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Junkit swaggered in front of the other two. Then a thought wiped the smile from her face.
    “Do they understand everything you say?”
    “Yes.”
    “And everything I say?”
    “Yes.”
    “Oh dear.”
    Her father’s arm slipped around her shoulders. “Would you like to tell me whatever it is that you would rather Zabeth and Junkit did not let slip?”
    “I think I would.”
    “And it’s about?”
    “Having money to live on for over fifteen years without you.”
    Verrin Schope rubbed his hand over his chin. “And?”
    Tipper blinked back tears and looked at her hands folded in her lap. “And your art.”
    She heard his sharply indrawn breath, but he gently took her hand. “My intuition tells me that this is something of great import. More than you could surmise, not knowing all the circumstances.” He hooked her arm in his and started for the door to the hall. “We shall need wise counsel. Shall we rejoin Fenworth, Librettowit, and Sir Beccaroon in your room?”
    Tipper allowed her father to lead her. Wise counsel? A crazy wizard, a prickly librarian, and a grand parrot? Yes, they should ask Beccaroon what course was best to take. If only she didn’t have to confess to her father before Bec could offer his advice.
    Verrin Schope gave her arm a tug. “Come, child. March forward. Problems are never as big once you’ve faced them head on.”
    Tipper sighed. Her experience proved that problems could multiply in the wink of an eye, even while you tried to stare them down.

9
Unbalanced
     
    They sat in the silent bedroom, Tipper’s room, but now it felt more like a judge’s chambers, and she was the criminal. Beccaroon might be her advocate. The two men from Amara would be the jury. And her father? He would be the judge. The certainty of who played what roles added to her tension.
    She didn’t know what to expect from the strangers. Bec would most likely allow her to weigh her crimes herself, using the strict standards he’d instilled in her. But how would her father react? With rage?
    After her explanation of her dealings with Hanner and Master Dodderbanoster, Tipper expected her father’s temper to explode. Over the years, this image of his anger had been at the back of her mind many times. She had even hoped the discovery of her pilfering among his treasures might bring him home. But the reality before her loomed larger than any scenario she had imagined. She held her breath as her father digested the news.
    He spoke his question calmly, quietly. Too calmly. Too quietly.
    “You sold my artwork, the pieces I had hidden in the jungle so no eyes would behold them until I deemed it necessary?”
    She nodded but didn’t look up. Squeezing her eyes shut, Tipper waited for the explosion. Instead, silence pushed against her. She opened one eye and peeked at the men sitting across the room. They stared at her father, obviously shocked by her admission.
    Verrin Schope patted her and gave her a little squeeze. “How many have you sold?”
    “I lost count.”
    “How many are left?”
    She couldn’t answer, but Beccaroon spoke up for her. “Three.”
    She heard Librettowit’s sharp intake of breath and looked up. Fen-worth waggled his eyebrows and wobbled his head back and forth. The action dislodged a bird and several bugs. The sparrow snatched a flying insect and flew out the window.
    The wizard watched the bird’s departure. “Harrumph! What were we discussing? Three? Ah yes, three! Odd number. But odds are the three are not the right three.”
    Tipper pulled away from her father to look him in the eye. “What is he talking about?”
    “We are looking for three statues in particular. They were carved out of one piece of marble, and in my cleverness, they will fit back together.” He did not look particularly pleased as he boasted of his skill. In fact, Tipper thought he looked considerably more downcast than before.
    Her father wiped a hand over his face. “They cannot be rejoined as they originally