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very—” I broke off, widened my eyes, came to my feet. “Oh, there’s someone out there.”
    He turned, yanked open the door, and charged into the newsroom. Lights flickered on, illuminating the area.
    I disappeared.
Bugle
s in hand, I zoomed out of his office and sped across the newsroom near the ceiling.
    Joe looked up and stopped, staring with an expression of utter shock.
    I came down for an instant to open the door into the hall, heard his thudding feet. Encumbered by the
Bugle
s, I couldn’t simply think where I wanted to go and be there immediately. The physical world can be rather constraining. I didn’t want to struggle with the front door. Joe could easily reach me before I managed to open the door. I flowed up the staircase. Though it was dark, I saw the pale oblong of windows at the hall’s end. At the windows, I moved quickly to unloose a latch. The window moved grudgingly, but it moved. I pushed it up, thankful for an old building with sash windows, and the
Bugle
s and I were off into the night. Joe Cooper would be bewildered when he found no one upstairs. He might be puzzled by the open window but would assume someone had left it open earlier. I tried not to think about his feelings in regard to airborne
Bugle
s. Perhaps he would decide he’d had a bad dream and avoid two drinks before bedtime in the future.
    Now for a spot where I could read in peace and not disturb the occupants. I saw a glimmer of distant lights through the woods. Of course! I should easily be able to settle into an empty cranny at Lorraine Marlow’s old home.
    Rose Bower was a showplace of Adelaide, a forty-room limestone mansion fashioned after the great houses of England in the mid-1700s. The estate was on the other side of woods that bordered Goddard College. Rose Bower included fifty acres of woodlands and extensive formal gardens. The great iron gates were closed and locked. Occasional lampposts scarcely penetrated the darkness. A large circular window with stained glass glowed above the arched entrance. How appropriate. Such windows in Gothic architecture are called rose windows.
    After a quick look about, I placed my prized handful of
Bugle
s on the sill of a window to the right of the entrance. Once inside, I moved to the window. It was hermetically sealed and wouldn’t budge.
    Hoping the main door wasn’t rigged with an alarm, I drew back the bolt and, after a quick breath, yanked it. The silence remained unbroken, and I breathed a sigh of relief. I stepped out, scooped up the
Bugle
s, and hurried inside. I locked the door.
    A golden light from a hanging lamp illuminated stairs that curved from the entry lobby to the second floor. The lower floor was used for entertaining. The upstairs bedrooms were available for important university guests. The second-floor hall was illuminated with wall sconces. Each bedroom door contained a nameplate:
Red Room
,
Scholar’s Room
,
Retreat Room 
. . . Oh, I liked that one. I put the
Bugle
s on the hall floor, wafted inside, flicked on the light.
    I don’t know who had the greater shock, me upon perceiving the sturdy lump beneath the bedspread or the occupant who moved uneasily then came bolt upright, staring up at the chandelier.
    I turned off the light, regained the hall, and grabbed the
Bugle
s. I zoomed to the ceiling.
    The door opened and light spilled into the corridor. A barefoot man in his fifties with a tangled mop of hair peered up and down the hall. Finally, he shrugged, gave a hitch to baggy tartan boxers, and turned into the room. Hopefully he was a visiting poet and would decide crossed wires accounted for the light.
    The huge house remained utterly quiet. I didn’t have a sense that Rose Bower was packed with guests, but obviously I had to be careful. Rather than blip into more rooms, I decided to depend upon instinct. I firmly believe the inner me is lucky.
    I crossed the main hallway and peered at a