Mitsi had been in the kitchen, as always, when Bebinn led Lira from the funhouse. He had been trying, in vain, to scrub the sleep syrup from his sauce pans, but in the heat the substance had caramelized into a thick goo that had since hardened and was now impossible to get off. His fingers were red and raw from being submerged in scalding water, and now they ached from trying to scrap it from the pan with a knife. He had managed to get a handful of shavings off the top but there was still at least an inch left congealed on the bottom. Nothing was working.

He paused in his effort to watch the witch and the violinist pass. Though a bit far for him to be completely sure, it seemed that Lira was trying to keep her face a controlled mask. The set of her jaw was like to break her teeth, and her stiff gait and the awkward way she held her instrument—at odds with how it became a graceful extension of her arm when she played—betrayed her extreme unease. Her curly blonde hair, the lavender highlights hidden in the glare of the lamps, fell free about her shoulders and face, and she touched it unconsciously over and over under the pretext of brushing it from her eyes.

Bebinn on the other hand, her gown concealing her feet, glided over the ground like a specter; the haughty set of her shoulders and chin spoke of someone comfortable and in command of her surroundings.

He recalled last night when she had stopped by to comment on how pleased she was with his work. He had found it odd, considering she had never paid him much mind at all—she usually sent any instructions or dinner requests via Atlas—but he hadn't spent much time mulling over it. Now he wondered if she wasn't as comfortable in her control of things as she seemed, leading Lira towards the carousel.

He left the ruined pans next to the sink, figuring Bebinn would provide him with new ones. Instead, he began to assemble ingredients for dinner. Bebinn had told him that Owen, Lydia, and Jacks were to remain in their rooms during the fighting for their own safety, but she wanted dinner ready for all of them when it was over. A kind of "victory" feast she had called it. She would even join them herself.

As Mitsi began to dice vegetables, Atlas walked into the kitchen.

"I don't think I've ever seen you not cooking," said Atlas by way of greeting. "Do you ever sleep?"

Mitsi shrugged and kept cutting. The knife made a dull thunk, thunk, thunk, against the cutting block with a pause in the rhythm every so often for Mitsi to sweep peppers, onions, and mushrooms into a pan of minced garlic and olive oil.

"I don't suppose you have anything I can eat at the moment?" the little girl asked. "I've been running my feet off the last Ebb and Flow."

"There's bread baking in the oven. It should be done soon," said Mitsi quietly, not looking up.

Atlas made a noise of agreement and went to perch on the stool that sat opposite the window that looked in on the kitchen proper. "It'll be nice when all this is over and things are back to normal, don't you think? You must be looking forward to it with all the cooking you had to do for the spirits," she said. She swung her feet back and forth, her heels banging softly against the wooden rungs of the stool, and looked around the room as though she couldn't decide what should hold her interest.

"Nice," agreed Mitsi. Although he didn't think "normal" was quite the word he would've used to describe things in Bebinn's carnival. He dashed salt, pepper, and a pinch of cayenne into the pan of vegetables and set it over the fire. The oil hissed as it began to heat.

"Will Lira be safe out there?" he asked. He was staring at the vegetables, moving them evenly around the pan with a wooden spoon. The handle was carved in the likeness of a tiger head; Owen had given it to him a few weeks ago as a thank you for all the cooking he did. Mitsi remembered being amazed at all the details, down to the glaring black eyes that had been set with chips of onyx and the tiny pointed fangs in its roaring mouth, which was open just wide enough for his thumb to nestle comfortably inside. He had asked Owen how he had managed it and the carver had replied, "The same way you manage to get all the right flavors in your cooking."

Atlas' words brought him back to the present. "Yes, as long as she remains on the carousel." The little girl sighed and stopped swinging her feet. "I wish she didn't have to make things so difficult." She exhaled again and drummed her fingers against the countertop, her chin in the palm of her free hand. Almost like an afterthought she added, "It'll be easier once Owen is gone."

Mitsi kept stirring, his eyes trained on the pan, but, despite the searing heat of the open flame, the hairs on his arms rose at her words and shiver went down his spine. "Gone?" he asked in his usual mild manner.

"Yes," said Atlas. "He's the catalyst for all this after all. Lira never would've gone to find Zabaria on her own. He's too headstrong and hot-headed. And he's too old to be reconditioned to the way things are around here. He's led Lira astray, put her in danger, put all of us in danger, and the risk of keeping him outweighs the benefit."

"What's to happen to him?" asked Mitsi as uninflected as if he were asking about the weather.

He caught Atlas shrugging out of the corner of his eye. "I'm not sure yet. I've brought the subject up with Bebinn. She's not entirely pleased with the notion—he's a good carver—and she'd rather avoid having to find and train another one, but she agrees with me."

"Will he be sent home, do you think?" Mitsi took the pan off the fire and scooped the vegetables into another pan layered with soft, freshly-baked tortillas. He began methodically grating a hard block of cheese over them.

Atlas laughed the high-pitched giggle of a young girl. "I doubt it. He causes trouble and gets sent home? Sets a bad example. Though perhaps—" Atlas broke off, tapping a finger to her chin. "He does have the younger brother he's always talking about. Maybe if we can bring him here that'll be enough incentive to keep him in line. That way, we won't have to waste time and resources finding another carver. I'll have to speak to Bebinn about it."

