Chapters (53)
- Front Cover
- Letter from the Author
- Title Page
- Copyright
- Contents
- • One •
- • Two •
- • Three •
- • Four •
- • Five •
- • Six •
- • Seven •
- • Eight •
- • Nine •
- • Ten •
- • Eleven •
- • Twelve •
- • Thirteen •
- • Fourteen •
- • Fifteen •
- • Sixteen •
- • Seventeen •
- • Eighteen •
- • Nineteen •
- • Twenty •
- • Twenty-One •
- • Twenty-Two •
- • Twenty-Three •
- • Twenty-Four •
- • Twenty-Five •
- • Twenty-Six •
- • Twenty-Seven •
- • Twenty-Eight •
- • Twenty-Nine •
- • Thirty •
- • Thirty-One •
- • Thirty-Two •
- • Thirty-Three •
- • Thirty-Four •
- • Thirty-Five •
- • Thirty-Six •
- • Thirty-Seven •
- • Thirty-Eight •
- • ∞ •
- • Thirty-Nine •
- • Forty •
- Epilogue
- Acknowledgments
- Excerpt from Be Dazzled
- One
- Two
- About the Author
- Back Cover
He dropped down beside her and wondered what to do next, though he tried not wonder too hard, not entirely sure he wanted to reach a conclusion. There was no way out of this place. Not without the key on Poesy’s wrist or Dean’s power to pass through in-between spaces.
He scooted over to the doors and pressed his head against the cool varnish like a prayer. Maybe he slept like that. The urgency had vanished, but the tears had not. Darkly, an old and familiar urge opened within him. There was no way out of this place, sure, but maybe out wasn’t the way to go.
Maybe escaping didn’t mean leaving this place at all.
Kane turned to the room of stolen dreams, and he recalled the library of his childhood. The feeling of thick air and soft spines, of tilting your head sideways to read the names of authors. Mostly, Kane recalled the intoxicating potential of it all. For a child like Kane, potential was his forever friend. The promise of something else—or somewhere else—where Kane could start over and actually belong. It wasn’t just about finding a world that would tolerate him. It was about imagining a world that loved him back. That enjoyed him.
Kids like Kane weren’t often enjoyed.
There was a charm at Kane’s feet. A moon. From it emanated the caress of hemlock on a winter night, the iron smell of blood on frostbitten blades. From another charm Kane sensed a world of carnivorous flowers, dynasties, and revenge. Then there was a reverie about football and family betrayal. A reverie of black and white with smoke sifting through drawn blinds. Then a scorched planet, completely hollow, life teeming on the curved pith of its interior. A reverie loud with carnival jingling, and a reverie with no sound at all.
Kane could go anywhere. He could be anyone in these worlds. He could inherit any life, become anything, and forget everything else.
He could forget this battle. He’d forgotten once before, hadn’t he?
Kane took a great breath in, held it, then let it out. He shook out his hands. No. He didn’t want to forget. Not again.
He reminded himself of the few reveries he’d witnessed. They all taught him something new about the way dreams inhabit a person. Dreams can be parasites we sacrifice ourselves to. Dreams can be monstrous, beautiful things incubated in misery and hatched by spite. Or dreams can be the artifacts we excavate to discover who we really are.
Kane didn’t know what his own dreams were. He only knew that if he wasn’t careful in this moment, they could rise up and dethrone his rule over what was fact, what was fiction, and what was right.
Harvesting reveries wasn’t right. Hoarding them away in an ethereal vault was not right.
Running away wasn’t right, either.
But what could he do?