She tried to flip to the end, but the pages were glued together. Mini had said something about the library of the Night Bazaar, that this place held the stories of everything and everyone. Including her. Maybe it meant that her story wasn’t finished just yet. She had deceived both Madame Bee and the Seasons…but her lies hadn’t been bad. They had led to something good. She’d talked herself and Mini out of trouble, and gotten them new weapons. Maybe…maybe her gift wasn’t lying. Maybe her gift was imagination.

Imagination was neither good nor bad. It was a little bit of both. Just like her.

Was Arjuna at all like this? Did he ever lie or worry that he was more bad than good? The legends made him sound perfect. But maybe if he’d grown up the way she did, he would’ve made mistakes, too. It was hard to judge, based on a story, what he might really have been like. If she were writing about herself, she wouldn’t put in the bad parts, only the good. Tales are slippery, her mother had often said. The truth of a story depends on who is telling it.

If that Aru book was to be believed, it meant that her story wasn’t finished yet.

Aru glanced at her palm. Whatever that Sanskrit number was, it looked too fancy to be a one. She was sure there was still some time left. She closed her hand into a fist.

Forget the Sleeper. I’m going to fix this.

Aru shut the book. Part of her wanted to take it with her, but she stopped herself. It reminded her of the time she’d passed a cemetery that had an apple tree. The fruit looked like jewels, and Aru had wanted to pluck one. But she had the weirdest sensation you weren’t supposed to take them, let alone eat them. That was how she felt about the book. Aru ran her finger along its green spine and felt an answering trace down her back. Then she forced herself to put it back on the shelf.

As Aru rounded the corner, something bright caught her eye.

It was the birdcage. The one the Sleeper had carried.

She remembered now: it had rolled away from him. It had come to rest in the B aisle. The shelves were noisy, and it smelled like vanilla here. Baby, a small blue book, was wailing, while Backhand and Backward took turns smacking each other with their covers.

Aru knelt and picked up the birdcage. It seemed odd that the Sleeper had taken the bird, but not the cage. Rattling around inside were a few small clay figurines, each no longer than her pinky. She reached in and pulled out a goat, a crocodile, a pigeon, a snake, an owl, and a peacock. There was even a seven-headed horse. And a tiger with its mouth still open in a roar.

As she arranged the animals in a line on the floor, she frowned. Didn’t the goddess Durga ride a tiger? And she could have sworn that the god of war rode a peacock….

Why would the Sleeper be carrying this with him?

Aru traced the manes of the seven-headed horse. Indra, her father, rode an animal like this. Except it wasn’t made of clay (duh). In the stories, the creature was said to shine brighter than the moon. Aru pulled the glowing ball from her pocket so she could see the figurines better.

The moment the light of Indra fell upon the clay, the entire chamber began to quake. Aru dropped the horse.

Had it really been made of clay, it would have exploded into shards.

But it didn’t.

On the contrary, it began to grow. And not just the horse, but all the animals.

Aru scuttled backward. The ball in her hand glowed so bright she couldn’t make out the books anymore. Light burst around her.

The hubbub of the B section faded and was replaced by new sounds: the rustling of wings; the clop of hooves on the floor; the chuffing of a tiger. Even the hiss of a snake.

Aru blinked, her eyes adjusting.

Standing before her were the stolen mounts of the gods. So that’s what the Sleeper was carrying the whole time. How could he leave it behind—?

Oh, thought Aru.

The magical headband from Summer that Mini had thrown at him. Whoever wears this will forget something important. Welp. It had definitely worked. As soon as they were out of his sight, the Sleeper had forgotten all about the precious mounts.

There was a beautiful burnished orange tiger. A stately peacock that trailed jewels. A stunningly white owl. But the creature that stole her breath was none other than the seven-headed horse. It trotted toward Aru, all of its heads lowering at once.

“Thank you, daughter of Indra,” said the horse, speaking from all seven of its mouths in seven melodious voices. “You have freed us from imprisonment.”

One by one, the mounts walked forward. The tiger nuzzled her hand. The peacock nipped her fingers affectionately. The owl lowered its head.

“Merely call for us, and we will come to your aid, Pandava,” said the owl.

They took off, leaping and flying and trotting into the air, until only the horse was left.

“You have somewhere to be, don’t you?” asked the horse.

Aru looked down at the waves on her knuckles and nodded. The third key—the sip of old age—was still out there.

“I shall take you,” said the horse. “None can move faster than I, for I move at the speed of thought.”

Aru had never ridden a horse. Unless you counted sitting on a rainbow-colored unicorn while revolving on a carousel and yelling Giddyup! (Which definitely shouldn’t count.) A step stool magically appeared on the left side of the horse. Aru clambered atop it, shoving the ball back into her pocket. She swung her legs over the horse’s broad back.

“Are you ready, daughter of Indra?” it asked.