Poor Squiller was still attached to her face, clinging now more fiercely than ever. Candy was curiously thankful for his presence. It was like having a good luck talisman. As long as Squiller was with her, she felt, she would survive whatever lay ahead.

Moving tentatively, so as not to alarm the moth (she was now hundreds of feet above the waters of the Sea of Izabella; to be dropped from such a height would certainly bring her adventures in the Abarat to a quick end), she put her hand up to stroke the squid.

“It’s going to be all right,” she murmured to the trembling creature. “I promise I won’t let anything happen to you.”

It helped her to have another life besides her own to protect in this terrible situation. She had made a promise to Squiller. Now it was up to her to make good on that promise and bring them both through the adventures ahead alive, however dangerous the journey became, and however terrible the destination.

Under more pleasant circumstances, Candy might have enjoyed the journey that took her away from the towers of Yebba Dim Day. She had never suffered from vertigo, so she didn’t mind the fact that they were a thousand feet up. The view was spectacular: the patchwork of glittering sunlit sea where the Hours of Daylight fell, and the dark waters where the Night Hours held sway.

But she could scarcely play the blithe sightseer in their present precarious position. Though the moth’s hold on her was reasonably secure, it was clear to her that she was a burden that the creature’s anatomy was not designed to support. Every now and again there would be a breath-snatching moment when its spindly legs scrambled to secure a better hold on her. Whenever this happened, Squiller automatically clamped himself more tightly to her head, like a climber clinging for dear life to a rock face.

Nor was her fear of being dropped her only concern. Worse, in a way, was the threatening chatter of Mendelson Shape.

“I’m sure you thought you’d never see me again, eh?” he said.

She didn’t reply.

“Well, you should know,” he went on, “I’m not the kind of man who gives up easily. If Lord Carrion wants you, then Lord Carrion will have you. He is my prince. His word is law.”

He paused, plainly hoping to get some fearful response from her. When none came, he continued in the same confident vein.

“I daresay he’ll reward me for delivering you. He’ll probably give me a piece of the Abarat when his Night of Victory comes, and Darkness takes everything under its wing. You realize that’s what’s going to happen? There’s going to be an Absolute Midnight. And everyone in The Sinner’s Emporium will be raised up on that Night, you’ll see.

Candy had kept her silence thus far, but now her curiosity overcame her.

“What in God’s name is The Sinner’s Emporium?” she said.

“A place God’s name is not written,” Mendelson said, amused by his own joke. “It’s a book, penned by my Lord Carrion’s grandmother, Mater Motley, in which she lists the seven thousand greatest sinners in the Abarat.”

“Seven thousand sinners. And are you one of them?”

“I am.”

“It doesn’t sound like much to be proud of,” Candy commented.

“What would you know?” Mendelson Shape snapped. “You outrun me once and you think you have all the answers! Well, you don’t, missy! I could have you dropped in an instant!” He leaned forward, and said: “Cafire!”

In response to this instruction, the moth twitched, and let Candy go.

She loosed a shriek as she slipped out of the creature’s grasp and started to fall—

“Jazah!” Shape yelled. “Jazah!”

With a heartbeat to spare, the moth caught hold of her again, though its hold was precarious. Shape seemed to realize this. He barked out a third incomprehensible order, and this time the moth responded by gathering Candy back to its upper body and drawing her closer than ever; so close that the stiff black hairs of its thorax pricked her, despite the padding on the jacket Samuel Klepp had given her.

She felt a trickle of fluid running down the side of her face. Poor Squiller had obviously thought they were going to fall to their doom and had lost control of his squiddish bladder in his panic. She reached up and stroked him. “It’s all right,” she whispered.

Her heart was beating furiously, her whole head throbbing. She glanced up at Shape, wondering if she shouldn’t try to make some kind of peace with him, to prevent his playing that kind of lethal game again. Next time, the moth might not be quick enough to catch her.

But Shape’s attention was focused upon something ahead of them. She followed the line of his gaze and saw a fleet of five or six air balloons appearing from a bank of moonlit cloud, perhaps a quarter mile away.

“What the Nefernow is this?” she heard Mendelson mutter to himself.

Nefernow, she thought; I think I just learned my first Abaratian curse word.

Apparently someone in the fleet had seen the moth, because the leading ship was changing direction and heading toward them.

“Skill! Skill!” Mendelson yelled.

The moth obeyed the instruction and began a vertiginous descent. It was so steep that Candy feared she and Squiller would slip right out through the loop of the moth’s legs, so she reached up over her head and grabbed hold of the creature’s thorax with both her hands, indifferent to the pricking of the hard hairs.

An island had come into view below them. If they fell now they would be dashed to death. She had to hold on. Her abductor was her only hope.

She glanced up again toward the fleet of balloons. They obviously had some other means of propulsion beside the wind, because in the ten or fifteen seconds since the moth had begun its descent, the ships had halved the distance between themselves and their quarry.

Candy heard a high-pitched whistling sound and something flew close to her face. A moment later came a second whistling, followed by a stream of Abaratian curse words. Shape had flattened himself against the body and head of the moth. It took her a moment to work out why. Then she understood: they were being fired at. There were hunters in the balloons, and they were obviously intent on bringing down the moth. Either they hadn’t seen its rider and its captive, or else they didn’t care what happened to Shape and Candy if their missiles hit home. Whichever it was, it scarcely mattered. The consequence for Candy and Squiller would be the same. She heard a third whistling now, which was followed by a thud. Then a traumatic shudder ran through the body of the moth.

“Oh, please…” she murmured. “Please don’t let this be happening.”

But it was too late for prayers.

She looked up at the insect’s head to see that a crossbow bolt, fired by someone in one of the balloon’s gondolas, had struck the insect directly between its huge eyes.

There was no blood spilling from the wound. Instead there came a spiraling stream of fragmented color that rose up into the darkened air. Apparently the insect was some kind of magical creation, which went a little way to explaining why it didn’t die instantly, though it had surely been mortally wounded. Instead, it struggled to climb skyward again, its immense wings beating with a slow majesty as it attempted an ascent.

But it didn’t get very far. A new round of shots came from the balloons, and the vicious bolts tore hole after hole in the delicate membrane of the moth’s wings. Again, color streamed from the wounds, and as it discharged its myriad hues, the desperate beating of its wings began to falter. Then they stopped.

Their descent began a second time.

Candy looked back up at Shape. He was still bent close to the moth, desperately whispering to it in a panicked attempt to bring it out of its dive. But it was a lost cause.