“I will.”

“Good.”

With a brief smile, just like that, he was gone.

Paradise said something to the others; she didn’t know what—and they said something to her; which she didn’t quite track.

And then she shouldered her satchel and was gone, gone, gone, spiriting away in a jumble of molecules that somehow fit her mental and emotional state far better than being in her corporeal form.

As she came back into her body on the lawn of her father’s mansion, she stayed where she was and stared up at the magnificent facade of the Tudor’s great sprawl. Lights glowed from indoors, the buttery illumination passing through the diamond-paned windows, creating the illusion of a fireplace’s warmth. From time to time, through parted silk drapes, she saw a doggen walk past, carrying a silver tray, a feather duster, a bouquet of flowers.

The wind was fierce here, and the longer she stood on the browned, frosty grass, the more it got through her jacket, her clothes, her skin.

She and her father had lived on the estate for a very long time, and there wasn’t a room that she didn’t have a memory in—even the hidden ones.

Yet tonight the manse seemed as the objects in her satchel were: someone else’s.

Amazing … how a journey that started and ended in your hometown, and didn’t actually require you to leave your own zip code, could distance you so completely from your life.

When she began to shiver, she forced herself to walk forward. It was about two a.m.—and though it made her feel guilty, she was so glad her father would still be working down at the audience house. She just didn’t have the energy to tell him all about her “studies.”

More to the point, she hadn’t really processed anything for herself yet—so it was just too early to explain the experience to anyone else.

Coming up to the front entrance, she reached out for the doorbell—and had to stop herself.

Really, she thought. You’re going to ring the bell on your own house?

And yet she felt like a stranger as she put her forefinger on the print reader and sprang the lock.

Stepping into the warmth, she closed the heavy door behind her and took a couple of deep breaths. There was no sense of calm as she looked around at the familiar oil paintings and the Orientals. Instead, she felt a creeping unease—

“Mistress! You return!” As the butler, Fedricah, rushed over to her, he was all smiles—and he bowed so deeply his forehead nearly Swiffered the floor. “What may I get you? Would you care for a meal—no, a bath. I shall have Vuchie run you a—”

“Please, no.” She put both hands out as his face fell so fast, so far, he was liable to start talking out of his bow tie. “The Brotherhood fed us very well—and honestly, I need to retire to bed.” Words, she needed the right combination of words here. “Will you please tell my father it was a wonderful learning experience … tell him I’m okay—I’m very well, in fact, and I made it into the program. We’re doing classwork. It’s all very safe.”

And the last two things technically weren’t a lie. Rhage had said they would be in the classroom tomorrow evening, and no one had gotten seriously hurt.

“Oh, of course, mistress! He will be so pleased! I do not believe he slept during the day—but please ring if you require aught. We are always at your service.”

“I will, I promise. Thank you.”

She escaped up the stairs quickly, some irrational fear of her father getting home early driving her to her room. When she closed herself in, she looked at the canopied bed and the needlepoint rugs and the antiques …

… and really wished she were crashing in an anonymous, clean hotel room.

Walking over to her bed, she sat down on the super-soft mattress and put her satchel down by her feet. Then she laid her palms on her knees and stared at the wall.

Craeg wasn’t the only thing she thought about. But there was a whole lot of him in her brain.

Shoot. Now that she was up here hiding, she felt trapped—

As her phone went off in her bag, she cringed. Undoubtedly Fedricah had called her father the moment she’d come up here, and the question was whether it would be worse for him to go to voice mail … or for her to try to force an everything-is-normal across the connection.

Later was not much better, she decided: If she didn’t talk to him now, he was liable to come knocking on her door as soon as he got home. And then she’d have to do it face-to-face.

Fishing her iPhone out, she frowned as she saw the picture of a five-pointed weed leaf on her screen. “Peyton?”

“Hey. I couldn’t wait two hours. I’ve got a serious case of the heebs.”

Even though he couldn’t see her, she nodded. “I know. Me, too.”

When there was a pause, she waited for the customary sound of a bong being drawn on. Instead, there was only silence.

After a moment, he said, “I feel like I’ve been gone for a decade.”

“Same for me.”

“I don’t want to even smoke up. How fucked in the head is that?”

She pushed herself back until she was leaning on her pillows. “Maybe that’s a good thing.”

“Just one more part of the weirdness, you know?” There was some rustling, as if he were doing the same thing. “Okay, so what the fuck is up with that Axe guy. I mean did you see him when he was fighting with…”

As her friend launched into all kinds of commentary, Paradise closed her eyes and took a slow, deep breath.