Don’t,” said Daffodil’s corpse wearily, “go down in the basement.”

Her cheek and part of her jaw were chipped off like porcelain. Below, they could see the spinning gears and heaving springs that animated her. Much of her arm had been blown off, too. She was a machine.

She saw them gaping at her. “Mr. Grendle’s guests are using me for target practice.”

Brian croaked, “Does it…does it hurt?”

“It is inconvenient,” said Daffodil. “Without the arm, I cannot butter their bread.” She stumbled to the marble countertop and dropped her tray there. The glasses slid and rattled. She reached up tentatively to where her cheek was missing. “I should put iodine on the cut. That is what my mother did.”

“Daffodil—” said Gregory.

“Don’t go down in the basement,” she repeated.

“What?” said Gregory. “The Basement Lurker?”

She rolled her eyes stiffly. “Basement Lurker. Idiot child. That was a story your uncle told to keep your scaly hands out of his things. There is no such thing as a Basement Lurker.”

“We need something from down there,” said Gregory.

“No Basement Lurker, but it’s crawling with spiky beasts,” said Daffodil. “And the hunchbacked sentries are on the roof.” She began clumsily transferring the glasses to the sink. “Everything has changed since you left,” she said. A glass shattered.

The door slammed open. Prudence was in the kitchen, weeping dramatically. Her hands were over her face. The door swung shut behind her.

“Prudence!” hissed Gregory.

She looked up, startled. “Boys!” she said, and smeared the tears off her face with the backs of her hands. She held out her arms to embrace them. “I’m so glad you’re safe!” she said. “I was so worried, after what happened the other night! What happened? What’s going on?”

“We don’t know,” said Gregory. “There’s an underground…it’s really complicated. What happened after we left the other night?”

“Oh, it was very, very odd. There were noises everywhere, and I was sure that things were crawling all over the house—it was horrible!—and then suddenly Mr. Grendle just yelled something like, ‘They’re gone! They’re gone! No rules have been broken!’—and suddenly, the wind died down, and all that rustling, and huge wings, and the croaking from the bathroom…they all just slowed down and just died away.” She looked toward the door. “But these peculiar men came, and they’re staying. We’re putting them up in the guest rooms. They’re always talking about a Game. When they’re talking in English. They go upstairs to Mr. Grendle’s office, and then they come back down and sit around and smoke.”

“Who—who are they?” asked Brian.

“I don’t know… They’re ever so peculiar,” said Prudence. She touched her eye again. “They’re horrible.”

Gregory whispered, “We need to get into the basement.”

“The basement? What for?”

“We need to get a bottle of your de-scentifying perfume.”

She looked confused. “For out in the woods?” Then she smiled. “Have you met a little special someone?”

“Yeah,” whispered Gregory. “He’s about twenty-five feet tall, warty, and he stomps on his friends.”

Prudence crossed her arms. “I wish just one thing you boys said made a grain of sense. I’ll go get you a bottle from my room. Stay here.”

She turned and took a deep breath. She took out a handkerchief and wiped at her eyes. Then she smiled brightly and stepped through the door.

Brian and Gregory stood awkwardly, watching the damaged Daffodil clean the dishes. Brian moved to her side to help.

She did not turn her head, but made a small sound like a warning bleat.

He stepped back, and she fell silent, scrubbing.

Gregory was listening at the door.

The man with the thick accent was saying, “Miss Prudence, we have placed our bets—but you, you have not placed your bet, yes? How is this, then: If my people win, you forfeit but the smallest kiss. Upon my cheek. Yes?”

“Excuse me, sir,” she said. “I have to see about the maid. She seemed somewhat distraught.”

“Miss Prudence,” called the man. “Miss Prudence, a bet: If my people win, you spin in a circle quickly, and I may snap my fingers near your knees. Yes? Yes?”

She pushed the kitchen door open and then closed it behind her.

She had an atomizer bottle of perfume concealed near her side. She held it out to Gregory. “Here you are, boys. Good luck. I hope this helps. So you don’t smell as brutish out there.”

“Why don’t you come with us?” said Gregory.

“I have to stay here with Mr. Grendle,” she explained. “He needs me.” She went to the back door and unlocked it.

“You can’t stay here,” said Gregory. “You’re in danger.”

She looked at him curiously. “I don’t think I am,” she said. “You are, though. They talk about you. I can hear them using your names. They’re watching you.” She pulled the back door open. A breeze came in from outside. “Maybe you shouldn’t go back out,” she said. “Maybe you should sneak away and leave.”

“No,” said Gregory. “We’ve got to go. We’re going. Now.”

Brian said, “Thank you for the perfume.”

“You’re welcome,” she said. “Be careful.” She kissed them each on the forehead. “Good-bye,” she said. And then she added, wrinkling her nose, “You might want to try a little bit of that now.”

They slipped out the back door.

Through the window, she watched them go, her white brow creased by a single line of determined concern.

The two were melancholy and silent, staring morosely down at the branches they stepped over. Gregory wanted to say something cheerful about how they had overcome that hurdle with flying colors, but he didn’t think Brian wanted to hear it.

After a long time walking, Gregory said, “Hey—think about what Prudence told us. When we ran out of the house the other night, when all those things were attacking—she says Uncle Max waited for us to leave, and then yelled out something about how we were gone, and how no rules had been broken.”

Brian waited for an explanation.

“I bet Uncle Max summoned the Thusser,” Gregory continued. “I bet he arranged for things to attack the house just when he was about to start really dishing.”

“What do you mean?” asked Brian.

“Somehow, by asking Uncle Max what was going on, we were about to break the rules and forfeit the game. So he needed to get us out of the house before we could learn anything. So he called the Thusser somehow. By brainphone. He summoned them. That’s why he delayed us while we ate. He was stalling for time. He got them to chase us out before he could tell us anything important and break the rules.”

