And so it was that Aaron became quite decidedly obsessed with being attacked by outsiders, so much so that he spent many sleepless nights crawling up into the window and watching for enemies.

The Eighth Day

In the dark of the night on the sixth day after their return to Artimé, Alex opened his eyes for a little less than a minute. He stared at the ceiling, unable to focus. And then he closed his eyes again.

Over the course of the seventh day, he opened his eyes a

few more times, but it was too hard to keep them open. When light beckoned from the other side of his lids on the eighth day, Alex’s body finally decided it was ready to emerge from its cocoon. His eyelids fluttered and then opened. He squinted, having no idea where he was or why there was so much sunlight in his room when he didn’t remember having a window. Slowly he turned his head to look around.

It seemed like his room, anyway—all his things were there. But it was so much bigger than his room, which was extremely puzzling. “Where am I?” he croaked. His throat was dry.

There was a noise beside him, and soon Simber’s body and face rose before him. “Hey, Sim,” he said. And then he frowned. “How’d you get in here?”

“Alex,” Simber said. The cat peered at him. His nostrils flared, and then he smiled. “Welcome back. You’rrre in your new rrroom now.”

Alex blinked. “What?” He took a breath, feeling muted pain, and everything flooded back to him. “What time is it? I didn’t mean to sleep so late—I have a ton of stuff to do.” He tried to ease up to a sitting position but gave up after a few seconds, totally spent.

Simber told him everything that had happened, how Clive had called for help, how Simber had slammed through the door and walls and destroyed Alex’s room, how he’d found Alex collapsed on the floor. And how they’d brought Alex here, to the mage’s living quarters, and made it his own.

“From what Clairrre can tell, you brrruised severrral rrribs and prrrobably frrractured some too. How does it feel to brrreathe?”

“It hurts if I take a deep breath, but not as bad as it did. How long have I been here? Did I sleep a whole day and another night?” he asked, incredulous. “I’ve never slept that long in my life.”

“Today is the eighth day since we came back frrrom Warrrblerrr,” Simber said.

Alex’s eyes opened wide. “Whoa,” he said. And then a cloud passed over his face and he tried once more to sit up. “Oh no,” he said. “I have so much—”

“Rrrelax, Alex,” Simber said. He pressed a cold paw gently on Alex’s chest. “You have to get well firrrst. Everrrything is fine herrre. We’rrre all pitching in. Clairrre and Gunnarrr arrre back to normal, Lani is too. Arrrtimé is once again a well-oiled machine.”

Alex sank back into his pillows. “So Lani—”

“Fine.”

“Meghan?”

“Fine.”

“Carina?”

“Fine. They’rrre all fine.”

“Even—” He blushed. “Never mind.”

“She’s fine too.”

Alex put his hands over his eyes and tried to hide his dumb grin. “Ack,” he said. “The cat knows all. The cat knows all. When are you going to get that through your thick skull, Stowe?” He shook his head slowly, furious with himself for being so obvious. “Stop looking at me.”

Simber snorted.

Alex peeked out around the side of his hand. Simber was looking pointedly at the wall where Clive hung, though the blackboard’s face had yet to make an appearance. Simber chuckled to himself.

Alex’s blush faded and he hastily changed the subject. “Where are all of Mr. Today’s things?”

“Packed in a giant chest in the Museum of Larrrge. It’s all therrre for you wheneverrr you want to go thrrrough it. Oh— except forrr this.” He turned his head suddenly and padded to the side of the enormous room. “We found it on the drrressing table. It has yourrr name on it.”

Simber brought him a book, setting it on the bed. “It looks like he meant to give it to you beforrre he planned to leave on his holiday.”

Alex picked it up. The corners of his mouth rose a fraction as he read his name in Mr. Today’s handwriting. He removed the note and looked at the book, reading the title: The Triad: Live, Hide, Restore. His mouth dropped open. He paged to the third section and read a few sentences.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he said. He looked up. “Is this a joke?”

Simber shook his head. “Why?”

“The restore spell. It’s right here.” He quoted, “Wearing a robe, stand on the back stoop of the gray shack (near the gate). Say the words ‘Imagine, Believe . . .’” Alex snapped the book shut and let his head fall back on the pillow, not even sure how he was feeling. “Seriously,” he muttered, staring dumbfounded at the ceiling. “Seriously, Mr. Today? You couldn’t have handed this to me an hour earlier?”

Simber ducked his head.

“It’s not funny,” Alex warned. “There is nothing funny about this.”

Simber lowered his head farther, his neck shaking.

“Don’t even,” Alex said, disgusted. He threw the book at the wall, which didn’t quite have the velocity to hit it, seeing as how Alex was so pathetically weak. It flopped to the floor. Alex stared at it, shaking his head. And then he pressed his lips together to keep them from twitching. “You are a bad,” he said with a little hiccup, “bad cat.” He tried to breathe slowly, but soon he was trembling. “Ow,” he said between laughs. “Ow. Seriously. You’re killing me, man.” He snickered and winced.