She retrieved the basket and locked the door before returning to the sofa with a small glass of brandy.

“You must tell him,” Tersa muttered, weakly batting at the glass.

“Drink this. You’ll feel better,” Surreal said sternly. “I haven’t seen him in months. He doesn’t have much use for me anymore.”

Tersa grabbed Surreal’s wrist and said fiercely, “Tell him to beware of the High Priest of the Hourglass. He’s not a forgiving man when someone threatens what is his. Tell him to beware of the Priest.”

Sighing, Surreal pulled Tersa to her feet and helped the older woman shuffle to the bathroom.

Tell him? She didn’t want to get anywhere near him.

And what was she going to do with Tersa? There were only two beds in the place. She knew better than to give up her own, so Tersa would have to use Sadi’s. But Hell’s fire, he’d become so sensitive about having a woman in his room, he could tell if there had been a different cleaning woman, even if she came only once. Shit. He wasn’t likely to show up—sweet Darkness, please don’t let him show up—but if he did and he objected to Tersa’s using his bed, he could throw her out.

Surreal stripped off Tersa’s tattered clothing. “Come on, Tersa. You need a hot bath, a decent meal, and a good night’s sleep.”

“You must tell him.”

Surreal closed her eyes. She owed him. She never forgot that she owed him. “I’ll tell him. Somehow, I’ll tell him.”

3 / Terreille

After several minutes of uncomfortable silence, Philip Alexander shifted on the couch and faced his niece. He reached for her limp hand. She pulled away from his touch.

Frustrated, Philip raked his fingers through his hair and tried, once more, to be reasonable.

“Jaenelle, we’re not doing this to be cruel. You’re a sick little girl, and we want to help you get better.”

“I’m not sick,” Jaenelle said softly, staring straight ahead.

“Yes, you are.” Philip kept his voice firm but gentle. “You can’t tell the difference between make-believe and the real world.”

“I know the difference.”

“No, you don’t,” Philip insisted. He rubbed his forehead. “These friends, these places you visit…they aren’t real. They were never real. The only reason you see them is because you’re not well.”

Pain, confusion, and doubt filled her summer-sky blue eyes. “But they feel so real,” she whispered.

Philip pulled her close to him, grateful that she didn’t push him away. He hugged her as if that would cure what years of treatment hadn’t. “I know they feel real to you, sweetheart. That’s the problem, don’t you see? Dr. Carvay is the leading healer for—”

Jaenelle twisted out of his arms. “Carvay is not a healer, he’s—”

“Jaenelle!” Philip took a deep breath. “That’s exactly what we’re talking about. Making up vicious stories about Dr. Carvay isn’t going to help you. Making up stories about magical creatures—”

“I don’t talk about them anymore.”

Philip sighed, frustrated. That was true. She’d been cured or had outgrown those fantasies, but the stories she made up now were a different coat cut from the same cloth. A much more dangerous coat.