“She’s here!” said Alex as they stepped out into the bright, hot morning. “In Minyahur! He sold her tea — he special ordered it for her!”

Ren swatted at one of the many flies buzzing dizzily around the center of town. “How can we get him to tell us where she is?”

“That, he will not know,” said Todtman. “She will come in at irregular times, he will say, unpredictable. She will pay in cash and leave quietly, maybe slip out while he is talking to another customer. Sometimes she will head in one direction, sometimes she will head in another.”

“How do you know any of that?” said Ren.

“Because that is what I would do,” Todtman said simply. “We must search the edges of the village. She would not stay in its center.”

They stood on the edge of the sidewalk, waiting to cross the street. There were no cars in sight, but a passing donkey cart was in no hurry.

“Why didn’t she buy the whole container of tea,” Alex asked Todtman as they reached the other side, “instead of leaving half of it there for me to see?”

“Maybe she did and the storekeeper bought another, hoping for more business,” said Todtman with a shrug. “Or maybe she couldn’t afford it.”

The thought of his mom counting coins and buying only as much tea as she could hit Alex like a punch in the gut. He imagined her eating half of one of those chalky biscuits for lunch, saving the other for dinner. Hungry, and on her own …

“Ow!” he said, slapping down hard at his neck.

“Yes,” said Todtman. “Sand flies. Nasty little beasts — and maybe worse. I think it’s time for that insect repellant.”

And maybe worse … Alex was thinking the same thing: Could these flies be spies, too? Alex removed the spray can from his pack, and Ren plucked it from his hands.

“This looks like it’s from World War Two,” she said, scrutinizing the peeling label on the unpainted steel can. “Half the ingredients are probably banned in the US.”

But they took turns spraying themselves. Alex coated his arms and neck and Ren applied it in small puffs, like perfume. Todtman, who had long sleeves, coated his hands and face.

They resumed their search, heading away from the center of town.

“I’ll try my amulet again,” said Alex, reaching up and pulling it out from underneath his shirt. He stopped, closed his eyes, and grasped the scarab. The night before he’d sensed a diffuse signal spread across the landscape — death magic everywhere. But something had changed. Alex suddenly felt like he was holding a baked potato fresh from the oven. The sensitive flesh of his palm sizzled, and his vision lit up from the inside in red and orange and gold.

He gasped and dropped the scalding scarab.

He opened his eyes. Color still swirled at the edges of his vision as he looked down at his palm. No physical burns or blisters that he could see.

“What is it?” said Ren, clearly picking up the shock and pain in his expression.

Alex looked at his best friend, who was wreathed in stars.

“It’s the Lost Spells,” he managed. “They’re here.”

“Did you get a direction?” said Todtman.

Alex looked at him, his vision just now beginning to clear, and answered as best he could.

“No — I couldn’t tell. It was too intense. But they’re close,” he said. “Very close.”

“That is good,” said Todtman, “because I think we are about to have company.”

At first, Alex didn’t understand what he meant, but as the swirling colors subsided, his vision continued to shift and buzz. He looked all around. The villagers were gone, hanging back from the three visitors. In their place, a sea of flies. Vicious little sand flies buzzed in clouds in the air, and every flat surface within twenty feet was dotted with big black flies.

“Uh-oh,” said Alex, and as he did, a fat black fly darted inside his mouth like a filthy drop of midnight.