“Where am I?” I asked her, shading my eyes with a hand.
“LaSalle Street Clinic,” she said. “A few blocks from the school. You’ve been sleeping for twelve hours. The doctor was in a few minutes ago. She said you didn’t have a concussion or anything; they just brought you in since you passed out.”
I nodded and motioned toward the windows. “Can you do something about the light?”
“Sure.” She put aside the book and stood up, then walked to the wall of windows and fidgeted with the cord until the blinds came together, and the room darkened. When she was done, she turned and looked at me, arms crossed over her chest. “How are you feeling?”
I did a quick assessment. Nothing felt broken, but I had a killer headache and I was pretty sore—as if I’d taken a couple of good falls onto unforgiving limestone. “Groggy, mostly. My head hurts. And my back.”
Scout nodded. “You were hit pretty hard.” She walked to the bed and hitched one hip onto it. “I’d say that I’m sorry you got dragged into this but, first things first, why, exactly, were you in the basement?”
There was an unspoken question in her tone: Were you following me again?
“The brat pack went down there. I was invited along.”
Scout went pale. “The brat pack? They were in the basement?”
I nodded. “They fed me a story about a stash of contraband stuff, but it was just a prank. They locked me in the model room.”
“The model room?”
I drew a square with my fingers. “The secret custodian’s closet that contains a perfect-scale model of the city? I’m guessing you know what I’m talking about here.”
“Oh. That.”
“Yeah. Look, I was patient about the midnight disappearances, the secret basement stuff, but”—I twirled a finger at the hospital room around us—“the time has come to start talking.”
After a minute of consideration, she nodded. “You’re right. You were hit with firespell.”
For a few seconds, I just looked at her. It took me that long to realize that she’d actually given me a straight answer, even if I had no idea what she’d meant. “A what?”
“Firespell. The name, I know, totally medieval. Actually, so is firespell itself, we think. But that’s really a magical archaeology issue, and we don’t need to get into that now. Firespell,” she repeated. “That’s what hit you. That green contact-lens-looking deal. It was a spell, thrown by Sebastian Born. Pretty face, evil disposition.”
I just stared blankly back at her. “Firespell.”
“It’s going to take time to explain everything.”
I hitched a thumb at the monitor and IV rack that stood next to my bed. “I think my calendar is pretty free at the moment.”
Scout’s expression fell, her usual sarcasm replaced by something sadder and more fearful. There was worry in her eyes. “I’m so sorry, Lil. I was so scared—I thought you were gone for a minute.”
I nodded, not quite ready to forgive her yet. “I’m okay,” I said, although I wasn’t sure I meant it.
Scout nodded, but blinked back tears, then bobbed her head toward the table beside my bed. “Your parents called. I guess Foley told them you were here? I told them you were okay—that you fell down the stairs. I couldn’t—I wasn’t sure what to tell them.”
“Me, either,” I muttered, and plucked the phone from the nightstand. They’d left me a voice mail, which I’d check later, and a couple of text messages. I opened the phone and dialed my mom’s number. She answered almost immediately through a crackling, staticky connection.
“Lily? Lily?” she asked, her voice a little too loud. There was fear in her tone. Worry.
“Hi, Mom. I’m okay. I just wanted to call.”
“Oh, my God,” she said, relief in her voice. “She’s okay, Mark,” she said, her voice softer now as she reassured my father, who was apparently beside her. “She’s fine. Lily, what happened? God, we were so worried—Marceline called and said you’d taken a fall?”
I opened and closed my mouth, completely at a loss about how I was supposed to deal with the fact that I now had proof my Mom was on a first name basis with Foley—not to mention Foley’s perspective on my parents’ careers—so I asked the most basic question I could think of. “You know Foley? Ms. Foley, I mean?”
There was a weird pause, just before a crackle of static rumbled through the phone. I pressed my palm against my other ear. “Mom? You’re cutting out. I can’t hear you.”
“Sorry—we’re on the road. Yes, we’re—yes. We know Marceline.” Crackle. “—you all right?”