chest twitched a little as the old familiar anger tried to rise. It wasn’t real anger, it was just comfortable. Right now mad was about all I knew how to do.

Even though I couldn’t truly feel anything. The crying had washed it all away. The panic-inducing,

really terrible thought was still in the bottom of my head. How do you deal with something like

that?

Work, I decided. There’s got to be something I can do until tonight. “I want to go to the infirmary,”

I said quietly and clearly and tossed the washcloth down in the middle of the lake of drying coffee.

The breakfast tray stood abandoned by the front door. “And I want to look for Graves. If he’s here, I

can find him.” And if he’s not, I want to know. I want to know if he’s just kicked me like a bad

habit.

“Very well.” He rose gracefully, and I had to look away. The white cloth soaked up coffee, turning a

weird stained-brown. I felt bad about it for a second. I mean, I’ve been raised to clean up my own

mess. Dad was big on keeping things neat. and Gran was all about everything in its place.

But they weren’t here, and I was a ghost. I almost expected to lift my hand and see the light go right

through it. I’d cried everything right out of me.

I looked around for shoes. The closet had one lone pair of sneakers in it. Good luck, I guess. I almost groaned when I bent over to pick them up. If I lived to middle age I’d have so many back

problems, damn.

But I might not ever look any older. The boy djamphir didn’t, except for something in their eyes.

And how old was Anna?

I didn’t want to think about it.

I couldn’t even imagine being fifty and trapped inside this skinny teenage body.

The last twelve hours caught up with me with a wallop. I leaned against the closet door’s jamb and

tried to catch my breath. Warm oil slid down my skin, the aspect rising like ribbons of heat through

tepid bathwater when you twist the knob again to add more. The hurt all through my muscles retreated, and my teeth tingled.

It was too bad the aspect couldn’t do anything about the aches inside me. I sniffed a little bit. A crying jag will leave your nose raw and messy, but my nasal passages opened up, and underneath the

lemon and fresh air in the room there was the distinct note of dust and spiced apple pie.

“Am I on trial with you, too?” Christophe asked softly.

Yes. No. I don’t know. “I trust you,” I said again. It felt like a lie. “I just . . . none of this is designed

to make me a happy camper, all right?”