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I couldn’t yell at him (see Rule 1). If I took a page out of Airboy’s book and ate by myself, I’d be stuck, well, eating by myself. If I made snide comments about oath breakers, à la the East Siders, Stonewall would be mad at me. And I didn’t want that.

“It’s a Chinese dragon!” Bergdorf exclaimed, fitting a golden eye into place.

I stared at her, startled. It was just surprise that she’d spoken to me, but her smile hardened into a chilly sneer. I thought of explaining, then decided I’d probably mess that up, too.

Mortals are much harder to deal with than Folk.

When the horn blew, the dragon was finished and I’d decided I’d simply pretend that Danskin didn’t even exist. If he tried to talk to me. If he was even there.

When I got to the table, I flashed a diplomatic smile to show that I was perfectly happy, sat down, and opened Satchel.

“Hey, Neef,” Danskin said. I pretended I hadn’t heard him and wished for macaroni and cheese. Satchel, feeling frisky, shot out a piece of flatbread and a chunk of cheddar.

“Danskin’s talking to you, Neef,” Stonewall said.

I picked up the flatbread.

“Didn’t Backdrop give you my message?” Danskin asked unhappily. “Never mind, I can see she didn’t. Drat. I’m sorry.”

“Message?” I transferred my gaze from my assembly-required lunch to Danskin’s face. His cheek was swollen and bruised, and his right arm was thickly bandaged from wrist to elbow and supported across his chest by a scarf.

“What happened to you?”

“An elf challenged him to a leaping contest,” Stonewall said dryly. “Danny-boy thought he meant onstage. He meant up in the flies.”

Danskin looked embarrassed. “It was stupid. I’m lucky all I broke was my arm. By the time my fairy godfather found the Company Doctor and he strapped it up, it was too late to meet you. I gave your ticket and the backstage pass to my friend Backdrop. She said she’d take care of you, but I guess she forgot. I’m really sorry.”

Danskin looked so pathetic, so mortal, with his bandaged hand and his bruised face, I couldn’t keep on being mad. “Not your fault,” I said. “Besides, I got in by myself.”

Espresso gave me a thumbs-up. “Right on, Neefer-girl. How’d you swing it?”

“I gave the usher a piece of my silver dress. He was really nice. He even took me backstage.”

Mukuti and Fortran, who’d been simmering impatiently, boiled over with questions.

“Did you find the right maiden?

“Did you get the mirror?”

“Some glamourist called Elizabeth Factor has it.” I picked up the bread. “I hope. If she doesn’t, I’ll be chasing it round New York Between all autumn.”

I needed something to do so I wouldn’t go nuts waiting for the Schooljuffrouw to announce the next weekend. Since all I could think about was the Garment District anyway, I figured I might as well spend some time finding out what it was actually like. I’d read mortal fashion magazines, but things were obviously different Outside. Mortal fashion models? Nonmagic makeup? Bags that didn’t give food? Interesting, maybe, but hardly useful.

So I went back to the library.

The quest pass worked like a charm. The Librarian didn’t even fuss. She just pointed me toward Fodor’s Guide to the Neighborhoods of New York and told me not to mark it up or take it out of the library. I carried it to the back of the room and sat down on a window seat overlooking East River Park to read it, with the library cat on my lap.

It was helpful up to a point. I learned that the Garment District’s main street was Seventh Avenue, that its Genius was the Wholesaler, that it was populated mostly with kobolds, leprechauns, fairy seamstresses, and the kind of house Folk who help tailors. Native Fashion Folk included models and mannequins. There was a short section on glamourists, with Elizabeth Factor’s name prominently mentioned. No hint of where she hung out, though.

The more historical books informed me that sweat-shops are always bad and designers are always mortal and agents are guardian spirits who take care of models. Elizabeth Factor didn