Four thick, dark oak bedposts, a sort of feather comforter over me, no sheets, just a soft, down-filled comforter under me and the same over me and over that a coverlet or something, mostly maroon with faded traces of gold.

There was a fire in a huge stone hearth, more coals than flames.

The smell of salt water. The sea. We were near the sea. Were those waves I heard? Waves crashing on rocks? Or just an echo, a distortion?

The walls were stone, granite, I suppose, I'm not a geologist. The floor was stone softened by a scattering of reeds and, hey, flower petals. Well, that was nice.

There was a faded tapestry on the wall. I think it showed a guy in armor kneeling before a woman in white. No way to tell for sure with colors all washed out.

There was a single window, tall and narrow, a pointed arch at the top, like something you'd see in a gothic cathedral.

It was day. Bright, blue filled the window. Morning light. That's what it felt like. But the light had little impact on the gloom inside. It barely grayed the blackness in the high corners of the room, twenty feet above me.

I wasn't wearing shoes.

I threw back the covers, a sudden, convulsive gesture. I sighed. I still had my clothes on. A weird little outfit consisting of the clothes I'd been wearing down at the lake and the odds and ends I'd picked up from Vikings and Aztecs.

I was a bag lady. All I needed was a shopping cart full of cans and a personal relationship with the Martian high council.

I tried to slow my racing, panicked heart. (Would I ever get used to these transitions? Would I have to?) Things couldn't be too bad: I was in a feather bed and had my clothes on.

I swung out of bed and almost fell, surprised by the distance to the floor. There were my shoes. I stuck my feet in and tied them quickly.

The headache exploded about then. Pounding, pounding, but fading as I closed my eyes and rubbed my temples. It was the remains of a much worse headache.

I felt the back of my head where the dragon's tail had slapped me. There was a bump the size of the yolk of a sunny-side up egg.

"Okay, you have clothes, you have shoes, and there's your backpack. This is good, April. This is better than some Everworld wake-ups."

I was alone, I was pretty sure of that. Where were David and Christopher and Jalil?

I grabbed my pack, fished for the bottle of Advil and swallowed two dry.

I headed for the door. It was chilly in the room, despite the fire.

It took me a few seconds to figure out the door handle. There was no knob. Just a sort of iron latch. I lifted it, and wincing at the creaking sound, pulled the door toward me.

A hallway. Stone walls, stone floor, narrow, high.

"Hello?"

No answer. Part of me wondered if here was a phone by the bed. I could call down to the front desk. "Hi, I don't know my room number, but could you send up a pot of coffee and some toast? And some ice water?"

Old Marx Bothers movie, maybe 1929 or whatever. Groucho's at the desk of a hotel. Phone rings. Caller asks for some ice water. Groucho says, "Ice water? You want ice water? I'll send up some onions. That'll make your eyes water."

Bad pun. But it was 1929. Probably not Groucho at the front desk of this place. Maybe a troll. Maybe Loki. No, I'd be dead.

"Shut up, April, you're babbling because you're scared."

"Shut up? I wasn't even talking out loud."

"Well, you are now. You're talking to yourself."

I stepped cautiously out into the hallway. Left or right? I heard nothing to guide me. But the hallway ended in darkness to the right and was bisected by one of the tall, arched windows to my left.

"Go into the light, April," I muttered.

I padded silently down the hall, stepping unconsciously over the cracks between the stones. After all, I didn't want to break my mother's back.

A door, identical to mine. I leaned close.

"Hello?"

Was I up too early? Was that it? No, I must have been unconscious a long time. A concussion? Did things like that just go away or was some big blood clot just waiting to bust loose and kill me?

Dead of a stroke. Probably not the most likely thing to worry about in Everworld. So many other, more dramatic ways to die.

I knocked on the door. Nothing. I turned away intending to look out of the window. Then I heard a creak. Spun around and saw David, wearing pants and no shoes and no shirt.

"Kind of early," he said. He rubbed his left eye with the heel of his hand and then had trouble opening that eye. "You okay?" he asked.

Don't look at his chest.

"David, where are we?"

"Galahad's castle. Or one of them. I think he has more."

"So are we . . . What are we? I mean, are we prisoners? Or are we guests?"

I said, don't look at his chest, it's tacky. It's the kind of thing a guy would do.

David raised his eyebrows. "Yes. All of the above, I think."

"Are the others okay?"

"Yeah. Well, Jalil is. Christopher got faced at the banquet last night. Tried to outdrink Sir Perceval. I think he's in his room puking. Christopher, I mean. How's your head? Galahad's doctor wanted to put leeches on your face and neck. I convinced him not to. Hope that wasn't too presumptuous or whatever."

I shuddered. "No, you have permission to stop anyone from putting leeches on me at any time. Jeez, so . . . so what do we do?"

David glanced back over his shoulder, then lowered his voice to a whisper. "We have to bust out of here. Merlin is coming."

I laughed, then regretted it for the needle of pain it sent through my head. "There's a phrase you don't hear very often: 'Merlin is coming.'"

David didn't laugh. His eyes clouded. He seemed uncertain. Distracted.

And then I saw the hand come sliding over his bare shoulder and down over his chest.

She leaned into view behind him, face almost resting on his shoulder.