Chapter Three: Life Outside the Dream

Indignation paid dividends. Clara learned that at the coffee shop when she ended up on the receiving end of unfair customer criticism. But if those experiences allowed her to be a little worldlier than the Saint Blisbane staff expected Jennifer Carter should be, she wasn’t going to argue with the advantage.

She might not know enough about the hospital, or the country it was located in, to know what their policy for dealing with minors might be. But she knew enough about Canada’s healthcare system to know what it should be.

Her questions started innocently enough.

When are you going to contact my parents? she leveled at Jemilda while the nurse still felt guilty about laughing in a patient’s face. But she peppered the other nurses with similar questions, making it clear she expected answers.

Aren’t they excited that I’m awake? she insisted when her first question yielded only avoidance. When are they coming to see me? All three nurses shuffled uncomfortably enough when she asked that for Clara to guess contact with Jennifer’s parents wasn’t a primary concern for the hospital staff.

But the real kicker had been staring dead into Jemilda’s eyes and adding, Maybe they can explain why I remember this Domerin guy.

The nurses didn’t laugh when she said that.

Theodora seemed openly exasperated with her patient’s incessant questions. Clara countered by clamming up every time the doctor asked if she remembered anything else. Let the woman believe she was afraid to say something now that she’d been ridiculed for honesty. It wasn’t that far from the truth.

After two days of strategic silence, Clara started asking questions again. Questions like, How am I supposed to remember stuff if I don’t have access to anything from my old life? and Aren’t there books or pictures I could study?

There were plenty of books, it turned out, though most were textbooks and Clara wasn’t interested in returning to school. Perhaps anticipating her reaction, Jemilda also presented her with a tablet computer. Clara looked for a logo that would help her identify the model, but she couldn’t find so much as a watermark.

“It’s not much.” The nurse sounded apologetic as she showed Clara how to unlock the device. “But Doctor Theodora agrees that a lack of stimulus might be causing you trouble. In this folder, we’ve got all the pictures and personal accounts left with us when you were admitted. And in this folder here…” Jemilda glanced over her shoulder, her tone and expression growing conspiratorial. “I downloaded Domerin’s most recent interviews for you. I don’t know if they’ll jog your memory, but you seem confused, so I thought this would help. You’ve got access to the Faenet too.” She indicated an icon with a pair of ornate faerie wings. “Look up your hometown and see what results it brings up.”

She patted Clara’s shoulder and left her to fiddle with the device.

Clara didn’t bother asking what the Faenet was. It was evident the moment she clicked the app square that it was Saint Blisbane’s Internet equivalent. Her connection was so locked down, she wouldn’t be able to check her email even if she could find the appropriate site. But Jemilda, or one of the other nurses, had bookmarked a handful of educational sites, and each loaded without difficulty.

The first thing Clara did was type Toronto into the search index. At home, this yielded a map, a bevy of headlines, pictures of several tourist attractions and dozens of pages of websites about the city.

This morning it yielded exactly one result: Did you mean Juntlaro?

Clara did not click the provided link.

In the world of Clara’s memory, Toronto was a city with nearly 3 million residents. In the world occupied by Saint Blisbane’s, the Faenet could find no mention of it, nor of Ontario. Granted, it couldn’t find Canada, the United States or France either.

Clara gave up at that point and simply searched for a map of Saint Blisbane’s. It turned out the hospital was a well-known landmark in a city called Rocsrest that Clara assumed was named for the giant birds of ancient legend. Though maybe they had been less legendary in a world that named its Internet after Faeries.

Rocsrest was a sizable city in the Kingdom of Aruvalia and was located some five hours south east of the capital, which was called Silvergarden.

Clearly, Kansas didn’t exist anymore.

With the educational resources provided, it would be relatively easy to look up Aruvalia and learn about its history and geography. But Clara was more interested in Domerin Lorcasf, the so-called key to her escape. She opened the folder Jemilda indicated and scanned the available video files.

There were six in all. The filenames indicated which shows they came from, but Clara didn’t recognize a single one. Four were obviously comprised of news clips, the others appeared to be from talk shows. One she instantly identified as the show that had been playing the morning Theodora laughed in her face. It seemed as good a place as any to start.

The clip opened with an introduction of the three guests, during which the host identified Domerin’s companions as Valia Stormcrow and Rilan Moore. Evidently they worked for the Queen’s Division, a term Clara paused to type into one of the educational sites.

