Nobody knew why Ernesto was the way he was, but there were rumors. Like he’d cast a huge spell that had backfired. Or there’d been an endangered species, a rhino or something, and all the surviving animals had poured their life essence into one massive creature, which swelled with the lost potential of future generations. Maybe this towering gestalt stomped across the countryside, and everything it touched rotted. Blood bubbled from its eyes, ears, and stumpy toes, and it gave off an overripe stench. The creature, the story went, threatened a town full of innocent people until Ernesto took on its burden of excess life. Ernesto was so old, he’d gone to school back when Eltisley Academy and The Maze were still two separate schools.

“Everybody thinks Siberia was my fault,” Patricia said. “Because I was too proud or whatever. Too reckless.” In her mind, Patricia saw before-and-after images of Toby, first alive then dead, like a GIF from Hell. “They think I’m still too arrogant now. I’m just trying to help.”

“Listen harder,” Ernesto said. Most of the time, the thick eyeliner made his eyes appear lively, unfocused. But now, he seemed to see into the grungiest corners of Patricia’s psyche.

Ernesto went back to his chaise, and Patricia was left trying to figure this out. It was one of those annoying tests: both a dirty trick and a healing exercise. She was pretty sure she’d been listening just fine. She was ready to throw foodstuffs again.

“Fine,” Patricia said after she decided she wasn’t going to crack this tonight. “I will listen harder. And I will try to be less self-absorbed, and more humble. I will let people in, if anybody even wants to be my friend after tonight.”

“I spent thirty bitter years trying to find a way to leave this place,” Ernesto said so quietly, she had to lean perilously close. He gestured at the room full of books, with his eyes. “Until at last, I accepted that this imprisonment was a price that I had chosen to pay. Now, I enjoy my situation as much as I can. But you have not yet begun to experience the pain of being a witch. The mistakes. All the regrets. The only thing that will make such power bearable is to remember how small you are.”

He went back to William Blake, and Patricia couldn’t tell if this meant their conversation was over.

“So does this mean I’m not going to Portland?”

“Listen harder,” was all Ernesto said from behind the book. “We do not want to send you away. Do not make us.”

“Okay.” Patricia still felt raw and desperate inside. She realized she ought to leave before Ernesto offered to make her a cocktail next door, because she did not want to get falling-upwards drunk right now.