When Miss Eliza opened the door to leave, an eavesdropping Prissy fell into the room, her face glowing with malicious glee. Miss Eliza sniffed disapprovingly, but likely feeling that she had enough to handle with Jocelyn’s situation, she kept her tongue and swept from the room.

Prissy’s tongue, however, would not be kept. “I knew you and that dirty servant boy were up to something, always disappearing together during free time. I could have told Miss Eliza about it months ago, but I had a feeling if I waited, you’d do something really awful. Did you get thrown out of school?” She didn’t wait for Jocelyn to answer. “Really, Jocelyn, I would have never guessed you could stoop so low. It must be in your blood. I mean, look at the kind of man your mother—”

And that’s as far as she got.

“Don’t you ever, ever talk about my mother, you stupid cow!” Jocelyn hissed. Then, to make sure that her point was received, she drew back and gave that horrible girl a long-overdue knuckle punch to the eye. Prissy covered her face with her hands and fell to the floor, screaming.

Rather a bit more loudly than was called for, I might add.

“And keep your mouth shut about Roger as well,” Jocelyn muttered as she stepped over her. Prissy’s shrieks were bound to bring the headmistress and more trouble. For the second time since her arrival at Miss Eliza Crumb-Biddlecomb’s Finishing School for Young Ladies, Jocelyn ran.

Jocelyn didn’t have time to formulate much of a plan. She had a few vague notions of escape, perhaps by stowing away on a ship somehow, but nothing concrete.

To be honest, even then she still held out hope her father would come for her. Sadly, she would soon find more disappointment. Jocelyn was about to discover that the great Captain Hook would never sail her off on a great adventure.

Much like the first time she considered running away from school, the girl made her way to the carriage house. She cradled a small hope that Roger would be there, waiting. Even if he wasn’t, she would need supplies, and there were plenty of things in her hoard that could be useful. However, once she got to the carriage house, Jocelyn’s drive left her.

It was clear that Roger had not been there since the day before. His favorite book (Impress Your Friends, Confound Your Enemies: 1001 Poisonous Jungle Plants and How to Use Them) lay facedown on the sofa where he had left it when Magellan’s history had beguiled him away. Jocelyn sank down next to the book.

She relied so much on Roger’s friendship. What would she do without him? Jocelyn wondered if he was angry with her for his unfair dismissal. She reached over, picked up the book, and tore out a page. After digging in the couch cushions, she unearthed a lead pencil.

Dear Roger, she began, right between the entries for cowhage (causes blindness) and devil’s apple (causes delirium and hallucinations), I’m sorry…

Her pencil paused on the page. Sorry for what, exactly?

That she’d gotten him dismissed?

That she hadn’t appreciated him more?

That he was gone?

All of that and more, but she didn’t know how to say it. Jocelyn left the note as it was, signing at the bottom of the page From your friend, Jocelyn. She intended to leave it on the arm of the sofa, where Roger would be sure to find it if he ever returned.

This would have been an excellent time for the girl to form a plan for the future, but she couldn’t seem to wrap her mind around the magnitude of her problem. Where would she go? What would she do? At the moment, all the energy Jocelyn had left was used up wrapping herself in a blanket and turning her face to the window. She felt as if she had spent her entire life looking through panes of glass, waiting for something exciting to happen, but nothing ever did.

Jocelyn lay on the sofa for quite some time—unwilling even to move in her misery. She knew that Miss Eliza would have people searching for her, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. The sky outside grew dark. From her vantage point on the couch, the girl had a perfect view of the North Star. She closed her eyes and made a wish.

I do not desire to deceive you—about stars, anyway. The North Star is not a wishing star. In the history of the world, no wishes made on the North Star have ever come true. Unless, that is, it also happened to be the wisher’s birthday.

“I wish for an extraordinary adventure, far away from this place, and I wish one for Roger, too, wherever he is.”

Nothing happened.

At least, not right away, but if you will quit squirming about and be patient you will see that most things in life, wishes included, do not have immediate results.

Believing her wish to have been wasted, Jocelyn took matters into her own hands. She would not wait for some sort of magic to whisk her away from her problems. If they were to be solved, she must do it on her own. Outside, she could hear her name being called. It was faint but distinct: the head gardener was searching for her. She would not let him find her helplessly huddled in a blanket.

Jocelyn got up, unearthed a satchel from her hoard, and filled it with a moth-eaten nightgown and a few books. What more could a girl need? With her mother’s necklace around her neck and Roger’s compass in her pocket, she was ready to go. It didn’t really matter where, as long as she left on her own terms.

Jocelyn had taken two steps toward the door when a noise at the window caused her to turn back. Something large and dark filled the frame. Something inhuman.

Its clawed talon scraped at the glass, struggling to raise the sash. Whatever the creature was, it wanted in. Jocelyn felt so absolutely ready for something to happen, it didn’t occur to her to be frightened—though she did take up one of the wooden swords, to be on the safe side. She crossed to the window and threw it wide, coming face-to-face with the strangest being she had ever seen.

In form and feather the creature appeared to be a crow, but not at all like any Jocelyn had encountered before. It was immense, easily twice the girl’s size, and much darker than a garden-variety crow—as though no light dared sully its sleek plumes. The great bird ducked its head and pushed through the opening, filling the room with shadow and inky black. Jocelyn backed up and raised her weapon, such as it was. How she wished she were holding a blade of steel instead of wood.

In case you are wondering, that wish did not come true.

It advanced upon her. Jocelyn swung her sword with all her might, but the creature was ready, easily avoiding her blow. With a flap of its dark wings, it rushed the girl, knocking her flat. Placing a taloned foot on her chest, the crow pinned her to the floor. Jocelyn struggled but could not get up.

“Get off me, you ridiculous dodo! What do you want?” she shouted.

Bending its head, the bird turned a shiny black eye on the girl. Jocelyn did not particularly enjoy its strangely intelligent appraisal. She broke contact, looking away. Her gaze fell upon a leather pouch tied to the creature’s leg. The bird bent, untied the cord with its beak, and withdrew a packet of papers. These it tucked up under a wing; then it addressed the girl with a surprisingly mild voice. “Your name, please?”

Jocelyn’s eyes widened. “You can speak?”

“Considerably better than any dodo.” The bird removed its foot from her chest and allowed Jocelyn to stand. “Now. Your name? You are Jocelyn Hook, are you not?”

She nodded.

“Very good. I am Edgar Allan of Edgar Allan’s Mainland Courier Service. Please sign here for your letter.” He removed a form from the bundle of papers under his wing and pushed it toward the girl, indicating with his beak where she should sign. Jocelyn scribbled her name on the line.

“Thank you,” he said, presenting her with the rest of the packet. “I will wait here for your response.”

“My response to what?”

Edgar motioned to the papers he had given her, then turned away and began to preen his feathers.

The girl’s fingers shook as she unfolded the packet. Whatever happened next would most definitely be extraordinary. She smoothed the papers, pushed back an unruly lock of hair, and bent her head to examine the message.

Jocelyn held, at long last, a letter from her father.