She knew she found the right page because it bore the same logo the trio wore on their uniforms – a downward facing sword piercing a crown with wings sprouting behind the hilt guards. The first paragraph proclaimed that the Queen’s Division was an elite group of warriors hand-picked by the queen to manage matters of national security, or any threat which required highly specialized training. The more in-depth description reminded Clara of the FBI or CIA. Though maybe they were more like the RCMP if their identities were well-known.

Satisfied, Clara flipped back to the video and hit the play button.

The laughter she heard when Theodora turned on the TV turned out to be the result of Rilan cracking a joke. He seemed like the least serious of the three and the most talkative, though the host always directed her questions at Domerin.

“It’s my understanding the three of you have dealt with a large number of Elementals throughout your careers?” she said as she settled into her topic.

“That perception is deceptive,” Valia cautioned, though a friendly smile lit her face. “All members of the Queen’s Division deal with Elementals. We just often end up being on hand to talk about it.”

Clara made a mental note to add Elemental to the list of things she needed to look up.

“Would you say that you’ve dealt with a higher number of Elemental attacks than previous generations of the Division?” the host pressed, sounding genuinely curious.

“Statistically, yes,” Domerin admitted with a small shrug. His voice was deep, a match for his height and muscular frame. Though his expression was difficult to read, his tone was as casual as if he were discussing the weather. “But the story changes when you look at historical records. The Division has been tracking Elemental activity since we first became aware of the dangers. And some of those records go pretty far back.”

“We simply occupy more space,” Rilan added before the host had a chance to ask another question. “Urban sprawl combined with settling more remote locations means these creatures don’t have as much space as they used to.”

“And we don’t know why they move toward cities,” Valia added. “These routes might previously have been open for their migration and our natural spread has cut them off.”

A murmur passed through the audience. Its tone suggested those present had never considered this.

“So you don’t think there’s some force driving them to greater activity?” the host asked when the conversation lulled for a moment. Dead air was generally considered bad on these shows.

All three guests shook their heads in unison. “It’s possible that magical ley lines are shifting positions.” This came from Valia. “But that’s normal and has happened several times throughout our history. Like the activity of Elementals, we have historical records to prove it.”

Magic again. So Clara hadn’t misheard Theodora’s comment that first day. Domerin was probably an elf rather than having oddly deformed ears. And Clara was beginning to suspect Theodora might be a dwarf.

“A scholar could really tell you more about this than we can,” Domerin interjected, his tone sheepish. “We know how to fight Elementals, but we aren’t experts on the species.”

“Well, we certainly thank you for taking the time to reassure our viewers that recent rumors are unfounded,” the host replied. “I assume you have some advice for what we should do if we encounter an Elemental?”

Rilan delivered the safety spiel, which amounted to contacting the proper authorities then getting to a safe place.

“Never approach an Elemental,” Domerin added to reinforce the latter. “Under no circumstances.”

“It’s absolutely imperative that we raise the alarm early,” Rilan concluded, flashing the audience a charismatic grin. “That’s what allows us to evacuate the at-risk areas and minimize the number of civilians injured when an Elemental appears.”

From there, the discussion moved to how interested parties could become part of the Queen’s Division. Clara paused the video as soon as it became evident the answer wasn’t come down to the office and drop off an application. Even if she could find the office where Domerin worked, she doubted she could just walk in and ask for him. They probably had security, and she had yet to concoct a reason for speaking with him that didn’t sound insane.

She still had no idea who Domerin Lorcasf was or why the voice in her dreams wanted her to find him. She doubted her situation had anything to do with these Elemental thingies. And while it was apparent Domerin was a good fighter, he probably didn’t know much about alternate worlds.

A quick search of Domerin’s name revealed a long list of old interviews and public service records. But Clara saw no indication of a personal website or social media accounts, let alone an address or phone number. As far as personal contact was concerned, she was out of luck. She’d have to make do with what Jemilda provided.

The next video clip came from another talk show. From the looks of it, this had been recorded in the evening. The host turned out to be a satyr with a pair of black, curly horns sprouting from his head and a pair of cloven hooves protruding from behind his desk. Domerin was the only guest this time. He sat in a comfortable chair beside the desk.

From the start, the conversation seemed a lot more biopic.

