A Mischief in the Woodwork - By Harper Alexander Page 0,37

in the wall, deepening into infinity. Paradise, beckoning. Waiting for me as I faded.

When my eyes had turned glassy, a spider crawled across the floor, stopped to inspect me. I saw this from an out-of-body perspective, for the me of the dream had perished. I watched as the spider probed my chin, then climbed through my parted lips. My glassy eyes did not change.

Swooping closer, the out-of-body me peered through my lips, much the same way I had peered through the crack in the wall in the kitchen. And again, my perspective became that of the spider's, and I was the spider spinning a web in my throat. It was a thick one, sure to make breathing a hindered task.

But I was dead, so I need not worry.

*

When I opened my eyes again, it was into a higher realism, something lush with grit, much more vivid in every sense even though it was dim and shadowy around me. It was Manor Dorn as it always had been, and there was an anchor of belonging inside me that named this reality, despite the disorientation that came with it. Some weight that had a name.

I turned my groggy head, slightly, and regretted it. When I swallowed, I regretted that too. There was a filmy lining to my throat, a tickle that filtered my breathing, and I erupted into a fit of coughing.

Letta was at my side. “Hush now, minda,” she urged, stroking my hair and laying me back to rest.

I remembered something about a web in my throat. Surely not...?

I took a tedious breath, and formed a word around the hindrance in my throat. “What–?” It was a rasp, and I fell silent.

“It seems you've caught something, finally,” Letta said, looking un-concerned. “It's about time, with all that exposure.”

Suddenly I remembered the kitchen, and its transformed state. “The kitchen...”

“Yes, you fainted in the kitchen.”

Fainted?

Letta took up a cloth and began wiping clean my finger. I blinked at her work, brow furrowed, and gave her a confused look.

“You've got something sticky here,” she explained.

My hackles rose. “I cut it...”

She inspected it more closely at that, looking for evidence of my claim. “It looks fine to me.”

But it was sticky.

I asked if it was spider web.

Letta considered. “It looks as if it might be. Were you getting at the cobwebs while chopping vegetables?”

Apparently the kitchen was not overrun by demon web.

At my striving perplexity, Letta smiled. “Don't strain yourself, Vant. There is confusion in you. A bit of fever.”

Had it all been the result of feverish fancy, then? Except that there seemed to be web spun around my finger.

My unscathed finger.

Clearly, I was completely disoriented, like she said. I relaxed, letting it all seep out of me. There was no point distressing myself over it.

“Johnny was sick,” I said, my voice working a little better now.

Nodding, Letta put her cloth aside. “A sense-worthy place to pick it up.”

Something occurred to me then. “Who sang for the weedflowers?”

“We had to sing all night – all of us – to even keep them flickering. There's really so little security in it, with us. They just wilt like sad lovelies. We are all ghosts of ourselves, this morning.”

I took that in, feeling responsible.

“Tanen offered his services, and was most agreeable about the whole thing. He even offered to keep watch, you know, but there's really only so much a watchman could do against a wardog. Dashsund volunteered to join forces with him – the two of them seemed to think they boasted enough manpower to be reckoned with – and they were all set to recruit Henry, too. I suppose three watchmen might account for a decent array of coverage, but then... Henry with his old bones... All he can do is watch, and a pair of eyes won't fend off fate. They'll only see it coming.”

Letta had a way of shirking concern, at least its appearance in her demeanor, but surely she couldn't be without worry in the face of these complications. I waited for her to tell me I had to sing tonight, but she didn't.

So I said as much myself.

“No faith in our men and their noble endeavors either, I see?” she asked.

“Tanen is not one of us,” I recited tirelessly, too stubborn to let that slide, even once. “And I've no desire to put Dashsund in the path of a wardog, capable or otherwise. And with Henry's old bones... He shouldn't even be watching.”

With decency, Letta turned more serious. “The wardogs haven't gotten