Seph sat in math class, chin propped on his fist, watching Mr. Richardson scribble equations on the board. Richardson would have been at the outdoor chapel, garbed in long gray robes, helping preside over that magical sacrifice. In retrospect, it seemed like a bad dream. What had spooked him? Rain and mist and bats and mummery.

And the fact that it seemed so important to Leicester.

In music, Mr. Rice told Seph he could schedule private lessons outside of class to work on piano or saxophone or another instrument. He encouraged Seph to consider joining the wind ensemble.

The bloody wind ensemble. It was so normal. So hard to reconcile with his fear of sleep, his dread of getting into bed.

After his last class, and before dinner, Seph went back to his room and booted up his computer. He'd decided to go ahead and write his letter.

TO: Denis Houghton, Esq., Guardian of Joseph McCauley

FROM: Joseph McCauley

RE: School placement at the Havens

When I arrived at the Havens, I was told that I'd been committed here for psychiatric treatment. I'm not sure what your intentions were, but the staff is unqualified and the methods used are cruel, arbitrary, and inconsistent, thus unlikely to prove effective.

This placement is not meeting my needs. I would like to request an immediate move so that I miss as little school as possible. I would consider a public school placement with private therapy if that is easier, in any geographic location. I will do everything I can to make it work out.

It is critical that this request be acted on right away. At the very least we need to meet to discuss my situation and arrange to get a second opinion. If you believe I would benefit from therapy, I have to think that there are better options.

He read it over again and bolded the part about doing everything to make it work out. He thought it sounded, well, sane. And non-accusing. He got it ready to mail and dropped it in the mail chute at the admin, building when he went in for supper.

The dreams came like heat lightning in summer, terrible dreams that illuminated those places in Seph's soul that were better left in the dark. The violence was sometimes physical, sometimes emotional, or both. All of his fears and insecurities surfaced and became weapons against him. The worst of it was that he never knew what to expect. Sometimes he would struggle to stay awake, then fall asleep in the early hours and sleep untroubled until his alarm sounded. Sometimes he dreamed three nights in a row, then nothing for three days.

The bizarre occurrences that had always dogged Seph seemed to intensify. He touched a light switch in his room and the electrical power in three buildings went out. Cakes fell and milk went sour in his presence. Hawks and ospreys collected on the roof of his dormitory and escorted him to his classes, swooping down on faculty along the way. The water froze in the pipes of the administration building, and trees bloomed out of season. A pack of wolves haunted the campus for a time, gray shadows lurking among the trees.

Seph constantly second-guessed his decision. He knew there was no guarantee he could find help outside of the Havens. Maybe Leicester's offer was his only option. Maybe his magical outbursts would increase until he had to be shot like a rabid beast.

The leaves on the aspens had been turning when Seph mailed his first letter to Sloane's. They lay like gold dust on the ground when he posted his second. He began to write several times a week so he could feel that he was really doing something. He gave up on sane and nonaccusing and resorted to desperate and threatening. There was never any response.

He tried to phone off-campus a half dozen times, from various phones and under assumed names. He was always intercepted by polite staff members who referred him to Dr. Leicester.

He continued to eat dinner at the Alumni House. They were his only potential sources of information, his only avenue of hope. They'd been trained in wizardry; they already knew how to manage their power. He reasoned that if he could win some of them over, they might share the secret that would prevent the dreams.

He focused especially on Peter Conroy. That first day, Peter had been eager to talk with him, obviously had information he wanted to share. But now Peter practically ran the other way when Seph approached. If he managed to corner him, some of the other alumni would intervene. Something had happened to frighten him away.

Others of the alumni worked hard to win him over. They shared no useful magical secrets with him, but plied him with offers of food, liquor, and illicit drugs. Faculty and alumni mingled at parties where he seemed to be the unwilling guest of honor. Maybe, he thought, drugs and alcohol would help.

But something told him they wouldn't.

Bruce Hays whispered to Seph about the unlimited power that lay within his grasp. “Maybe you report to Dr. Leicester,” Hays explained. “But when you think about it, the rest of the world reports to you.”

Aaron Hanlon advised him that, given the current unsettled political situation, it was best to shelter under the protection of a powerful wizard. “There's going to be bloodshed,” he warned. “Though Dr. Leicester is doing his best to prevent it. Just like during medieval times, it wouldn't hurt to have a patron.”

