Alice groaned.

“I’m truly sorry. And I could be wrong, you know.”

Alice sighed, defeated, and looked off into the distance. Time had turned against her, and she didn’t know how much she had left. “Maybe,” she said, trying not to sound too hopeful, “maybe if I get arrested, you could use your emergency option to help me?”

Oliver shook his head. “I wish I could. But all Tibbins are different. Mine isn’t the same as yours.”

“Tibbin?” Alice said. “Is that what it’s called?”

“Yes. Furthermore likes to pretend its rulings are fair and forgiving, so every visitor is offered one bit of help on their journey through the land. But the help is different for everyone, and it’s always decided at Border Control. Once it’s been issued, it’s inscribed on the back of your ruler. It’s called a Tibbin.”

Alice frowned. “How could they know what bit of help I’d need on my journey before I’d even begun?”

Oliver raised an eyebrow. “How do you think?”

“But, Oliver,” she said, confounded, “using magic to tell the future—they couldn’t possibly—”

“Couldn’t they? Furthermore does what it wishes.”

“But happenstance is the most unstable, imprecise kind of magic—surely even Furthermore would know better than to rely on magic that grants only flickers of the future.”

“You think too highly of this land if you think it wouldn’t resort to lowly tactics,” said Oliver. “Remember: Furthermore has no interest in playing fair. They could snatch us up at any moment, Alice. They could kill us right now if they wanted to. Don’t you see? We’re alive only because they want us to be.”

“That makes no sense.”

“It makes perfect sense. Furthermore doesn’t want to kill and conquer its meals with no fuss or fanfare. It’s far too easy that way—too boring.” Oliver shook his head. “No, this is a land that likes to play with its food.”

“But Oliver,” said Alice slowly, carefully. “Do you think it’s possible they’re torturing us a bit more than they do most people?”

Oliver’s eyebrows shot up his forehead in surprise. “What makes you say that?”

“Something the fox said to me.” Alice looked away. “He said that Father was charged with suspected espionage. They think he’s a Ferenwood spy come to meddle in their magic.”

“Wow.” Oliver let out a low whistle. “This is entirely new information to me. But goodness, it would explain a lot.”

Alice looked up. “You think so?”

Oliver nodded. “Your father’s early journals never expressed such fear as I’ve felt on my journeys. It would make sense that your father had done something to anger them; that we were on some kind of hateful watch list as a result—and that our path would be more intentionally treacherous.” He hesitated. “Which is why I’m now even more concerned that you’ve used your Tibbin.”

Alice bit her lip. “Is it really that awful to spend it? Have you never used one before?”

“Not ever. I had one the last time I was here, too, but I never trusted it. I don’t like accepting offers of help from Furthermore.”

Alice bit her knuckles. She was growing more anxious by the moment. “Well, I had no choice, did I? Anyway what does your Tibbin say this time?”

Oliver didn’t even have to look. He’d already memorized it. “Trust a friend who looks like one. And I haven’t any idea what it means. Gibberish, most likely.”

But Alice had just remembered something.

“Oliver,” she said, “the fox—”

“Yes?”

“The fox said that very thing to me. Just before he walked away. First he said Snap in three in case of emergency, and then he said Trust a friend who looks like one.” Alice frowned. “At first I thought it was nonsense, but now I think he was—”

“Telling you our Tibbins?” Oliver’s mouth had popped open. “They’re supposed to be private information!”

Alice shook her head. “All the fox said was We know. We all know. He also said he knew I was here to find Father.”

Now Oliver looked convinced. “They’re definitely watching us. They know our Tibbins and they know I lied to them at Border Control. Goodness . . . he was a very helpful fox, wasn’t he? I might’ve even liked him if he hadn’t tried to eat me.”

“Me too,” said Alice softly. “He was very kind otherwise. It was all very strange. He was a strange fox.” And then, more thoughtfully, “I do wonder . . . what do you think Father was doing here?”

It was a very good question, though perhaps one Alice should’ve asked sooner. The thing was, Alice hadn’t really wanted to think about why Father was here, because she hadn’t wanted to believe that Father had left home on purpose. (Alice, you will note, had a bad habit of ignoring matters of unpleasantness in her life [see also Alice’s fervent denial of her true magical ability], no matter the consequences.) Alice still hoped Father had been trapped or tricked or had been forced to come to Furthermore; she couldn’t understand why he would leave her voluntarily nor what he’d hoped to do here, in a land so far from Ferenwood.

“Well,” said Oliver, clasping and unclasping his hands. “It—it could’ve been for any number reasons, couldn’t it?”

“But why was he meddling in Furthermore magic? You don’t think he was really a spy, do you?”

“No,” Oliver said firmly. “I definitely don’t think he was a spy. I will say, however, that I think Furthermore is more than a little paranoid.”

“But then why would he come here? Why do visitors ever come to Futhermore?” Alice prodded. “What’s the draw?”