Reader, it was not.

Benyamin’s entomological army had its own lead colonel, a spider by the name of Haftpa. (You met Haftpa just once before—he was the muscular spider who scuttled up Alice’s nose.) Some years ago, Haftpa had been involved in a tragic incident involving a house cat who’d intended to eat him outright. Haftpa, who was only a child at the time, fought valiantly for his life and, to everyone’s great amazement, tottered away with his dignity and seven of his eight legs. His triumph was spoken of in hushed, reverent tones, and he quickly advanced to become the foremost sentinel in Benyamin’s brood of insects. But Haftpa was not only a highly respected spider—he was the most admired, too. He was one of the first creatures to burst forth from Benyamin’s flesh, and, unlike the many others who quickly fled to find homes elsewhere, Haftpa stayed behind to become one of Benyamin’s first real friends. So when Haftpa scuttled forth for a private moment, Benyamin, so sensitive to the wishes of his colonel, could not deny this request—especially as he began to worry that there was, indeed, something he needed to be worrying about.

Haftpa had heard rumblings.

Several of his friends had built their webs in the hinges of the train, and when Haftpa had stopped in to say hello (as was his habit), he found them with curious stories to tell. In honor of the evening’s festivities, the train had been making more stops than usual—and tonight, as they trekked past one neighborhill after another, they’d seen unusual things appear in the moonlight. They’d heard unusual stirrings and sounds.

“What kinds of things?” asked Benyamin quietly, who was attempting to stay calm.

Haftpa lifted one small leg in Laylee’s direction, clicking quietly as he did. “They sent a warning to you, friend-Benyamin, to be careful in your dealings with the mordeshoor.”

Benyamin felt his stomach heave. “But why?” he whispered, worried Alice and Oliver might overhear. “You don’t mean—the spirits—”

Haftpa blinked his eight eyes. “We can’t be entirely sure of what’s happened, friend-Benyamin, as our kind doesn’t speak much with theirs. We do not fear the darkness the way your dead do. I know only this: The spirits have left hallowed ground. They will be looking to harvest skins tonight, and there’s little to be done if the mordeshoor dies. Your humans must be warned.”

Benyamin was horrified.

He knew Haftpa would not lie to him—that in fact he would do whatever was necessary to protect him—but Benyamin couldn’t understand how any of this had come to pass. How had the spirits managed to escape?

Benyamin knew a little of the mordeshoor’s business, but he didn’t know all of it, and so he had no way of understanding, at the moment, what had transpired to make any of this possible. He did, however, understand that something had to be done. And soon.

But when he looked up, taking in Oliver’s pale face and Alice’s pinched lips—the both of them focused solely on bringing Laylee back to life—Benyamin decided it would be best to wait until they got Laylee to safety before he said anything about what he’d learned. He convinced himself there would be no harm in withholding this information just a little longer. After all, he thought, the spirits must have escaped as a result of a simple misunderstanding. This was the only explanation that made any sense to him, as Benyamin was still operating under the assumption that Laylee had time left to wash her dead. In fact, the more he said this imagined truth to himself, the more he believed it. Soon, he’d managed to dispel any lingering worries.

You must understand: Spirits had never, not in all the history of Whichwood, ever escaped the hallowed ground of a mordeshoor’s home. It seemed improbable that anything so horrific would happen now.

In time Benyamin would learn the whole truth.

For the moment, all he could do was worry quietly and support his sudden friends through this difficult time. It seemed a wholly incredible thing to him that he’d met these strangers just several hours ago, as he already felt closer to them than to anyone in Whichwood. They three knew without speaking that they could rely on one another and that, somehow, their lives mattered to one another. It was a gift few people received in their lives. And it was a gift Laylee was unaware she had, too.

As soon as the train pulled into the quiet peninsula station, Oliver lifted Laylee into his arms, stepped off the train, and set off running. Oliver didn’t know where he was going, but he moved with such conviction that Alice and Benyamin had to race to overtake him. Benyamin shouted for the others to follow his lead, but only occasional lamps were lit in this abandoned land of Whichwood, and it was too dark to see. Benyamin, who did not have spare magic to light the way, did what he always did when he’d run out of options: He asked his insects for help.

At once a storm of beetles and spiders rushed down his legs and out from under his pants and marched on ahead, proud and determined to get their human-friend (and his friends) to safety. Their swarming, feverish mass was lit only by sporadic lantern, misty moonlight, and fourteen fireflies, and so, in the absence of stronger illumination, the sounds of clicking pincers helped the children navigate by sound. Haftpa stood on Benyamin’s shoulder, translating directional cues into his human-friend’s ear. It was a slow, careful trek. The main stretch of road leading out of the station was fairly clear of snow, but even the occasional mounds, snapped twigs, and scattered pebbles presented treacherous terrain to the many-legged mass, and they scrambled, struggling with grace over each obstacle as it came.