When the host finished welcoming the dark-skinned elf to the show and the crowd quieted down, the satyr tapped a pile of cue cards against his desk. “Thank you for joining us today, Domerin,” he said with a grin at least as charismatic as Rilan’s had been. “It’s always a pleasure to have you on the show.”

“It’s an honor to be here,” Domerin replied with a polite nod.

The camera zoomed in, and Clara paused to scrutinize the man who had invaded her dreams.

She couldn’t get over the ears. Toronto was a multicultural city, but they didn’t have any elves outside of the occasional cosplayer. It was the sort of off-striking thing that would normally have knocked her free of a dream.

Now that she took a closer look at Domerin, she realized he had other distinctly elven features, including high-cheekbones and a slender, almost sculpted jawline that ended in a delicately pointed chin. He was handsome, she had to give Jemilda that.

Clara shook her head and leaned back against her pillows.

Domerin kept his hair in a tight braid, though a few free-flowing locks framed his face. His chair was angled so that his right side was most often in frame but, when Clara paused again with the left side of his face visible, she got a completely different impression of his features.

From the left, Domerin looked rugged and worn, probably because of the cross-shaped scar etched into his cheek. His left ear was pierced at least twice, with a delicate silver chain connecting the two piercings and a small hoop dangling from the one in his lobe.

From the right, Clara thought Domerin seemed severe, the kind of guy that would judge a person for daring to indulge even the tiniest bit. But from the left, he seemed more grounded, knowledgeable but also somewhat chill.

Clara would much rather approach left-side Domerin than right-side Domerin, given a choice. She unfroze the video and allowed the interview to play.

“The honor is mine, I assure you,” the host insisted, though he didn’t allow the interview to catch in a loop. “I’d like to start by reminding everyone about your career. How long have you served with the Queen’s Division?”

Again, Domerin bowed his head as if he was embarrassed to answer. “I think it would be close to a century by now,” he said, scratching the left side of his face. “But I admit to losing track.”

Clara would have guessed Domerin’s age as thirty-five. But apparently elves possessed the long life spans indicated in her world’s fantasy novels. Which explained why Jemilda had a crush on Domerin when she was Jennifer’s age.

“A hundred years is a pretty impressive span,” the host insisted, obviously impressed.

“I suppose.” Again, Domerin seemed uncomfortable with the admission. His head dipped whenever someone offered him a compliment. “But you have to keep in mind that there are people in the Division that have been doing this a lot longer than I have. We don’t see them as often because they’re coordinators. But without their expertise, my job would be a hell of a lot harder.”

“That’s fair,” the satyr conceded. “And we’re all grateful to the people who have devoted their lives to your kind of work.” Here he paused because the audience started to whoop and applaud. When the din died down, he tapped his cards against the desk again. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to talk about how you became a member of the Queen’s Division. The recent hullabaloo surrounding Elementals lately reminds me of the story.”

Domerin held up a hand to interrupt. “I just have to preface this by saying I get a lot more credit in this story than I’m really due.”

The host chuckled, and the audience joined in. “But you did gain your position in the Queen’s Division because of a confrontation with an Elemental. Isn’t that so?”

“It’s true,” Domerin admitted sheepishly. “For those that don’t know, you have to be invited into the Queen’s Division. You can apply, but that doesn’t mean they’ll accept you. My father tried for years to get into the Division, and they never replied to any of his applications.”

The audience’s response to this was strangely somber, but the conversation moved on quickly.

“Usually you have to have several years of service in a combat-related role, isn’t that the case?” the host interjected. This interview was more conversational than the last one.

“That’s right,” Domerin agreed. “It doesn’t so much matter where you serve – military, watch or guard, we take them all. But I was none of those things, which usually makes it a fair bit harder to catch the Division’s notice.”

“You were a mercenary at the time, right?”

Domerin winced. “That can be a dirty word in certain circles, but yes. And I wasn’t a particularly well-known one either. I just happened to be in the right place at the right time. Or the wrong place at the wrong time, depending on how you look at things.”

“So you were in a town when an Elemental attack took place?”

“I was.” Domerin shifted uncomfortably before he went on. “And I can’t stress enough that no one listening to this story should do what I did. It was stupid.”

The host put on a serious expression for a moment before saying, “What did you do?”

