I frowned, bending over the mess. “Look, you’ve got this piece upside down,” I said, then jerked when the shard cut me. A drop of my blood glistened on the silver sliver, and then like magic, the splinters just sort of melted together into a whole, the entire butterfly turning red from my blood to look like stained glass.

“Some things can’t be fixed,” Al said forlornly as I watched the red butterfly flutter her new wings on the rock and then fly up to join her friends.

Al didn’t look up from the rock, and I wondered if he was still seeing broken shards where there was now nothing. “Al, you’re dreaming,” I said, and he brought his eyes up to meet mine. There was an uncomfortable innocence in them, and I started to wish I could back up and start again. “Can you bring me over? I need your help.”

His gaze went to the butterflies dancing up through the canopy, blinking in surprise as he looked back at the empty rock. “Sure,” he said, clearly preoccupied. “Come on over.”

I gasped in pain as the line took me, hearing Al’s bellow as everything vanished in a flash of white-hot agony. I didn’t understand! It had been three days. He should be healed by now, and I hit the ground hard as reality—or the ever-after, actually—re-formed around me.

My face plowed into the black marble floor of Al’s spelling kitchen, and my shoulder gave a twinge as I rolled toward the large circular fire pit with its raised benches. “Ow,” I said softly, hearing Al cursing nearby.

It had been a rough landing, but I was here, and with a renewed hope—and embarrassment—I untangled myself and propped myself up on an elbow. My scrying mirror was lying on the floor, and I scooped it up, checking it for cracks before setting in on the bench. The new, ragged hole in the wall gave me pause, Al’s bedroom looking gray beyond it—a door into the once doorless room. Apparently he’d wanted in before he could jump a line. A pained sound jerked my attention to the small hearth at the front of the room.

It was lit, and between the shadowy coals and the slate spelling table was a hunched figure on the floor. “Mother pus bucket,” Al groaned, throwing back the blanket he had been wrapped in to scowl at me. “I was asleep!” he yelled, his new black eyes glaring as he held his head. “What do you mean by asking me to jump you over here when I was asleep? The lines are all a bloody hell mess! You can’t jump without a gargoyle assist, or it bloody hell hurts!”