I swing my legs out of bed to find a plush carpet with a pair of white slippers on the floor. I’m in a hotel? I almost want to laugh, like when you wake from a strange dream and you’re so relieved that you actually feel giddy. But this room, which I would once have found awesome and immediately taken pictures of to send to Emily, now strikes me as foreign after my time at the Academy.

I stand up and stretch my sore body. Everything smells sharp and pungent, like floral laundry detergent and lemon-scented cleaning products, none of which existed in that medieval castle. I’m fairly certain a bar of soap was a fix-all there.

I open the heavy curtains, letting in what appears to be the late-morning sun. I scan the room with its fluffy white linens and spot a row of light switches on the wall. For an instant I’m stunned; it didn’t even occur to me that I could flip on the lights instead of opening the curtains. It’s baffling that after only a few weeks I would feel this out of place in a world I’ve existed in my whole life. I’ve heard of reverse culture shock, but like food poisoning, you don’t think it’s going to happen to you until you’re running full-speed for the bathroom.

I grab the remote on my bedside table, examining it for a moment, and switch on the TV. A local news station appears on the screen and I wince. The sound is jarring and the bright colors make me squint. I turn it off again, feeling relieved when the image disappears. But I love TV, don’t I?

“Ash?” My voice cracks with roughness.

“Out here,” he says, and I make my way into the attached living room with tall bay windows and oversized couches. I’m instantly struck by how many electronics there are—another TV, a coffeemaker, speakers for music, and my phone. A zing of excitement runs through me at the sight of it.

A split second later I’m moving toward the coffee table, but as I get closer, I realize it’s not my phone at all, just my empty phone case. I pick up my Spirited Away Miyazaki cover, which is cracked in the corner from when I dropped it on my kitchen floor a couple of months ago, and turn it over, frowning at the hole where my phone should be. I run my fingertips over the sparkly star charm that’s hanging from it; Emily has a matching moon.

I look up at Ash, confused.

But he seems to have expected this. “Cell phones aren’t allowed at the Academy,” he says. “If it was on your person when your dad dropped you off, they would have destroyed it.”