I think of all the times over the last few weeks I’ve felt the weight of a gaze at my back, and wonder if Norah had people watching me in Midwood, too.

After she leaves, I change into my sleeping clothes and crawl under the covers. I pull the blanket all the way to my chin. The sounds in Ivory Hall are unfamiliar, and I feel unsettled in such a strange place. But home wasn’t the same without my mother anyway. And it won’t be the same until I have her bones back, and Gran’s, too. It takes me a long time to drift off, but eventually the promise of revenge lulls me to sleep.

The nightmares follow me to Ivory Hall.

I dream of my mother’s death in vivid, horrid detail. Followed by Latham coming toward me with a weapon in his hand.

I jolt awake, sweating and gasping for breath. I stuff my knuckles into my mouth to keep from screaming.

Only a bad dream, I tell myself. Only my mind using my fear as fuel to re-create traumatic memories and invent new worries.

I reach for the wall to steady myself so I can sit up. But the moment my skin makes contact, I’m yanked back into the nightmare. I stand in a large space of some kind. The walls are lined with shelves overflowing with spell books, boxes of bones, unusual weapons, candles in various stages of use.

Music floats on the air.

I turn and see Latham, eyes eager and bright. And then the sword begins to fall.

I pull away from the wall and wrap my arms around my knees. Slow, cold horror settles over me. Norah’s voice echoes in my head: Ivory Hall is made entirely of bone.

What if my dreams aren’t nightmares? What if they’re premonitions? Just now, when I touched the wall … I don’t know how it would be possible without blood or flame, but it felt just like a bone reading. Of the future.

Of my death.

Chapter Three

The next morning, I wake to gentle rapping. I scrub at my eyes, disoriented. It takes me a moment to figure out where I am, but when I do, the night before rushes back, and my stomach lurches. Another knock sounds, and a girl around my own age pokes her head through the door.

“Saskia?”

I pull myself into a sitting position. “Yes?”

The girl enters and gives me a bright smile. She’s holding a tray laden with fruit and bread. Her wide brown eyes are framed by thick lashes, and dark curly hair tumbles down her back all the way to her waist. She reminds me of someone, but I can’t figure out who.