The table sat at the edge of a stage, looking out over a decrepit theater that looked nothing like what Maren had seen in her nightmare haze. The few scraps of carpet that remained in the aisles were moth-eaten, and most of the wooden seats had rotted through. High overhead, the domed ceiling was dotted with holes through which gray sky showed and rain dripped. Black mold covered the carved stone pillars that held up the ceiling. In the orchestra pit, a derelict grand piano lay on its side, as if it had stage-dived off and nobody caught it. Trash littered the ground.

The stage’s curtains were full of holes, and the scenery at the back had faded beyond recognition. But the stage itself was pristine. Someone had swept up every scrap of rubbish and polished its boards until they shone. Underneath the stench of mildew and dust, Maren detected a lemony hint of the floor soap her mother loved.

A rustle of movement in the wings, and Obscura swept in. She wore a black warm-up suit and pink pointe shoes. She’d gathered her dark hair into a low bun, and a black and yellow striped moth clung to her sleeve. Maren tried to jump out of her chair, but her left foot didn’t budge. A plastic zip tie cinched around her ankle held it tight against the table leg.

Ignoring Maren, Obscura headed for a freestanding ballet barre in the center of the stage, set one hand on it, and dropped into a sweeping plié.

“Where are Amos and my grandmother?” said Maren.

Obscura lifted one long arm overhead, and the moth fluttered on her wrist. “Hello to you, too. And you’re welcome for saving you from…whatever was threatening you outside.” Her mouth twitched. “I would’ve expected you of all people to be a bit more careful with nightmares.”

With a jolt, Maren realized her backpack had disappeared. And so had Amos’s bag. Her heart sank at the foolishness of what she’d done. She’d delivered herself and another hostage to Obscura’s door and then put them both to sleep. She couldn’t have made it easier if she’d tried.

“Where are they?” she repeated.

Obscura began to swing her leg to the front and back, front and back, higher and higher with each sweep. “They’re around. You can see them once you’ve helped me for a little while.”

Maren folded her arms. “I won’t do anything until I know they’re okay.”

“They’re perfectly fine.” Obscura’s pointed foot careened high over her head. She brought it to the floor, swiveled around so her other hand rested on the barre, and began to swing the other leg. “Make me three nightmares and I’ll let you see them.” Her leg still flying, she pointed to a stack of bins beside the table—Maren recognized them from the shop’s storage room.