At 11:43 p.m., Sofie Toddlesworth had narrowed her costume’s colour down to six shades of purple. For her, this was progress. Not quite on par with humans inventing fire, but in the same ballpark, at least.

Violet was too theatrical. Plum was too drab. Mauve looked like bathroom paint. Aubergine was immediately disqualified because Sofie refused to fight crime dressed as a vegetable. That left Royal Purple and something the manufacturer called Imperial Majesty, which was rather absurd because they were basically the same colour. Basically.

Sofie held the two swatches beneath her desk lamp. Royal Purple contained marginally more blue. She chose Imperial Majesty, changed her mind, then changed her mind again before pinning the winner to the board.

The board had started life three weeks earlier as a mood board. Sofie hated the term mood board. Mood boards were for interior designers and people planning weddings. Sofie was studying to become a crime scene investigator, so she called hers THE CRIME SCENE.

Photographs, sketches, fabric samples and handwritten notes covered almost every square inch of cork. Black thread connected costume designs to possible names. Purple thread connected names to symbols. A photograph of a question mark had somehow acquired three separate lines of inquiry.

Now for her superhero name. VIOLET VEIL had been eliminated for sounding like perfume. PURPLE REIGN was trying too hard. NIGHTSHADE sounded decidedly poisonous. ENIGMA sounded unbearably pretentious. PHANTOM sounded too masculine. QUESTION MARK sounded like she hadn’t finished deciding. Which she hadn’t, but still.

Sofie stared at the final name: MYSTERY GIRL. It was obvious, and that bothered her. She wrote TOO OBVIOUS? on a yellow note and stuck it underneath, then promptly removed it because it wasn’t straight. The second attempt was also crooked. The third was spot on.

The clock now read 12:26 a.m. Sofie had intended to leave at ten. Not leave leave. She wasn’t going anywhere important. She was simply going to don her costume, climb from the basement to the roof of Mariner’s Rhyme — her house, well, her grandfather’s house, actually — and look at the city in the distance. That was all. A rehearsal. Nobody would know. Unless, of course, Gramps saw her and called the cops, fearing an intruder, or she fell off the roof and he called an ambulance. Either way, not good.

Sofie looked back at the board. The cape was the problem. Definitely the cape. She had prepared several versions. Long looked dramatic but created a snagging hazard. Short was practical but made her look like a magician’s assistant. No cape was the safest bet but ruined the silhouette. She measured the long cape again: one hundred and twenty-seven centimeters. She had measured it eleven minutes earlier. It was still one hundred and twenty-seven centimeters. She felt relieved. She felt reassured. Consistency is so underrated.

Good. Next: mask. Then boots. Then gloves. Then belt.

At 1:18 a.m., Sofie finally stood in front of the mirror. Purple suit. Black boots and gloves. Cape. Hood. Mask (and a cute one, at that). Question mark. Mystery Girl stared back at her. Sofie turned sideways. Not bad. She turned the other way. Even better. She pushed the hood back. Worse. Hood up again. Nice.

She practised looking intimidating. She looked constipated. Relaxing her face produced a considerable improvement.

“Run to the hills!” she declared. Nope. But I bet Gramps would like it.

“Justice for all!” Nope again, but I’m certain Gramps would approve.

“You don’t know me.” Sofie stared at herself. “Of course they don’t know you. That’s the point.” What to do? What to do?

She slumped into her chair and checked the time: 1:37 a.m. Tomorrow, she decided. Tomorrow would be better. She could adjust the mask in the morning because the left side was perhaps two millimeters wider than the right. The question mark could come down slightly too. Three centimeters. Maybe two. Oh, and a little curve at the bottom would look super stylish. There was still plenty of work to do.

Sofie began removing the belt when something on the desk caught the light. She stopped and looked at the amulet.

It was heavy, old and far too ornate for the costume: a golden disc containing an eye within a triangle, inscribed with strange markings Sofie had never completely understood. Apparently, it had belonged to her great-grandfather. Her mother had given it to her years ago with very specific instructions: keep it safe, don’t wear it, and don’t ask about it. It sounded like something out of Gremlins. Three specific instructions that pretty much compelled Sofie to do the exact opposite. What’s a girl to do? Sofie thought. After all, the cold hand of fate could not be stymied. Or was it thwarted? Something like that. “You really do read too many pulp fiction books,” she told herself.

Her great-grandfather appeared in only four family photographs. In three, the amulet was visible somewhere in each photo. In the fourth, somebody had scratched away a part of the photograph. There was no amulet in this one. Sofie had once asked her mother why. Her mother changed the subject. When Sofie asked again, her mother left the room. That was considerably more interesting than an answer.

Sofie picked up the amulet and held it against the centre of her belt. Gold wasn’t part of the palette. The design was too elaborate. The symbol competed with the question mark. It violated practically every design decision she had made during the previous three weeks. By all rights, it should have looked ridiculous.

But somehow, it worked.

Sofie fastened it into place and, for once, didn’t check the mirror. She pushed back her hood and walked towards the door, then stopped and returned to the desk. The Imperial Majesty swatch needed to move four millimeters to the left. She studied it, moved it three millimeters back and smiled.

Perfect.

Sofie switched off the basement lamp and headed for the stairs. Her dog, Haku, a male Maltese/Shih Tzu, trailed obediently behind her. “Sweet dreams,” she whispered into the darkness, pulling her hood up again, this time a little lower over her forehead.

Tonight, Mystery Girl was going outside.

THE BEGINNING