.
Iago looked up, unconcerned. “She held half this world together with her will. It will all come apart now. I wonder what we shall all look like without her?”
“I have to get my friends out! Help me, Iago, please, I can’t get to them by myself!”
“Oh … well, I suppose someone ought to have a good ending, out of all of us.” The Panther’s eyes were glassy and faraway. “She fed me fish,” he whispered. “And blackberry jam.”
“Not together, I hope,” said September, trying to make him laugh as she climbed into his saddle. A great tear splashed onto the Marquess’s sleeping cheek as Iago rose up and away from his still, cold mistress.
“Oh, Saturday…”
The Marid lay on the floor of a cell, his hands bound behind his back, his mouth gagged. Terrible bruises bloomed purple and black where the lion had bitten him. His eyes were sunken and sallow.
“Wake up, Saturday…”
He groaned in his sleep. A savage crack appeared in the tower wall behind him, squeaking and shrieking as if about to burst.
“Saturday!” September cried. She took her Wrench by the hilt—it grew huge again in her hand. She swung it with all her might against the moss-slimed glass door of Saturday’s cell. The door shattered, shards tinkling to the floor. September pried the manacles open with the hooked hand of her Wrench and pulled Saturday’s gag away. She held him for a moment, stroking his hair. Slowly, his eyes opened.
“September!” he croaked.
“Can you walk? We have to go: The Gaol is breaking!”
“It will be all right—the dragon will build it up again…”
“What? We’re up so high, we’ll be killed!”
“Well, she’s not really a dragon, but…”
“Saturday! Pay attention! Where is Ell?”
The Marid gestured weakly toward the next cell. Iago glanced inside.
“He’s really rather poorly, that one. I don’t think you’ll get him out.”
September lay Saturday gently down and went to Ell’s cell. The Wyverary lay curled up on the floor, huge, crimson, and fast asleep. Ugly green gashes ripped through his scales, still oozing blood. Dried turquoise tears stained his dear face.
“Oh, Ell! No, no, don’t be dead, please!”
“Why not?” said Iago. “That’s what happens to friends, eventually. They leave you. It’s practically what they’re for.”
September brought the Wrench crashing down on Ell’s door, but the beast did not move. Outside the glass walls, September saw the towers’ tips begin to break off and tumble toward the raging sea.
“Iago, I’ll never move him!”
“Probably not.”