The bookbinder sat in darkness, watching the dying light of the embers in his fireplace as he removed the hook from the stump of his arm. He rubbed at it gently, as if it was still raw, even though it had healed over long before.

Twice in his exceedingly long life he had been an apprentice-once to his brother, whom he had believed to be wiser than he, and once to a Dragon, who actually was. The first time, he was betrayed-and the second, he was the betrayer. Samaranth had never been anything but patient with him, showing faith and fortitude as he tried to teach the young man called Madoc how to make his way in the world.

But somehow he changed. The betrayals of his brother, and his nephew, Arthur, and especially the woman he loved, Gwynhfar, had taken their toll, and Madoc became Mordred, and all he knew was anger, and hatred.

But through all the years from that time to this, one thing still haunted him: Arthur's belief that Madoc was still Madoc, and that he was a good man.

The Dragon, Samaranth, had believed in him too. As had Gwynhfar. And in the end, it was he who had walked away from them, determined never to look back.

It was he who had killed Arthur once, and then again, for the final time. And he who cast aside the mother of his child, and rejected all that Samaranth had offered to him.

You are strong enough to bear this, Arthur had said to him once. But that was before Mordred had become the Winter King-before he surrendered his Shadow, and made his choice about what kind of man he would be.

He never expected a second chance to live his life, free and unfettered by the choices of the past; but it seemed the past had come calling for him, and once more he had to make a choice. All that remained for him was to decide who would do the choosing....

Madoc, or Mordred?

None of the humans in Doctor Franklin's house had ears sharp enough to hear it, especially while they were having a vigorous discussion. But the badger's ears were sharp, and he would have heard the sound right away, even if the mechanical owl hadn't been calling him by name.

At Fred's urging, the companions raced to the front door, where they found a bruised and battered Archimedes, dragging one wing behind him.

"I had to bust through a window to get here," the bird exclaimed, seeming nearly exhausted, "and methinks I have a screw loose. No jokes, please."

"What's happened, Archie?" John asked as he picked up the injured bird. "Fred, go find some tools."

"Trouble, right here on Craven Street," Archie replied as Fred ran to the shop. "Daniel Defoe-he's here, in London!"

"We know that, Archie," said Jack. "We just figured it out ourselves."

"No!" the bird exclaimed, growing more frantic by the second. "You don't understand! He's got Rose at the McGees' house!"

"Defoe is at my house?" Ernest said, frowning. "I have to get back there."

"We're all going," said John. "I think a lot of our questions are about to be answered."

His wing repaired, Archie flew ahead to keep an eye on the McGee house while the companions ran along below him. At the corner, they nearly collided with Edmund and Laura Glue.

"What's happened?" Laura Glue asked when she saw the alarm etched on all their faces.

"No time to explain," John said without slowing. "Come with us!"

Edmund and Laura Glue fell into step behind the Caretakers. "We've got to leave him be," John was saying in a tone that said he'd brook no resistance. "I'm pulling rank here, Jack. I mean it. Don't touch Defoe."

"I'll do my best," Jack replied, "but if he's hurt Rose, no promises."

"Are you up for a fight?" Doyle asked. "He was our ally once, you know."

"That was then, this is now," Houdini responded with a distracted expression. "We'll do what we have to do."

"Good enough," said Doyle, peering down the darkening street. "And if we find that-" He stopped and looked at his companion, frowning. "I don't bloody believe it. You're thinking about that cursed box again, aren't you?"

Houdini started to protest, then sighed in resignation. "I can't help it, Arthur," he said, shrugging. "It eats at me. There was no displacement of air, and no evidence of kinetic energy expended...."

Doyle closed his eyes and thumped his forehead with his fist. "The. Box. Is. GONE," he said through clenched teeth. "Will you just drop it already?"

"Shut up, you idiots," said Burton. "Look-there he is."

The companions turned the corner just as Defoe was exiting the house, carrying something with a sheet draped over it. He started when he saw them, then took a menacing stance. They stopped on the other side of the street, unsure of what to do, while Archimedes circled overhead. It was a standoff.

"You have your business and I have mine," Defoe said, just loud enough for them to hear. "I don't know what denizens of the Archipelago are doing in London, but this need not go in a bad direction for any of us."

"He thinks we're from the Archipelago," Jack whispered. "He doesn't have any idea who we are!"

"We're running around with a badger and a mechanical owl," said Houdini. "It's not a bad guess."

Burton took a step forward. "I know you, Caretaker," he called out. "We can discuss this amicably."

Defoe's eyes narrowed. "You know nothing about me."

"In point of fact," Burton said, eyes glittering, "I know you died in 1731, and I know that you're only here now through the good graces of John Dee."

That took the stuffing out of him. Defoe suddenly looked more confused than menacing.

"My name is Burton," he continued, "and I can give you access to the treasures you seek."

"Is he insane?" asked Jack. "We can't barter with Daniel Defoe!"

"All right. Perhaps we can do some business, Burton," Defoe said. "Let us talk of this further."

"Excellent," Burton replied. "But first, where is the girl?"

Defoe paused. "She's upstairs. She has her own role to play tonight-which is more than you ever allowed her to do."

"You dung heap!" Ernest shouted as he suddenly flew across the street. "You'll pay for what you've done to my family!"

"Drat!" John exclaimed. "Grab him! Quick!"

Before Ernest could reach Defoe, Doyle and Houdini caught him by the arms and held him fast. "You don't know!" Ernest bellowed. "You don't know what he's done!"

"I'm a Caretaker," Defoe exclaimed, his temper rising, "and I'll do as I please, boy!"

"You're evil, is what you are!" said Fred. "Even if you still have your shadow!"