Domerin drew a deep breath. “Well, I noticed that the evacuation wasn’t moving as quickly as it needed to. This is a thing the Division sometimes struggles with. Depending on the density of the population in the affected area and the resources available to the local authorities, it can be hard to get the word out or establish safe zones. And this was a small place. The Division needed to mobilize from another location, and the local guard was too short-staffed to cover all the threatened areas.

“As I’ve said, the best thing to do in that kind of situation is try your best to get to safety. It just so happens that my particular skills make me uniquely suited to dealing with certain types of Elementals. I saw a chance to do something about a bad situation, and I decided it was worth the risk. And to be absolutely clear about how bad a decision that was, I fully accepted that I was probably going to die if the Division didn’t show up quickly.”

“Obviously, things worked out for you in the end,” the host replied with a grin.

This drew a small chuckle from Domerin’s lips. “The Division got there in time. Two or three minutes more and history probably wouldn’t know my name.”

“They must have liked what they saw.”

“They forgave my morbid stupidity,” Domerin countered.

“Now, not to underplay the skill of the average mercenary, but it isn’t a profession that provides its own training. How did you come upon the skills to face an Elemental without the Division’s guidance?”

“I’m uniquely suited to it,” Domerin said again.

“Because you’re a channeler, right?” the host interjected while flashing Domerin an apologetic look.

“That’s right,” Domerin agreed. “It’s an extremely rare talent that allows me to move magical energy without being a mage.” The host must have been satisfied with this supplemental information, because he allowed Domerin to carry on. “But my father was a military man, and he always intended me to follow in his footsteps. I’ve been training to swing a sword since I was strong enough to lift a practice weapon, and I never really questioned the outcome.”

“Knowing how it all turned out, would you change anything about that day?”

“No,” Domerin admitted, a hint of a smile playing across his lips. “Working for the Division is grueling on the best of days, but I believe in the work we do. And I have the benefit of seeing the positive impact my work has on the kingdom. I’ve always believed if a person needed my help, it would be wrong to turn my back on them. It’s what turned me into a mercenary, and it’s what ultimately drove me to accept the Division’s invitation.”

Clara paused the video. Domerin sounded like the hero in an epic fantasy novel. The sort that carried a huge sword and leapt into every battle without asking questions. Normally, they were empty-headed, but Domerin seemed quick-witted, or at least intelligent enough to know his shortcomings.

But the critical piece of information lay in his last statement. Was it any wonder someone from this world would dream of Domerin if they ended up in trouble? By his own admission, he would be more than willing to help.

Not that she believed he would take her story at face value, though his attitude did give her hope. No wonder the strange voice wanted her to find this particular man.

Yet, this revelation begged other questions. Like, how had her brain known to latch on to this particular hero? She needed exposure to Aruvalia’s mainstream media to know about Domerin’s appearance, skill and attitude. If she instinctively knew that she should look for him, didn’t that count as an argument against the life she led outside this dream?

Maybe I’m losing my mind after all.

~  *  *  *  ~

When Theodora informed Clara her improved behavior had earned her an outing, she hoped the doctor meant going outside. She’d love to visit a garden or even a slab of cement occupied by a single lawn chair, somewhere she could breathe fresh air untainted by the sterile disinfectant cloud that permeated the hospital.

Evidently, what Theodora actually meant was out of her room. This room had child-sized tables paired with many low chairs and shelves lined with activities for children of all ages. It was clearly meant to be a joint activity space where patients could mingle and chat before returning to their rooms for their evening meal and lights out. But she was the sole occupant, which highlighted the peculiarity of her entire stay in Saint Blisbane’s.

Were the children this room was meant to serve all in comas?

Best not to think on it.

The teenage activities were meager at best. Clara could hardly play a board game on her own, though she contemplated a few rounds of solitaire with the battered deck of cards she found pushed to the back of one of the shelves. In the end, she settled for a three-hundred piece jigsaw puzzle, hoping it would allow her mind to focus when she needed to and wander the rest of the time.

She scanned the brightly colored puzzle pieces spread across her table with glazed eyes.

Her second week at Saint Blisbane’s had been more fruitful than the first. She now had a rudimentary grounding in Aruvalia’s history as well as the kingdom’s modern political and economic structure. Much of it was strikingly familiar, but parts of it were woefully alien.