Mitsi didn't know much about Owen's brother other than he had a disability and needed a lot of care. But from what little he had overheard he knew Owen was fiercely protective of him and would fight tooth and nail to keep him away from the carnival. His thoughts turned briefly to his own brother. They were not particularly close given their five-year age gap, but they had always gotten along well. He wondered if his brother would fight as hard for him. He liked to think he would, but it had been nearly four years since he had last seen him. He didn't even remember their last conversation.

Mitsi turned his attention back to the oven, pulling out two loafs of hearty grain bread and setting them on racks to cool. Atlas made a noise of appreciation, tracking the bread with hungry eyes. After several moments had passed, enough for them to cool enough to touch, he cut her a thick slice and passed it to her on a plate with a pat of butter.

"I wish everyone was as focused as you Mitsi," she said around a mouthful of bread. "It would make everything so much easier."

Easier. Mitsi turned the word over in his mind. Easier because he didn't cause trouble. Easier because he didn't fight back.

He had always taken pride in his cooking, skills he had cultivated with years of practice, trial and error, and listening to those willing to share their own. He supposed that meant he took pride in his focus as well. But what if that focus was so singular in nature that it also made him compliant to "the way things were around here" as Atlas put it? That wasn't something he wanted to take pride in.

He looked again at the carved wooden spoon, the tiger roaring its silent roar, and Mitsi realized he wasn't even roaring silently. He wasn't roaring at all.

Mitsi looked out the window, where the funhouse stood dark and empty except for two pale squares of  light in Jacks and Owen's rooms. As he watched, a silhouette appeared framed in the window that was Owen's. He imagined him straining to see out across the carnival, trying to make out the indiscernible speck of Lira on the carousel. The carver was undoubtedly infuriated at being locked away, unable to do anything. Helpless.

But I'm not, thought Mitsi. He had allowed himself to be for too long. No, maybe not helpless, but certainly not helpful. He looked over at Atlas who was busy with her piece of bread. He thought of the time Owen had asked him if he would return home given the chance, how Atlas had turned her red gaze on him, pining him in place like a spear thrust.

At the time, he had answered as honestly as he dared. He did miss home, but most of the time, this place wasn't so bad. And if he was being truly honest with himself, returning home meant returning to the never-ending argument about his passion for cooking. Here, he didn't have to face his parents' continuous disappointment. Here, he was praised for his work and his work was valued.

But the more he thought about that value, the less it seemed to be worth. Did he really want to spend the rest of his life here, cooking in a carnival of mostly dead things? Did he really want his skills being used for kidnapping other kids?

Atlas had always told him that the kids weren't harmed, were even sent back home after a time, but he wasn't so sure he believed that anymore. And he wasn't sure he believed this place wasn't so bad either. Something bad was happening, had been happening all along. And he didn't want to be complacent anymore.

"Do you want some tea?" he asked Atlas. "I was going to make some for myself. Atlas nodded eagerly; her mouth still full of bread.

Mitsi set the kettle to boil and collected two earthenware mugs from the cupboard. While the water heated, he cut Atlas another slice of bread, this time passing her the block of butter separately, so she would be distracted for a few seconds more. As she turned her head downward toward her plate, Mitsi scooped up the sleep syrup shavings from his abandoned pans and dropped them into one of the mugs. By the time Atlas set the butter knife down, he was already pouring the water.

"I put some honey in it," he said as he set a cup down in front of her. "Might be a little sweet."

Atlas wrapped her hands around the steaming mug, blew gently, and took a sip. Mitsi turned back to his prep work, listening as Atlas went on about something else that she wanted to discuss with Bebinn, but not really hearing the words. After several minutes, her sentences became punctuated with more and more yawns until a soft thunk followed by a patter of water made Mitsi turn. Atlas was asleep, her small head nestled on her bent arm, her tea knocked over and dripping down the cabinets.

Mitsi wasted no time, lining his cooking belt with knives and hurrying out of the kitchen. Across the yard and into the funhouse, he raced up the wooden staircase, passed his mostly unused room on the left, and stopped at Owen's door. The locks were rudimentary at best and a minute or so of him fiddling around with one of his slender paring knives produced a faint click. The door swung open and Owen pivoted from where he stood by the window.

Shock was plain on his face as he took in Mitsi, the knife in his hand, and the array of knives across his waist. "What are you doing here?" he asked.

"Helping," said Mitsi. He turned and crossed the hall to Jacks' door, breaking the second lock faster than the first. The horse-keeper leapt off the bed, far less surprised than Owen, and joined the other two out in the hall.

"Zabaria is just outside the carnival," Owen said. "There are a thousand spirits with her, maybe more."

"Bebinn doesn't have that many," said Mitsi solemnly, "but she has enough. She's using Lira to control them."

Owen's gaze hardened, his jaw clenched, but all he did was give a curt nod. He knew now was not the time for questions. Now it did not matter how or why; only that it was. The carver turned to Jacks. "She's not playing by choice. Bebinn will have done something to make sure she keeps playing, but if we can get her far enough away then maybe..."

Jacks nodded. "I'll get the kelpies. Meet me at the carousel." He tore off down the hall, bare feet thumping against the wood floor, whip whistling behind him.

Owen turned back to Mitsi. "Thank you," he said. "You might had just saved us all."

Mitsi shook his head. "We all have work left to do."

###

Back in the kitchen, Mitsi was rolling out pastry dough when Atlas stirred sleepily and raised her head.