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too coated with remorse to care what passed her lips tonight. Saturday hoped for her own sake that the stew was palatable.
    “So I was thinking,” Saturday said to Trix’s back. She’d learned from the years of working with Papa and Peter to start a sentence like this, with little pertinent information. If whomever Saturday addressed was wrapped up in his own thoughts, she could garner attention without having to repeat herself. Clearing one’s throat also worked. Or yelling.
    “What,” Trix said into the fire, not at all his joyfully optimistic self. His voice was deep and apathetic. He sounded like Peter, thought Saturday, and that was strange enough.
    “I was at the guards’ training grounds today,” she began again. Sunday always chided Saturday for never starting her stories in the right place. When Papa told stories, he engaged his listeners like this, encouraging them to ask questions. At the moment, however, this tactic did not seem to be working for Saturday.
    “You’re supposed to ask me what I was doing there,” she prompted.
    “You’re always at the guards’ training grounds,” said Trix.
    “Only on my days off.”
    “Which is almost every other day now,” said Trix.
    “I know. It’s annoying.” Saturday shook her head. “But that’s not the point! Monday came to see me today.”
    Trix banked the fire and covered the pot with a lid. “You should have started the story there.” He sat down across the table from her.
    Saturday stuck out her tongue.
    “Gee, Saturday, whatever was Monday doing at the guards’ training grounds today?” The humor in Trix’s voice relaxed her a bit, even if it was at her expense.
    “Monday showed me her nameday gift.”
    “She did? What was it?” This time, Trix’s intrigue was in earnest.
    “It was a beautiful little hand mirror,” said Saturday.
    “How beautiful?”
    “As beautiful as anything the fairies could make.”
    Trix grimaced. “You need to work on your descriptions.”
    “Almost as beautiful as Monday herself,” said Saturday.
    “Ooh, that’s much better.”
    “Better still—it’s a magic mirror. A looking glass.”
    “Really?”
    Saturday nodded.
    “How does it work?”
    “She holds it in her hand, says a little rhyming verse, and the mirror shows her whomever she’s asking to see.”
    “That’s a pretty clever gift.”
    “I thought so too,” said Saturday.
    “Almost as clever as yours.”
    It was Saturday’s turn to grimace.
    “Hey, nobody else got a gift that changes with her destiny.”
    “That’s because everybody else got magical powers,” said Saturday.
    Trix tilted his head and sighed in defeat. “So why does Monday’s mirror suddenly fascinate you?”
    “Do you remember the trunk Thursday sent this spring?”
    “No fair answering a question with a question,” said Trix. “Of course I remember.”
    Saturday knew he would. He’d spent hours killing an army of trees with the bow and arrows Thursday had included for him inside that trunk. Trix hadn’t aimed for any animals—on the contrary, the squirrels, birds, and chipmunks made up his arrow-retrieval team. In that trunk had been the miles of material Friday had used to make dresses for all those ridiculous balls Sunday’s true love had forced them to attend. Saturday twisted the blue-green bracelet around her wrist, briefly reliving that torture.
    “Do you remember what Thursday gave me?” asked Saturday.
    The answer took him a moment; he had been too busy testing out his new toys at the time to give much notice to anyone. Then his eyes widened. “You got a mirror.”
    Saturday nodded and pulled the silver-backed mirror from her swordbelt. There’d been an ebony-handled brush in the silk purse along with the mirror, but Saturday had left it up in her room.
    This mirror was larger than Monday’s; the silver framing it made it unwieldy, top-heavy, with no balance whatsoever. Saturday had no idea why Thursday had given her the fool thing; she had