Quentin woke up in darkness. He was in bed, but not his own bed. His head hurt.

Woke up might have been putting it too strongly. The focus wasn’t sharp, and his brain wasn’t completely sure that its integrity was uncompromised. Quentin knew Brakebills had an infirmary, but he’d never been there before. He didn’t even know where it was. He’d passed through another secret portal, this time into the world of the sick and injured.

A woman was fussing over him, a pretty woman. He couldn’t see what she was doing, but he felt her cool, soft fingertips moving over his skull.

He cleared his throat, tasted something bitter.

“You’re the paramedic. You were the paramedic.”

“Uh-huh,” she said. “Past tense is better, that was a one-time performance. Though I won’t say I didn’t enjoy myself.”

“You were there. The day I came here.”

“I was there,” she agreed. “I wanted to make sure you made it to the Examination.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I come here sometimes.”

“I’ve never seen you here.”

“I make a point of not being seen.”

A long pause followed, during which he might have slept. But she was still there when he opened his eyes again.

“I like the hair,” he said.

She was no longer wearing her paramedic’s uniform, and her dark hair was up, held in place with chopsticks, revealing more of her small, jewel-like face. She had seemed so young before, and she didn’t look any different now, but he wondered. She had the gravity of a much older woman.

“Those braids were a bit much,” she said.

“That man who died—what really happened to him? Why did he die?”

“No special reason.” A vertical line appeared between her eyebrows. “He wasn’t supposed to, he just did. People do.”

“I thought it might have something to do with my being there.”

“Well, there’s nothing wrong with your sense of self-importance. Turn over on your stomach.”

Quentin did, and she dabbed the back of his head with a liquid that smelled sharply and stung.

“So it didn’t mean anything?”

“Death always means something. But no, nothing apart from the usual. There, all done. You have to take care of yourself, Quentin. We need you in fighting trim.”

He rolled onto his back again. His pillow had grown cool while she worked. He closed his eyes. He knew that a more alert Quentin would be working harder to zero in precisely on who she was, and what part she was playing in his story, or he in hers. But he couldn’t.

“That book you gave me,” he said. “I think I lost it. I didn’t have a chance to read it.”

In his depleted, borderline demented state the loss of the Fillory book suddenly seemed very sad, a tragedy beyond all possibility of redemption. A warm tear rolled down his cheek and into his ear.

“Hush,” she said. “It wasn’t time yet. You’ll find it again, if you look hard enough. That much I can promise you.”