After George left the room, Sato sat down on one of the couches, gesturing for Mr. Hallenhaffer to sit across from him on the other couch. Once settled, Sato asked the question he’d been asking first ever since the fourth such interview, when a common theme had become evident.

“Are people going insane in your Reality? Lots of people?”

Rutger was spouting off at the mouth before Mothball could say one word upon entering the kitchen. “I tell you, that boy is an insolent, inconsiderate, rude—”

“Calm yerself, little man,” Mothball muttered, grabbing the milk bottle from the fridge. “’Eard enough of yer gripin’ for one day, I ’ave. We all know he’s a bit rude, no need yappin’ off about it one second more.”

“A bit rude?” Rutger sat at the large table, munching on something that looked suspiciously like Mothball’s cheesecake leftovers from the night before. “A bit? That’s like saying you’re a bit tall.”

“Well, I am, now, ain’t I?” Mothball pulled out a chair and sat beside her oldest friend, pulling the plate away from him. “Pardon me, but I don’t quite remember givin’ ya the go ahead on eatin’ me hard-earned sweets.”

“Sorry,” Rutger said, head bowed in shame. “You know I get . . . kinda hungry sometimes.”

“Ya reckon so, do ya?” Mothball let out a laugh. “That there’s like saying Sato is a bit rude.”

“TouchŽ,” Rutger muttered.

A long pause followed. Mothball had enjoyed seeing her fellow Realitants come to the Center over the last few days—many of them she hadn’t seen in years—though the reunions were somewhat bittersweet. The reason for the gathering

was not a good thing. People going bonkers everywhere, Chi’karda getting loopy here and there. Something very strange was happening.

“Can’t wait to see Tick and the others again,” Rutger said.

Mothball couldn’t stop a huge smile from spreading across her face at the mention of the boy, Atticus. “I hear ya, there. Goin’ to give ’im a big ’ug, I will. Paul and Sofia, too.”

“I just wish it were under better circumstances.” Rutger sat back in his chair, hands resting on his round belly. “All this time we spent worrying about Mistress Jane and the Thirteenth, and then this comes along. Nasty stuff.”

Mothball thought back to several weeks earlier, when the first sign of the craziness showed up in the form of a madwoman running through the streets of downtown New York City in the Twelfth. The resident Realitant had witnessed it firsthand, and thought nothing of it until the woman started screaming, “I can’t get it out of my head! I can’t get it out of my head!” and then disappeared, winking away to some unknown destination. Thinking on it gave Mothball the creeps.

“’Tis gettin’ worse,” she said. “From what I ’ear, there’s a fragmented Reality that’s gone good and batty through and through, every last one of ’em. A literal madhouse.”

Rutger huffed. “I heard there’s a town in the Sixth where every last person is acting like a cat, crawling around, purring, fighting over milk. Can you imagine how disturbing that must be?”

Just then, Master George entered the kitchen, his golden Barrier Wand—its dials and switches set to who-knew-what—clasped in his right hand like a walking cane, and Muffintops right at his ankles. Mothball had the odd thought that she hoped the little tabby cat hadn’t heard the bit about the people-kitties in the Sixth. Could be quite traumatizing for the poor thing.

“Having a bit of a snack, are we?” Master George said as he joined them at the table. “I must admit, I’m quite hungry myself.” He looked around the kitchen as if some food might magically appear in front of him.

“Did you get the letter delivered to Tick okay?” Rutger asked.

Master George blushed, fidgeting with the Wand. “Why, er, yes, yes, it arrived just fine, I believe. Though I might have miscalculated a bit on the exact delivery location.”

“Miscalculated?” Mothball repeated.

“Why, er, well . . . I may have sent it a little . . . to the . . . left, if you will.”

“The left?” Rutger asked.

Master George slammed his hand on the table. “Fine! I put the blasted thing right in the middle of their wall! And yes, I’m quite embarrassed.”

“Ya could’ve sliced someone’s ruddy head off,” Mothball said.

“I’m quite aware of that, thank you very much.” Master George looked angry, but it quickly flashed into a smile and a snicker. “I imagine it gave them a jolly good fright, don’t you?”

“I bet you did it on purpose,” Rutger said. “I know I would have.”

“But they got it?” Mothball asked.

“Yes, yes, they got it. I hope they’ll forgive me the debt of mending their wall, however.” Master George cleared his throat, then his face grew serious again. “I’m afraid we have tough times ahead, my friends. This . . . problem is growing, and we haven’t the slightest clue as to its source. If I could, I would begin our meeting this very instant. But, alas, not everyone will be here until the appointed time.”

“What do you have planned for Tick and his friends?” Rutger asked.

Master George put the Barrier Wand on the table and absently rolled it back and forth. “Well, the most essential matter is to figure out Master Tick’s odd ability to manipulate the Chi’karda. Perhaps we can use it to our advantage in this dreadful mess.”

“Figured out where yer gonna send ’em yet?” Mothball asked.

“Oh, yes, indeed I have.”

Mothball and Rutger waited, expecting their boss to tell them the plan. But he stayed silent, staring at an empty spot on the other side of the kitchen.

“And . . .” Rutger prodded.

Master George finally looked up, focused on Rutger, then Mothball. “My dear friends, I’m afraid my plans for them are quite . . . hazardous.”

“Hazardous?” Mothball repeated.

Master George nodded. “I daresay I hardly expect all three of them to survive.”

Chapter

8

Guilty

Tick’s eyes flickered, then opened.

Though shaded by trees, the faint forest light looked like atomic explosions, blistering his eyeballs with pain, making him squeeze his eyelids shut once more. He groaned, every inch of his body feeling like someone had mistaken him for a human pi–ata. He hurt. He hurt bad.