Unrestricted, the moonlight illuminated her surroundings, and she could now see where the separating tunnel terminated.

Another door—this one stamped into the center of the tower’s marble floor.

The wooden, glass-paned entry was one Isobel knew well. As well as she knew the solitary boy seated in the classroom within, his head hung low over a familiar desk so that the locks of his raven-black hair brushed its surface.

Isobel reached the bottom just as the last step soared upward and the final stones disconnected from the ground, ripping free of their foundation.

She flung herself onto the door, and even as the jutting shapes of the Gothic palace entered her periphery, its limitless turrets and spires spiking into the sky all around her, she dared not look away from what lay beyond the glass pane beneath her.

Tuning out the distant roar of rushing waves and the howl of whipping winds, Isobel pounded a palm against the glass, eyes locked on the boy she swore to herself that, from this point forward, she would not allow to leave her sight again.

“Varen!”

28

The Assignation

He wouldn’t look up. He only kept staring at the glinting object he held between his fingers. Isobel’s watch.

She banged on the glass again, ignoring her hair as it whipped in her face.

Still, Varen would not lift his head.

Isobel gripped the knob with both hands. It slipped in her grasp—locked. She pushed hard with her mind, picturing the cylinder inside turning, the latch sliding back, but the knob only rattled.

As before in the courtyard of statues, her mind was clashing with Varen’s, her thoughts pitted against his. And as long as Varen refused to believe she was real, she was destined to lose the fight.

So she would just have to make him believe.

Isobel pounded a third time, hard enough to send a lightning-bolt crack up the center of the pane, straight through her view of him.

“Varen!” she shouted.

His eyes flicked up from the watch. Instantly the howling winds, the distant thundering waves—all of it ceased.

Isobel’s hair fell limp. Her breath grew loud in her ears as roaring quiet replaced the din.

When Varen finally spoke, she saw his lips move—but his voice, calm and monotone, came from behind her.

“Call it a hunch, but I don’t think he can hear you.”

Isobel swung her head around.

Appearing just as he had through the glass, seated in his usual chair in a now-reversed version of Mr. Swanson’s classroom, Varen stared right at her with hollow black eyes.

“At least, not over all that banging and yelling,” he said.

Confused, Isobel again checked the door, which, though now upright, somehow supported her full weight as if she were still horizontal, lying curled against it.

Beyond its splintered windowpane, rows of blue lockers lined the walls of a deserted Trenton hallway.

Another instantaneous switch had occurred, bringing her inside the classroom.

Heart pounding, Isobel swiveled her head back to Varen. As she did, one of the fluorescent fixtures directly over his head clinked, flickering out.

Isobel continued to hold tight to the doorknob, as if her clutching it was the only thing keeping her vertical. Then she carefully set her feet flat to the floor, one after the other, glad the industrial tiles proved as solid as they appeared. As she slipped free of the door, the folds of her tattered dress fell to hang loose around her legs once more, and, hands shaking, Isobel loosened her death grip on the knob.

Past the rows of empty chairs, through windows lining the back wall, the familiar landscape of the woodlands stretched as far as she could see. Now, though, a crimson sky radiated in place of the violet horizon.

“You’re late,” Varen said. His red-rimmed, shadow-lined eyes fell from her to the watch as he thumbed open its wings, and Isobel knew what he saw through its small window. A mixture of lies and truth.

This was a dream. She was a dream.

“No later than usual,” Isobel murmured, striving to flash a bit of her old spunk, though her voice sounded small even to her.

She needed to keep him talking, though. To keep him calm. Contained.

But what could she say? The words—the right words—evaded her.

“Varen,” Isobel began, taking a step toward him when he did not reply.

“I wanted you,” he said, interrupting her before she could continue, his gaze never lifting from the watch. “From that very first day. I can tell you that now, I guess.”

Isobel stopped, startled by his out-of-the-blue admission. Curious in spite of herself, she tilted her head, uncertain about what, exactly, the confession meant. Or where it had come from.