Pixler laughed out loud. “A joke, Birch. A joke!” he said.

“What?” said Birch, his expression empty.

“Where’s your sense of humor?” Mr. Suspicion said.

“Oh. A joke.”

“Come on, Birch, lighten up. I trust you.”

Birch bent down and picked up the tablet he’d dropped. As he did so, he shot Pixler a glance that the boss-man didn’t see, but Candy did. It spoke volumes. Under Birch’s loyal manner lay a deep-seated contempt for his employer.

“Write this down for me, Birch,” Pixler said. “I want to announce an amnesty on all books of magic. If they’re turned over to us in Commexo City for burning in the next thirty days, I will personally guarantee that whoever hands the books over will be immune from prosecution.”

“With respect,” Birch said, “there are no laws, sir, forbidding the practice of magic outside Commexo City. And again, with respect, I think it would be very hard to get any of the Island Councils to agree to put such a law into effect.”

“What if we told these two-bit councilors that they could never have any further dealings with Commexo unless they did create such a law?” Pixler said.

“That might work,” Birch said. “But what about the big players? The Carrion family has a vast magical library, I hear. Probably the largest on the islands. How do we get them to give that up?”

“I’ll find a way,” Rojo said, his manner oozing confidence. “I always find a way, you know me.”

“Wait,” said Birch softly.

“What is it?”

“Would you mind, sir?” Birch said, handing his glowing tablet over to his boss.

“What’s the problem, Birch?” Pixler said.

“None, sir,” Birch said, taking a small step away from his employer, toward the copse, then another, then a third.

“Birch?”

At that moment Birch’s steps became a long-legged dash into the undergrowth.

Too late, Candy realized that she was the target of his pursuit. She turned and started to run, but before she could get more than a yard, he had his hands on her.

“A spy?” Pixler yelled.

“It’s just a girl,” Birch said, as he pulled Candy out of the shadows and into the blaze of light from the balloons. She complained loudly about his manhandling of her, but she had no choice in the matter. He was considerably stronger than she was, and he didn’t seem to care that he was bruising her in the process of holding on to her.

“Are you our moth maker?” Pixler said. “Did you do that?” He pointed to the dead moth, which was still in the trees, despite the attempts of Doggett and his team to bring it down.

“She’s probably one of the local tribespeople,” Birch said, still holding Candy tight. “Some of them are mute, I believe.”

“Are you mute?” Pixler said.

“No,” Candy replied.

“Ah. That’s one theory that bites the dust,” Pixler said.

“Then who are you?” said Birch.

“My name is Candy Quackenbush and for your information I was being abducted by that thing in the trees when you brave, clever gentlemen shot it out of the skies. You could have killed me!”

Pixler listened to this little outburst with a mildly amused expression on his face.

“I think you could probably let the young lady go now, Birch,” Pixler said.

“She may be armed,” Birch said, not releasing Candy.

“What have you got in your hand?” Doggett demanded.

“That’s Squiller,” Candy said, looking down. To her distress she realized that in the last few minutes—while she’d been listening to the book-burning nonsenses Rojo Pixler was spouting—the life had finally gone from her little squid. Most likely it had been out of its native element too long.

“Let me go!” she raged, digging at Birch with her elbows to get him to release her.

“You heard what the girl told you,” Pixler said.

Birch let go of Candy, but stayed within six inches of her in case she attempted to make a move on his boss.

“Shall I take that from you?” Pixler said, his hands extended to receive Squiller’s body.

“No, you can’t,” Candy said. “I’ll bury him myself. I want to say a little prayer.”

“For a squid? My lord,” said Birch, “you are a primitive lot on this island.”

“Don’t be so judgmental, Birch,” said Pixler. His voice had become softer. “My sister Filomena used to bury all her pets in the back garden when we were young. We had quite a little cemetery back there. I used to dig the hole, and she’d write a little prayer. These little rituals are important. Where are you from, child?”

“A long way away,” Candy said.

She suddenly felt a deep tremor of sadness go through her, and she wished with all her heart that she could snap her fingers and be returned to her own backyard in Followell Street, where she could lay Squiller to rest beside Monty the canary and several deceased goldfish: the companions of her childhood. She could feel tears not that far off, and the last thing she wanted to do was weep in front of a couple of total strangers. So she said:

“If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to bury Squiller in the woods. It’s been nice meeting you, Mr. Pixler. And you”—she looked at Birch—”not so nice.”

“Well, that’s plain-speaking,” Pixler said.

“We speak plainly in Minnesota.”

“Minnesota?” said Birch. “What island is that?”

“Minnesota isn’t in the Abarat, Birch,” Pixler said.

“You mean—?”

“Yes,” said Pixler. “Minnesota is in the Hereafter.”

Leaving them to their discussion, Candy wandered off into the woods, making sure she kept well away from the area where the men were now at work under Doggett’s supervision, bringing the dead moth down from the branches.

She found a place where the dirt looked relatively easy to penetrate and she proceeded to dig with her hands. When she’d got down a foot or so, she lay Squiller’s little body at the bottom of the hole and threw a fistful of earth over him. She’d only been to one funeral in her life—her grandmother’s—but she remembered a smattering of words from the ceremony.

“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust…” she murmured. Then she improvised: “Thank you for your company, Squiller. I’m sorry you’re gone. I’m going to miss you.” She began to push the remaining dirt over the squid’s body as she spoke, covering it completely. “I hope wherever you’ve gone, it’s a place you want to be.” She sniffed hard, swallowing her salty tears. It wasn’t just Squiller’s impromptu funeral that had brought them on. It was thoughts of home, and of the great distance that lay between this place and the streets of Chickentown. “Now I’m alone,” she said to herself.

“No, you’re not.”

She glanced over her shoulder. Rojo Pixler was standing close by.

“This is a private funeral,” she said to him.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said, sounding genuinely contrite. “I really didn’t wish to intrude on your grief. It’s just that back there you said something very interesting.”

“I did?”

“When you told me that you came from Minnesota.”

“Oh, that.”

“Yes, that. Were you telling the truth?”

“Why?”

“Because I would be extremely thankful to you if you would lead me back there.”

“To Minnesota?”

“Yes. To Minnesota.”

Candy looked incredulous. “You wouldn’t like it,” she said.

“Oh but I think I would. I’m always looking for new markets for the Commexo Kid and his Panacea.”

Candy didn’t reply. She finished covering up Squiller and gently patted down the earth. Pixler had meanwhile squatted beside her.

“Here,” he said. He had made a small cross of two pieces of twig, tied together with a length of grass.

Candy was a little taken aback by the simple gentility of the gesture, but then she thought, Well, he’s trying to be civil, so she took the cross from Pixler and pushed it into the soft earth at the head of the grave.

“Thank you,” she said.

“No problem. I want us to be friends. What’s your name again?”