Kane sat across from him. His panic had resolved into, of all things, triumph. He had a hunch. His hunch was right. The proof sat before him. The urge to gloat rose, fat and content in him, which reminded Kane to again ask, “Where are my friends?”

“They are safe. I teleported them to the high school. On the roof.”

This thrilled and terrified Kane. Even if they knew he was here, it would take them at least twenty minutes to cut through the entire town and get over the river. He was truly alone with Dean. With the Dreadmare. With Poesy’s henchman. But right now, Dean was not henchman-like. He was wringing out a washcloth and dabbing at his cut-up arms. He nodded for Kane to do the same. The bowls of water blushed to rose as they sat in silence, the plinks of dripping liquid holding their ceremony intact.

“How do you know when I draw the number eight?” Kane asked.

“I see it.”

“But how?”

“It’s one of my powers. I can see things in my mind.”

“So like clairvoyance?”

“Something like that, yes.”

Kane rung out his cloth. “You were watching us tonight?”

“I was. But I got shy when Adeline and Elliot arrived. Then I wasn’t going to show up at all, but when Poesy called I had no choice. It was a mistake to go to her sanctuary. It’s where she’s most powerful.”

“Where is it?”

Dean nodded, as though he liked that Kane had asked this. “It’s unknown. An in-between space.”

“Like a reverie.”

Dean thought about this. “Similar, but with some key architectural deviations of Poesy’s own devising.”

“Such as?”

“Well, for instance, people can enter and exit it.”

“Like through those doors?”

“And teleporting, like we did earlier.”

Kane felt sick at the thought of that stretched oblivion. He was not eager to reenter that space between spaces that were between other in-between spaces.

“I don’t get it.”

Dean blotted his elbow. “Teleporting is actually very simple once you get the hang of it. Distance matters, but not as much as trajectory and momentum. You have to be able to see your entry clearly. That’s why I can’t teleport in and out of reveries, which warp distance in a similar—”

“No, about Poesy. She’s your boss, isn’t she?”

“Yes.” Resentment flashed in Dean’s eyes, but he stayed focused on his cuts. Kane understood that. He was angry with himself, too, for being taken in by Poesy’s authority.

“But you saved us from her.”

“Yes.”

Dean’s tenderness was gone now, replaced by a face as cold and faultless as marble. And Kane realized he wasn’t resentful toward Poesy. He was resigned.

“Are you disobeying her right now?” Kane asked.

And, like the first crocus breaking winter’s frost, Dean smiled. A confession. An unspoken yes. Kane was smiling, too.

“Give me your arms.”