“Of course,” she replied even more gently, understanding his plea. He would not, could not protect her from the things beyond this world, things that paid no mind to money, status, and Freeman privilege. He could only protect himself from what his mind could not comprehend.

The driver loaded Miranda’s bags, and off they went, driving into the night. The journey was no more than twenty minutes, but it felt far longer with the silence between them. Once Khabir started to speak, but he glanced at the back of the driver’s head, frowned, and said nothing. Miranda looked at him, concerned and apologetic, but similarly held her tongue.

The gates to the residence at Delma were designed to look affluent rather than institutional, but when they came to the front of the reception area, the illusion faded. There was a nurse waiting with a wheelchair, much to Miranda’s gratitude. She was too tired to pretend to be brave and independent.

Khabir turned to her with a look of utter bemusement, and she gazed back helplessly. What could be said after the events of that evening? She touched his hand and tried to make her voice warm and reassuring. “You’ve been a good friend to me, Khabir, a very good friend. I’m sure . . . I’m sure everything will work out.”

He nodded, at first avoiding her gaze, then giving her a glance that was quick and almost suspicious, as if he expected that she too would vanish. He patted her hand and gave it a strong squeeze before letting go and staring out of the window into the darkness.

Someone opened the door for her. She looked up, reaching automatically for her canes.

“It is time,” said the Trickster. “Leave those. You no longer need them.”

She got out of the cab unassisted and found herself standing in the center of the labyrinth. Khabir, the cab, and her new residence were . . . gone. She felt light, almost happy, and could not guess why at first, but then she recognized the distinctive euphoria of the absence of pain.

The Trickster looked around at the intricate coils of the labyrinth with an admiring expression. “This is truly a work of art. Rituals like these are key to binding humans, but few of us can manage this level of subtlety on such a large scale.”

“Don’t rituals bind the undying as well?” Miranda asked, grateful for the small talk. It helped with the disorientation she was feeling as she tried to remember her state of mind and her state of being when she had first begun to walk the labyrinth what felt like almost a year ago.

He looked surprised. “Oh, no. They may gain our attention, but they have no real effect on us. We see too clearly for that. Humans, now—they fool each other, they fool themselves. It’s practically impossible to influence them without putting in some element of foolery, benign or otherwise.”