“Maybe I bloody was.” He taps his glass with his knife. “See this? Look here.” He lifts the glass and the reflection from a ceiling light leaves two wobbling rings on the table. As Vidhan lifts the glass higher, the bobbing rings of light move apart and converge again when he lowers it. “See? Light can be in two places at the same time. So why not me? Why not you?” He slams the glass down on the table, splashing the water. “The glass, this table, you, everything might look solid, but it’s all just atoms, vibrating. Nothing is at rest. Everything moves. But the truth is, the way I move? Hell, it’s one of those unexplainable Pathfinder things. It’s mad magic.”

“It’s mad, all right,” I say.

“It’s called superpositioning,” Vidhan says. “All in The Book of Seven.” He points his knife at me. “Read the handbook and you’ll see,” he says.

I slice into the ham on my plate and the knife screeches against the ceramic. I take a bite, chew, and swallow. I feel like I’m losing it again. Do I really belong here at this table? Can I do all the things they can do? Am I one of them? A Pathfinder. How can that be? I’m just Ana. But I know that isn’t right. I’m more than that now. There’s something inside me. Something I can’t control. It’s powerful. Violent, even. And it’s getting stronger. I realise, as I sit there thinking, that I’m clutching the knife in my fist like a stabbing blade and Vidhan is looking at me, frowning.

“Excuse me,” I mumble, standing, knocking over his glass.

“Hey!” he yells. “What? What’d I say?”

I don’t answer. I collect my sword and stumble back out into the corridor. I find a bathroom. Slam the door shut. Lock it. Lean against it.

Breathe.

I peel off my hoodie, then my shirt, and stand at the sink and stare at my reflection. A wild girl stares back at me—scratched and bloodied and bruised. Which makes sense. You don’t cross three worlds and come away unchanged. My curly auburn hair is lank and lifeless, flat against my skull, and I scrape it back into an untidy bun. I turn and swivel my neck to look at the cuts and bruises on my body.

A sharp knock at the door.

“Ana?”

I freeze and say nothing.

“Ana, it’s Malik. I just…I wanted to see if you’re OK.”

I swallow, but the lump in my throat doesn’t go away. Am I OK? It’s hard to say. “I’m not exactly sure,” I call back.

“Yeah,” the response comes from the other side of the door. “That’s to be expected, I suppose.”

A pause. My heart thumps.