HE MUST HAVE DOZED OFF. WHEN WILL WOKE THERE WERE FIGURES moving around him in a somber dance, like performances of tragedies at the Globe Theatre that closed with a macabre Bergamasque. He thought about the angel’s coat—like the stained glass in Chartres, the figure being set upon, and then given a cloak. He wished he could remember what it meant, but he’d forgotten so many Bible stories—apart from their significance in art history, which was one of his passions. Even then, he was better on his classics than the numberless Bible tales adorning all those tiny churches. He remembered Santa Fina in San Gimignano, and Santa Lucia in Sicily; but he tangled nightingales and cornfields with Samaritans and prodigals. For some reason all of those disparate images meant something to him just now.

Light streamed through a door as it opened, and he heard the angel’s voice again. She was talking to another person whose voice was soft, male, halting—possibly accented? The door closed and all was quiet. A lot of fuss, thought Will. Everyone tiptoeing around me. He wanted to touch the key around his neck, just to be sure it was safe; but oddly, his arm wouldn’t obey his command. They’ve drugged me, he realized—bloody Alex’s tribe; so he refused to worry about it. He tried to address the form quietly moving around him, to ask where he was and what had happened; but the words were lost on his lips. No sound issued from them. The frustration might have annoyed him, but he felt so unworried and unhurried, so he simply let his body sink into the cloud of white bedclothes, and his mind race at will. At Will.