"Hah!" Defoe said, smirking. "Maybe. But it isn't my shadow."

"Defoe, listen to me," John began, trying to contain the situation. "We've no wish to hurt you."

"I'm immortal!" Defoe proclaimed. "What can you possibly do that can hurt me?"

Fred's well-aimed muffin struck Defoe squarely between the eyes. He was unconscious before he hit the street. The parcel fell out of his hands, and the sheet dropped away from the portrait of Charles Johnson.

"Sorry," Fred said to John. "He was giving me a headache with all that hot air."

"Help me!" Johnson called out. "I'm being abducted! And oppressed!"

"And now the other shoe drops," said Burton, pointing away. "Look, John!"

Behind them, coming around the opposite corner past the park, Franklin and Coal were running toward Defoe. They hadn't yet seen the Caretakers, but Franklin had a firm grip on the boy, who was obviously terrified.

"Not on my watch," Jack murmured. "Doyle? Harry?" The men nodded, and as one they took off at a run, tackling Franklin as he rounded the corner. He fell roughly to the ground under the three men's assault, and the boy went sprawling into the grass.

By the time the others ran over, Jack had Franklin pinned to the ground.

"We know who you are, and we know what you are!" Jack said, his voice shrill with anger. "We're done being played by you!"

"Played?" Franklin exclaimed with genuine surprise. In an instant, his face turned stern. "You have completely misunderstood me, Jack," he said in a clear, direct tone they had never heard from him before. "Coal and I were flying kites in the square, and something led him away. I was more than an hour finding him again."

"What have we misunderstood?" said John. "We found the History, Doctor. We know you're an apprentice Caretaker to Daniel Defoe."

"Oh, do you now?" Franklin said, eyes flashing. "And what, pray tell, is your proof of this? The fact that I knew about the Caretakers before you arrived? The fact that walking, talking beasts are no surprise to me? Or the fact that the heir to the Cartographer's mantle has been training as an apprentice in mine own house?"

Jack looked up in shock and surprise. Franklin had just named all the things they meant to accuse him of, and he really wasn't sure what to say next.

"Proclaim your own sins publicly," said Franklin, "and you take away the naming as a weapon in your foe's arsenal. Even if what you name aren't really sins."

"Something is amiss here," said John. "Pull him up."

Jack and Doyle pulled Franklin to his feet but kept a solid grip on him. "All right," John said. "We're listening."

"Not everyone who looks out for the welfare of this world has to travel to imaginary lands to do it," said Franklin, "or to the ends of time. Some of us like to remain involved in the affairs of this world, and help others where we can.

"I am not a Caretaker," the Doctor went on, his voice low, "I am a Mystorian, and I have only one other thing to say: Verne is with you."

"Verne!" John exclaimed. "What does he have to do with this?"

"When you're losing the game, sometimes you have to change the rules," said Franklin. "This is the Great Game, and there are new pieces on the board-Verne's Mystorians. The Caretakers cannot do all that is needed on their own, not even with the help of your enemies. So Verne has recruited more friends. It is the only way to defeat the Echthroi."

"I still cannot believe-," John began.

"John, the boy!" shouted Burton. "We've been focused on the wrong opponent!"

Defoe had retrieved the portrait of Charles Johnson and was holding it under one arm. The other was casually draped around the shoulders of the little prince.

"Don't hurt him, Defoe!" John shouted.

"Hurt him?" Defoe said mockingly. "I won't hurt him." He looked down at Coal. "We're friends, aren't we?'

The boy smiled hesitantly, then nodded.

"Coal," Jack said slowly, beckoning to the boy, "come here."

"You aren't my friends," the boy said softly. "You won't read to me, or play with me. But he gave me a present. No one's ever given me a present before."

"I don't think you'll be able to track him," said Defoe, "but you're more than welcome to try."

The Caretakers gasped as they realized what Coal was playing with, what gift Defoe had given him.

It was Defoe's watch. His Caretaker's watch.

An Anabasis Machine.

"They don't work, you know," John said, his voice steady. "There's something wrong with them."

"You mean they don't work properly," Defoe shot back. "That's why I've been stuck here in London for so long. But they're working now-at least as long as you don't care where-or when-you end up."

"Oh no," John breathed. "He wouldn't."

"You trust me, don't you?" asked Defoe.

The boy looked up at him, face open and hopeful, and nodded.

"Then," Defoe said, "turn the dial at the top of the watch just as I showed you ...

"... and make a wish."

"Coal, no!" Jack shouted. "Don't touch it!"

But it was already too late. The little prince spun the dial at the top of the watch ...

... and disappeared.

"Defoe!" Burton roared. "I'll have your head on a stick for this!"

Suddenly an explosion rocked Craven Street, and all the companions were thrown to the ground. The force of the blast made their vision blur and their ears ring, and when they had regained their senses, Defoe and the portrait were gone. Worse, the house of Ernest McGee was in flames.

"Oh dear God," John exclaimed. "Rose is in there!"

"It's on fire!" Edmund yelled. "They've set my father's house on fire!"

"All our maps!" Ernest cried. "All of our family's work! It's burning!"

The companions had a choice: pursue Defoe and the portrait of Captain Johnson, or go rescue Rose and try to salvage what they could of the McGee legacy.

"The boy is already gone," John said to Burton. "There's no point in pursuing Defoe, not now. Rose comes first. It's not even a question."

Burton looked in one direction, then the other, wrestling with the choice before him, and finally, cursing, turned toward the fire. "Promise me, Caretaker," he hissed, "when this is all done, we'll have a reckoning with Defoe."

"I swear it," John said over his shoulder. "We will."