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When Isobel reached the top landing, she found the attic room just how she remembered it, right down to the little café-style table and matching chairs that sat beneath the small oval window overlooking the street below.
For a second, Isobel felt as though she was reliving a moment she’d experienced before, that time she’d rushed up the steps after forgetting the Poe book Varen had lent her.
She’d heard voices coming from the tiny attic room. His, and a woman’s . . .
But when she’d reached the top of the stairs, she’d found the room empty, just like it was now.
Her attention fell on the odd black scorch mark that marred the very center of the floorboards, taking the place of the ragged orange-brown throw rug, which lay rolled up against the far wall.
Her ribbon did not lie within the perimeters of the black mark. Or anywhere else.
The fear that had gripped her throughout the day loosened in an instant, but only by a fraction. Because, despite her ribbon’s absence, the attic’s emptiness answered nothing. Her uncertainty remained, growing twofold as she stared at the burn mark.
Isobel drifted toward the spot, keeping her footsteps light as she made her way to stand in the center of the starburst-shaped blot.
Only when her shoes matched up with two similarly shaped smudges branded into the wood did she realize where it was she stood.
This was the spot in which she had ignited Varen’s journal in the dreamworld.
In that moment, the two worlds had been so close, practically superimposed over each other. She had belonged to both realms, and like the floor, she should have burned.
Yet she hadn’t.
Her thoughts went back to what Pinfeathers had said in her living room about how she had evaded destruction.
Even Reynolds hadn’t had much of an explanation for why she had survived. His response to that particular question had been murky at best, filled with flimsy guesswork—another reminder that, despite what he wanted her to believe, he didn’t know everything.
The low pulsing buzz of her cell phone cut the strand of her thoughts.
She drew her phone out and flipped it open. Scowling at the screen, she watched the time display jump, the numbers changing at random. The service bars faded down, flickering.
Isobel moved toward the window, hoping for better reception. But as soon as her feet left the black marking, her normal display returned. The bars reappeared and the time showed five forty-five.
She glanced from the phone to the black mark and then back again, this time reading Gwen’s text.
WHAT’S GOING ON?
I’M IN THE ATTIC, Isobel thumbed in. She hit the send button.
Her phone hummed loudly in her hand.
AND?
AND NOTHING, she typed. I’M COMING BACK DOWN.
She felt her phone buzz a third time, but she ignored the incoming text and shut the device. Then she made her way to the stairs and sped down them.
Placing a hand on the knob, she stopped short of twisting it when she heard a slam, and a harsh clang of bells.
Her first thought was that the woman browsing through the discount bins had left in a hurry.
But the deep, angry voice she heard next told her she’d guessed wrong.
“Where is he?” a man growled. “Wake up, Nobit! We’re going to do this every day. Every day until you tell me where he’s gone. Do you hear me?”
Isobel shrank back from the door.
That voice . . . she knew it. She had heard it yell and threaten like this before.
