I kept leaning on Connor as we left the cafeteria and made our way down several of the knowe’s endless halls. Quentin took up the rear. We stopped at a small room containing a futon, a table and an ancient color television. Ignoring the TV and the fact that I was almost definitely showing how vulnerable I was, I collapsed on the makeshift bed, closing my eyes.

“Toby?” Quentin said.

“Stay with Connor,” I said, eyes staying closed. “If you get bored, ask April to come talk. You like April. Don’t . . . make trouble . . .” I was more tired than I’d thought: I was already starting to drift away.

“All right,” he said. “Sleep well.”

Connor bent over me; I felt him brush my hair back, fingers lingering against my skin before he whispered, “Don’t you dare bleed to death.”

I smiled, not opening my eyes. “I’ll just work on that.”

“You’d better. Don’t you leave me again.” Then he was gone. I heard three sets of footsteps leave the room. I stayed quiet, waiting.

I didn’t have to wait long. Jan stepped closer, sneakers scuffling on the carpet, and said, “Toby? We haven’t—I haven’t told you everything, and I think it’s important for you to understand what we’re really working on. Promise you’ll come find me when you wake up?”

“I’ll find you,” I mumbled. I wanted to make her tell me now, but I couldn’t find my legs, much less make them work. We all have our limits, and I’d exceeded mine.

“Okay. What you said about the memory? This may explain. And I think it’s important that you know.” She sighed. “I need you to know everything.”

“Promise . . .” I said. Something in me was screaming for answers, but the fog didn’t care. I don’t remember how long she sat there or when she left; all I remember is the fall into darkness and the half-dreamed sound of the night-haunts’ wings.

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-TWO

MY DREAMS WERE A TANGLE of twisted snapshots. April disappearing in front of the building in a hail of sparks and oak leaves; Gordan shouting in a dozen languages as she ran down an endless hall; Alexa and Terrie, bloody hands intertwined, laughing. Pale-faced knights and maidens littered the ground, and I was looking for the birds. I had to find them. A phrase kept repeating, scrawled on walls and bulletin boards: “. . . and no birds sing.” Why did it matter whether or not the birds were singing? And above it all there was the faint, constant buzzing of the night-haunts’ wings, and a voice saying, “You were my hero. I’ve had few enough of those.”

“What about the birds?” I shouted. The walls were falling, leaving me scrambling for purchase on the dissolving ground. “I have to find the birds!”

“Do you think that they will sing for you?” the voice asked, almost gently.