They came to the bridge. They crossed over the river.

Brian crawled down the slope to knock on Kalgrash’s door. Gregory waited on the bridge, scowling. The troll didn’t answer.

Brian lingered by the door, his hand still in a fist.

“Come on,” said Gregory. “We need to get moving.”

Brian looked up at him skeptically.

“Let’s go play the game. It’s what he would want,” said Gregory. “It’s the reason he was built in the first place.”

Brian didn’t move.

“Come on,” Gregory urged him.

Brian climbed back up and joined him back on the path.

They walked on without talking. The ground became hilly, and they passed into the Tangled Knolls. Brian directed them through the maze by pointing.

As they wandered through the Haunted Hunting Grounds, they heard once more the call of the horns, the answering cry, the baying of dogs. They looked around quickly, seeing only the wide expanse of tree trunks and lilies of the valley. Half-running, half-watching, they moved back to one of the wider tree trunks and put their backs against it. They looked one way, then the other, through the wood. The hunting horn reverberated again in the trees.

Suddenly, the hunting party broke forth again and galloped through the forest. There, in the lead, were the clever-looking royalty of Norumbega—the young blond man smirking, the bishop in his miter, the others wearing circlets on their heads. They called to one another in some foreign tongue and rode past entirely ignoring the two friends, the rest of the cavalcade following behind in riding caps and wimples and top hats. Several small will-o’-the-wisps bobbed along behind, then faded out like the final sparks on a television screen.

Cautiously, Brian and Gregory stepped forward, glancing around them. Twigs snapped beneath their shoes. Nothing moved. The wind blew through the trees again, and leaves sifted to the ground. The two continued on their way toward Fundridge’s Folly.

The folly looked much as it had when they had first found it. Dark leaves were strewn again across the floor, obscuring the peculiar mosaic and the capstone that covered the secret passage.

“Who moved them back?” wondered Brian, biting his lower lip.

“Speculant,” suggested Gregory.

The dark-haired boy moved to shove the leaves off the capstone with the side of his shoe. Gregory stood with his hands in his pockets, watching his friend work. He said, “Hey, as a dog returns to its vomit, so doth a fool return to his folly.”

The capstone was clear. Heaving, they lifted it out of its socket and dropped it once more on the tile floor with a crunch. Brian’s pale face was red, and his collar had slipped. He pulled at the shirt and stuck his fingers behind the starched collar until it was straight. Gregory worked at lighting one of the lanterns. When they were ready, they went down.

The Speculant had listened to their complaint and brought the boat back to the Dark Marina. Once more, the two of them climbed in, unhooked the skiff from the clips on shore, and started up the ornate engine.

They drifted through the passageway that rang with the roar of their engine; they passed out onto the surface of Lake Gwarnmore. The noise of the engine was swallowed by the huge cavern around them.

The boat crawled across the surface of the subterranean lake. Nothing disturbed the surface of the dark water, although a thousand times, in the boys’ minds, the boat was capsized by some heaving, coiled, glistening monstrosity.

Brian sat with the perfume bottle in his hands.

They heard a sharp crackling. There was light in the cavern. Green light.

They ducked low in the boat and peered over the side. It sloshed from side to side.

A fleet of ghost ships rode the waters, glowing. An orchestra played a weird symphony on a barge, a symphony shot through with dissonance, while dancers executed remarkable hops and leaps on a floating stage. Flags and pennants hung over the water, where synchronized swimmers in goldfish plumes spun their arms. On another barge, on a throne, sat the young blond man they had seen at the hunt, his crown glistening in long-faded sunlight. The music fluted through the cavern.

And then, with a snap, the vision was gone.

They were left in darkness. Brian was clutching the perfume bottle to his chest.

They sat back on their seats. The boat puttered onward.

After what seemed like ages, they passed beneath the ornate arch and went down the Taskwith Canal. Brian looked nervously at the prow, thinking of the beast that waited for them. Gregory made rhythmic tapping noises with his tongue and the roof of his mouth, sucking in his breath, impatiently drumming his fingers against the rim of the boat.

He turned around at the whiffling of the atomizer. Brian was smothering himself in the scentless perfume. His eyes were closed, and he squeezed the bulb again and again, spritzing it onto his skin and clothes. When he was done, and had squirted even his ankles, he handed the bottle to Gregory, and Gregory began to cover himself. They could smell nothing but wet stone. Gregory held up his arm and sniffed under it. Nothing.

Everything depended on that.

Finally, the boat pulled up to the Steps of Doom. Solemnly, the boys began to fasten the boat to the shore.

They got out. Snoring echoed from Snarth’s Cavern.

They walked up the stairs. The ogre was curled up against the stalactites and stalagmites, grumbling to himself in his sleep. Gregory and Brian began to creep across the floor.

He shifted.

They froze.

His arm crept out from his body. The fingers were padding across the pitted floor.

Brian and Gregory moved softly toward the exit into the city.

The nose twitched.

The sleeping giant fumbled with his hand.

Rock grated beneath Gregory’s feet.

Snarth snorted and lifted up his head. He growled. They ran. He rose.

He was standing, sniffing. They had reached the steps. He yowled. The echoes bounced around the room. Everywhere, there was the clatter of hard-heeled shoes against stone. The beast thrashed one way, and then another, feeling at the stone. He drew in great drags of air, his head thrown back. He charged one way and another across the cavern, smelling.

The boys had made it down the steps. They could hear the ogre thumping at the walls.

They ran down the street.

They could hear him headed the other direction, toward the boat—toward its tang of gasoline.

His footsteps faded.

Gregory held up his lantern.

They were alone, in the City of Gargoyles.