Her biggest frustration had nothing to do with the steady march of the same six people in and out of her room, or the unchanging walls or the lack of view outside her window. Though it was true, she longed for the soft pastel-painted walls of her apartment and the firm but squishy support of her memory-foam mattress – not to mention the sound of Marshal’s voice or his bright, sunny smile – her greatest concern was escaping the confines of the hospital.

It was clear no parents were coming. They must have been under the impression their daughter was as good as dead when they made her the hospital’s ward. No doubt they spent the months Jennifer was unconscious mourning her.

Clara wasn’t sure if the hospital had held off on contacting them because they wanted to confirm the miracle was legitimate before involving her family or if their contact had simply gone unanswered. It didn’t seem to matter. No one was going to sweep her off to school or a house at the end of some suburban lane. And since contacting the Queen’s Division to inform them that some crazed teenager kept asking for Domerin Lorcasf also seemed to be off the table, Clara was stumped as to how to proceed.

Perhaps you should be less concerned with how and more concerned with when.

Clara paused with a puzzle piece pinched between two fingers. A moment ago, she knew exactly where it should fit, but now she was preoccupied with the random thought that bubbled from the depths of her mind. It reminded her of the dry voice that spoke in her dreams. The one that provided her with Domerin Lorcasf’s name.

Now that she thought about it, that voice had given her other tidbits too, names and terms she could plug into the search function on her tablet.

Without really thinking about it, Clara concluded the voice that provided these leads was a chunk of her subconscious that floated to the surface whenever she slept. She had yet to determine if she had lived a life in this world and merely forgotten it, or if she was some transient visitor hijacking the body of a sleeping teenager. Insane though the latter sounded, both seemed equally likely.

She was a writer and, thus, used to creating worlds to inhabit the far recesses of her brain. It was entirely possible she had created a fantasy world for herself, one in which she was healthy and could go on living while her mind slowly faded from this here and now. Yet Clara’s knowledge of a place called Toronto located in Ontario, Canada was far too vivid and intimately detailed to be imagined. She needed no further proof than the tax system, which summoned a tiny, pulsing headache to her temples every time she thought about it.

Could the dry voice be some forgotten part of her, trying to catch her up on the present? What did Jennifer know that Clara didn’t?

That you’re over-thinking things, for one.

Clara decided to simply try the puzzle piece she held in each available space until it clicked into place. After all, she lifted it for a reason. But, again, the stray thought made her pause with the jagged edges pressed to two mismatched receptacles.

She couldn’t determine the simplest answer to this scenario. Unless she really was going crazy.

You’re not crazy, darling. If anything, you’re not crazy enough.

Clara pushed the errant puzzle piece away from the obviously incorrect position but didn’t bother picking it up again.

She had a long history of talking to herself, but she was certain that dry voice didn’t sound like her, didn’t say the things she expected her mind to say. She had called herself girl, woman and sweetheart plenty of times. But darling? Never.

It was going to be awfully hard to keep thinking of herself as sane if she started speaking to outside voices in the back of her head.

And why is that? Why should anything about your situation be considered remotely normal?

A fair point. However-

However nothing. One of us knows what’s going on here, and it sure as hell isn’t you.

Hard to argue with that.

Before Clara had a chance to think of a proper response, a flurry of footsteps passed outside the activity room. She was familiar enough with these minor stampedes to pay it little mind. After all, if something happened in another room, a herd of nurses and doctors rushed to the location. Clara never heard what happened afterward, but one of the nurses usually popped in to check on her and reassure her that all was well.

She expected this situation would be much the same. Except that mere seconds passed before a louder commotion filled the hallway. This one lasted long enough that Clara pushed back her chair, jogged to the door and pressed her ear to the thick, wood surface in hopes she could catch a hint of what might be going on.

A furor of voices spoke all once, combining with loud footsteps and distant metal squeals. The thickness of the door muted much of it, making it nearly impossible to make out what was happening beyond her haven.

But something more than a medical emergency must be happening.

An opportune moment, perhaps?

Clara didn’t imagine it; there was a hint of amusement in the voice that spoke in the back her mind. The more she listened to it, the less dry it seemed. It was almost as if it was gaining strength, developing a personality.

Heart hammering in her chest and lungs suddenly laboring to supply it with air, Clara set her hand against the doorknob. But she hesitated to turn it. She had never tried to escape her room, but she had a sinking suspicion this door would be locked, preventing her from slipping into the crowd and disappearing during the chaos.

