. . .

“Let’s get mittens,” says Tom.

He strides dramatically to his science wardrobe. He flings it open. He shoves the coats aside and opens the Marvelous Mittens Box.

Then he stares.

“Someone’s been —”

“They’ve ransacked our wardrobe,” Linus declares.

“Ridiculous,” says Tom. He shakes his head. He shakes his head again. “Impossible. Nobody would . . . who would . . . they’re mittens. Nobody has ever stolen mittens.”

“Nobody,” says Jane, “but an awful lovable space princess assassin nanny standing between the Doom Team and a Taoist Immortality Elixir — that’s who!”

“No!” cries Tom.

“But what if it is cold out?” asks Linus. He cannot quite accept it.

“Use balefire,” grumbles Tom.

“I cannot warm my hands with balefire!” says Linus. He turns away.

He sulks.

“Nobody understands the life of an antichrist.”

“You’re fracturing!” says Jane. She bumps Tom and Linus on the back. “The Doom Team has to stick together!”

Tom sighs. He looks down. He looks at Linus.

Linus gives him a half-smile.

Tom grips Linus’ hand for a moment. Then he salutes. Edmund flips them a forehead twiddle. Mouser mews.

Jane watches for a moment, then she shrugs.

“Come on!” she says. “Let’s hunt those kettles and mittens down.”

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