It was like being rushed by a desperate and diabolical fraternity. But, given the fact that Trevor and the other Anaweir were avoiding him, Seph found himself spending more and more time in their company.

Seph was in the warehouse, stumbling through darkness, his wet shirt pressed to his face to defend against the oily smoke. His throat was raw from shouting and from breathing in the toxic air. He could see nothing, could hear nothing, save the roar of flames and the groaning of the old building as the timbers burned through.

“Maia! Maia, can you hear me?”

The fire crews had arrived, and were pouring water on to the roof. He was sloshing through knee-deep water while the skin on his upper body blistered and burned. He reached down, wet the shirt again, and pressed it to his face. He breathed in the stench of burning hair, and realized it was his own.

He was in a corridor now. When he extended his arms, he could feel walls to either side. He must be in the office areas to the back. Perhaps she'd taken refuge here when the way out was blocked. He passed through several doorways, carefully closing the doors behind him to keep the flames at bay a little longer.

Then he heard it, a faint cry from somewhere ahead. “Help!”

He stumbled on, touching the walls now and then to guide him. The walls were hot, the paint sticky under his hand. “Maia!”

He pushed through another doorway.

“Seph!”

The voice was weak and thready, but close, now, only a few feet ahead and to the right.

“Keep talking, Maia. I'm here to get you out.” He crawled along the floor, groping with his hands, until he felt fabric under his fingers. She was huddled in a corner, where she'd retreated to try to keep her face beneath the smoke.

He tried to gather her up in his arms, but at his touch, her skin charred and burned and turned to ash, spiraling to the floor. He tried again, and her flesh crumbled in his hands, revealing bone. He screamed and let go, and she fell.

“Maia,” he breathed, sliding to the floor, gathering her lifeless body into his lap, rocking her as gently as he could. “Maia, I'm so sorry.” The heat was blistering. His tears evaporated, hissing, as soon as they emerged.

He was aroused by an incessant pounding. Firefighters. He didn't answer. He'd resolved to stay and burn. Somewhere, a door opened and closed.

“Seph?”

How did they know his name?

Everyone knew. Everyone knew he was guilty.

“Go away,” he whispered, holding fiercely to Maia's body. “You're too late.”

Someone had hold of his arm, shaking him. “Seph! Come on! Snap out of it.”

Seph opened his eyes to a view of Trevor's worried face. He looked over Trevor's shoulder. He was in his room. Sunlight dappled the hardwood floor. He had no idea what time it was. “Sorry.” He forced the word out painfully, groaned, and wound his fingers into the bedclothes. “I'm okay now. Please. Leave me alone.”

Wood scraped against wood as Trevor pulled a chair up next to the bed. It creaked as he dropped into it. “I don't get it,” he said.

Seph turned his face away. There was no point in pretending. He felt like crap and knew he looked it. The room still reeked of vomit and terror.

When he was younger, they'd said he was possessed. He supposed he preferred crazy. But he knew what happened when the only people who care about you are on retainer. You end up in places like this. He needed to plan, to strategize. But first, he needed to get rid of Trevor.

“Look, I was up barfing all night, all right?”

Trevor cleared his throat and looked away. “I heard you.”

“So I don't want company.”

Trevor didn't move, but sat, biting at his lower lip. “I don't get it,” he repeated. “You're one of them.”

Seph blinked, brushed the back of his hand across his eyes, refocused on Trevor's face. “What?”

“You're one of them. You've been hanging out at Alumni House. So why are you up screaming every single night? I have to wear my headphones to get any sleep.”

“Oh. Well. Sorry. I get nightmares when I'm sick. That's all.”

“What did you do? You must've really messed up.”

“What are you talking about?” Seph rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling.

Trevor leaned in close, breathing the words into Seph's ear, as if afraid of being overheard. “He calls it therapy.” Trevor looked down at his hands. “The dreams, I mean.”

Seph's battered mind grappled with this, teasing out a revelation. “You're telling me Leicester has something to do with … with …”

The look on Trevor's face was a yes. “It's like, whatever you're scared of, that's what he uses.”

Seph shoved himself into a half-sitting position, leaning back against the carved headboard. “You're saying he makes people hallucinate. Dream. Have nightmares.”

“That's what I'm saying.”

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