Do you think I would have made the suggestion if I didn’t have a plan? The voice almost sounded mocking. If she had lost her mind, Clara was somewhat annoyed she hadn’t acquired a friendly personality to share the abyss.

Time is short, the voice insisted urgently. You need to decide whether or not you trust me.

Clara wondered if this meant gaining trust in herself, certain there was some deep metaphor in these silent words. But she probably didn’t have time for heavy philosophical considerations.

“If only I knew what the hell was happening…” she muttered, expelling a deep breath.

The TV, the voice suggested, drawing Clara’s gaze to the empty rectangle on the far side of the room. Clara noted the TV the moment she entered, but opted to ignore it in favor of other activities. She had a TV in her room, after all.

But if there was something going on outside the hospital, the local news might already know what it was.

Clara pushed off the door and darted across the room to fumble with the remote. She didn’t even have to flip channels once the screen flickered to life. A special bulletin had interrupted programming on every channel.

“…receiving reports of Elemental activity somewhere in Rocsrest,” a female newscaster declared with one hand pushed against her ear. “The Queen’s Division has issued a city-wide warning, though they have not yet announced the areas of evacuation. At this time, we ask that everyone remain calm and wait for official word before taking action. Though you may want to pack a bag-“

Clara shut off the television. She stopped listening after the first sentence anyway.

“Elemental activity,” she breathed, her heart suddenly racing inside her chest again. Even her fingers were tingling, numb with excitement.

“Domerin.”

The interviews she watched all suggested that he and his companions were experts in dealing with the creatures, which turned out to be massive beasts formed from specific types of magical energy. If there had been enough warning, he and his team might already be in the city.

An opportune moment indeed. But how was she supposed to take advantage of it?

Listen, the voice in her mind commanded, cutting through the growing haze of anticipation clouding her brain. If I get you out of here, will you promise to deliver a message to Domerin for me?

What message? Clara countered.

Never mind that now. Let’s just agree that I get you where you need to be, and you act as my voice in return. Deal?

Clara didn’t see how she had a choice. And this thought seemed enough to satisfy the voice in her head.

Good. Then go stand next to the wall to the right of the window.

Clara swiveled her head. It was easy to locate the room’s only window; she had previously positioned herself so she sat in the bright stream of sunlight pouring through it. Yet she hesitated to follow the sourceless voice’s orders.

The presence in the back of her mind responded with a wordless sense of pressing annoyance that drove her into action before she really thought about what she was doing. Which might have been a good thing. But your honor, she could almost hear herself pleading, it was the voices! They made me do it!

Stop being ridiculous, the voice snapped, dry and humorless again. You see those bricks?

Clara nodded. The outer wall was made from aged red bricks that had been painted a thick, sterile white to match the rest of the interior. But the paint had seeped into the baked clay surface, allowing the surrounding grout outlines to strike a stark contrast.

Tap them in this pattern.

Clara would have described the transfer of instructions as a day dream. She saw her fingers tapping certain bricks in sequence, like that old light pattern game where the device showed a series of signals that needed to be precisely replicated. She also got the impression she’d better not mess this up if she wanted it to work.

She mentally repeated the sequence once, waiting for a sense of confirmation before she lifted her hand and tapped the bricks in the proper order.

She expected to hear a soft click before some hidden panel swung away. Instead, the wall’s bricks flew apart, rearranged by some hidden force. Fresh air swirled around Clara, disturbing her red curls from their perch on her shoulder. Something sharp crackled around her, pinging off her skin like static electricity.

She blinked, but nothing changed.

The bricks that used to form the wall now formed a tunnel extending a short way into the distance, lit by a swirling white light.

This was magic. It had to be.

Magic had come up several times since her awakening. If she understood Doctor Theodora correctly, magic had been used to sustain the muscle mass and circulation in her unconscious body, which was why she was able to move around so easily right after she woke. But until this moment, magic had merely been a distant idea, one that Clara accepted because she would sound stupid if she didn’t. It was a concept in her world, though not a believable or applicable one. She had never conceived of seeing it in action.

Quickly, the voice in her mind hissed, bringing her back to the moment.

If she didn’t dart through the magical tunnel now, she might never escape Saint Blisbane’s. And she sensed this was the only way to get back to her simple life in Toronto – if ever it had been real.

So Clara braced herself, drew a deep breath and passed through the hole in the brick wall.

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