How did that happen? The ceiling was white plaster, a repeating pattern of diamonds and roses

sharply sculpted on it. The other Schola had been dirtier—grime in the corners, the mats in the sparring chapel used until they fell apart, the girls’ locker room musty around the edges. Even chlorine

can’t kill that sort of funk.

But not here. Here at the Prima it was all bright and clean, and I wondered about that. I never saw

anyone dusting. You’d think there would be an army of janitors.

There was a lamp on a white-painted nightstand with spindly legs. It had crystal chandelier-drops

instead of a shade, and it was still burning. Little rainbows caught in the drops, light reflecting on

the antique brass base. I pushed myself up on my elbow, staring at it like it was a spaceship or

something.

Where the hell am I?

I hate waking up with that question. It’s cliché, sure, but it’s also a deep well of insecurity swallowing whatever rest you might have gotten during the night. My pulse leapt. I sat up slowly, clutching

the pale cream top sheet and white down comforter to my chest. Cool air brushed my naked, drysweat-crackling back.

The room was small but perfect, one wall lined with stripped-pine bookshelves. The windows were

huge, open, and full of afternoon sunlight falling past net curtains and a wide white satin window

seat. A small white rolltop desk stood across the room, a clunky antique office chair of pale wood

with its back to the window in front of it. A slightly open door showed white tile and what was

probably a bathroom. Another door must’ve led to the hall because it was studded with locks and

barred. A mirrored door to a walk-in closet was half-open, too, and I saw familiar clothes hanging in

there. Big white dresser with a vanity mirror and a white-cushioned satin seat, the vanity’s surface

curiously bare in front of the antique brass-curlicued mirror frame.

What the hell?

In the shadowed space between the desk and the bookshelves, Christophe sat on the floor. His head

was tipped back, his throat stretched out, hair mussed artistically. His eyes were closed and his lips

parted slightly. He was deeply asleep, and a shotgun—probably the one I’d seen him with in the

Dakotas—lay across his lap. His hands lay limp and graceful, and he wore yet another thin black Vneck sweater and jeans. With his legs outstretched, the tips of his boot-toes fell apart slightly, the

worn soles making a V and sunlight caressing their edges.

I reached up, touched my mother’s locket. Kept the covers clutched up to my chest while I looked

around for some clothes. If all else failed I’d tear the sheet off the bed, but—

When I snuck another glance at Christophe, his eyes were open, blue fires in the shadow of the