illumination through the barred aperture in the door I saw a long furred shape with orange eyes.

He lay across the threshold, narrow head on his paws, and watched me.

That should really creep me out. But I fell back asleep again. A long slow velvet time of dreamless

darkness enfolded me.

And then . . .

The hall was long and narrow, and the door at the end of it glided open. I remembered this feeling—

a buzzing cord tied around my waist, drawing me on. I should have been cold in my sock feet and

T-shirt, and for a moment I wondered where my hoodie had gone. Then I realized I was dreaming,

and the question fell away.

The buzzing started, vibrating through my fingers and toes. It was like static between channels in

the back ends of America, the ancient televisions in fly-spotted, grease-carpeted motel rooms all

tuned to blank snow. Some of those places advertise cable, but good luck coaxing the TV to home

in on anything resembling a signal.

I remembered this feeling, like pins and needles crawling through numb flesh. I held up a hand and

wasn’t surprised to see translucent copies of my nail-chewed fingers. They wiggled when I wiggled

them, obediently, and I put my hand down. My feet just brushed the floor. I was moving slowly.

Like waterskiing but only at about quarter-speed, leaning back against the pull.

Up the stairs, past the hall that held my room, and the pull intensified. The Schola’s stone walls wavered like seaweed. A soft thunder of wingbeats surrounded me, insulating me from the prickling

buzz.

The Schola flickered, came back with the colors bled out. Everything was shifting, like really old

movies where the grainy color has faded. Or like those painted photographs you see in antique

stores—black-and-white portraits with weird blushes over the cheeks and eyes, caught in dusty

frames and staring out past speckled, dirty glass.

The voices faded in through the static. I recognized one of them, and the walls of the Schola pulled

away. I was outside, the trees shimmering—one moment fully-leafed, the next bare grasping

branches.

The voices came back as the trees burst into full summer green again, their shadows turning everything around them to liquid even as color flooded my sight. Sound wavered, but then it was like

finding the radio station you want, a chance bump in the road moving your finger on the dial just

that perfect amount so the song comes in clear and loud.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “It will get better.”

“She hates me.” There was a clack of wood hitting wood, and a short sharp sound of frustration. “I

want to go home.”

“She can’t do anything to you. Not with me here. First form, Elizabeth.”

A heatless pang went through me.

It was a half-ruined chapel, vines growing up the stone walls. It was vaguely familiar, and I realized