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My first weekend came nine days after school started. Because of Rule Three, it took some fancy talking to explain to Astris why I didn’t have to go to school for two days. When she finally got it, her whiskers perked up. “Good,” she said. “Then you can clean your room. It’s getting to look like a hooraw’s nest.”

I did that. I also had a game of lily polo with the nixies in the Reservoir, played hunt-the-acorn with some squirrels, and had a picnic with Mr. Rat and Stuart Little by the Turtle Pond. When the third morning dawned hot and bright, it was really hard to get myself to the Betweenways station.

My first lesson that day was Questing.

Everybody had to take Questing. You couldn’t get a gold star in it, no matter how good you were or how long you’d been at Miss Van Loon’s. You never knew, the theory was, when you might have to climb a building or a tree, wrestle a kappa, or outrun an ogre. You always had to keep in practice. The students were mixed, little kids and kids who’d earned almost enough gold stars to graduate, East Side, West Side, Up, Down, and Midtown, twenty of us at a time in different combinations, at least once a week. I never knew who I’d be racing or facing for wrestling or karate practice.

When I got to the Questing Room, I saw the far wall had been transformed into the fronts of two ordinary brownstone buildings with steep stoops and flat roofs. The space between them was spanned by an iron beam.

The Quester had us form a long line. I caught sight of someone tall and blonde and willowy and hoped it wasn’t Tiffany or Abercrombie or Bergdorf. They gave me the willies.

“Listen up,” the Quester said. “Today, we’re climbing brownstones. Count off by twos. Even numbers climb the West Side building; odd numbers climb the East Side. If you meet another student on the beam, cooperate to pass. Slide down the drainpipe on the other side, and you’re done.”

She gave us all a serious look. “You all get fairy dust. I don’t care if you live in the Empire State Building. No arguments. There’s being a hero, and there’s being stupid. If you fall, it’s a long way down. Of course, it’s better if you don’t fall. Got that? Good. Now count off.”

I was a two. I couldn’t tell what the blonde was.

Central Park isn’t exactly packed with brownstones. While I waited my turn, I watched the others scramble up the stoop, swing themselves to the nearest windowsill, and work their way upward, using window frames and decorative friezes, jamming toes and fingers into the spaces between brownstone blocks. Some of them looked like they were having fun, but only Airboy made it look easy. He might be skinny, but he was strong. I could see his muscles bunch as he pulled himself up the building, sure as a lizard, darting his head back and forth looking for handholds. When he got to the top, some kids cheered. I thought I saw him blush.

The line moved me closer to the building.

A little kid—Tosca, who hadn’t known what to say to old women at crossroads—climbed up the stoop and clung to the wall while the Quester sprinkled her with fairy dust, instructed her to think happy thoughts, and gave her a boost. Tosca clambered to the windowsill and stayed there, whimpering.

The next kid in line helped her climb to the top of the window. She looked down, freaked out, and wrapped herself around his neck, tumbling both of them off the building. The helpful kid drifted gently to the floor and detached her, howling like a thunderstorm. Obviously trying very hard not to break Rule 98 (Students must never laugh at another mortal’s tears), he patted her on the shoulder.

I heard a lot of suppressed sniggering from the East Side. To be fair, I heard it from the West Side, too. I couldn’t help smiling myself, even though I knew how much I’d hate it if it was me they were laughing at.

Mortal tears are funny. That’s all there is to it.

Soon, it was my turn.

“Your first time, right?” The Quester reached into her bag of fairy dust. “Remember: happy thoughts. And don’t look down.”

I’d climbed plenty of trees in Central