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fighting her way upward through unyielding soil, and then awoke to find herself floating a foot or so above her bed. She stared up at the too-close canopy of her bed in astonishment, awash in unreasoning panic.
    Then the panic popped like a soap bubble, and she smiled as understanding dawned.
    â€œI’m still dreaming,” she said.
    She rolled over in mid air and pushed herself toward the bedroom window.
    It worked, just like in so many other dreams—she could fly, swim through the air like a fish through water. She didn’t even have to wriggle like a fish; thought alone was enough to propel her.
    Kirsha felt the cool night air on her bare skin as her bedsheet slipped free and fell away, could hear voices in the street outside—and some of them were screaming.
    She wondered why, but then dismissed the question. This was a dream; it didn’t need to make sense.
    It was the oddest flying dream she had ever had, though, starting with a vague nightmare like that and then turning so intensely real. Still, she was enjoying it.
    She reached the window and fumbled with the latch, then opened the shutters—or rather she made the shutters fling themselves open, she didn’t use her hands. She looked out at the night.
    People were flying, dozens of them. Kirsha smiled happily at the thought of sharing her newfound talent. She swung open the casement, planning to fly out into the street.
    Then she realized she was still naked.
    It probably didn’t matter in a dream, but still, she hated dreams where she went outside naked and could feel people staring at her. She flew quickly across the room to a chest of drawers and found a tunic and skirt.
    A moment later she was soaring above the streets, watching people running below and flying above. She didn’t see anyone she knew, and did not want to talk to strangers, even in a dream—at least, not yet—so she did not rise up to join the other flyers.
    They were all going the same direction, anyway, and she didn’t want to go that way. She wanted to look at the shops on Dyer Street and see what pretty colors the cloth there had in this wonderful dream. They were lovely in real life, as she had seen when she and her mother went over there just two days ago, but her mother had refused to buy her any of the best fabrics for a new tunic.
    And there was that jeweler around the corner, where her parents had refused to even set foot inside the door.
    Her parents weren’t even in this dream, though, as far as Kirsha could tell, so she could do anything she pleased.
    She would smash out the shop windows and take the things she liked best, she decided, and then fly away, like a big brightly colored bird. She would fly to the lesser moon and see why it was pink, and she would find a handsome prince from the Small Kingdoms or a Sardironese baron there, and …
    She was getting ahead of herself, she decided. First she should see whether Dyer Street was even there in this dreamworld.
    People below her were screaming, but she paid no attention. She swooped around the corner, laughing.
    *   *   *
    Someone was bellowing, and Kennan of the Crooked Smile woke up, annoyed at the interruption of his sleep.
    The noise faded away quickly—whoever was bellowing was moving away very fast. Something about it bothered him though, so Kennan did not immediately go back to sleep.
    And then he heard running footsteps in the corridor, and then his son’s wife Sanda shouting, and he climbed out of bed and grabbed a robe.
    â€œWhat is it?” he demanded as he stumbled out into the dark hallway. “What’s happening?”
    No one answered; he hurried to the door of his son’s bedroom and found it standing open. He stepped inside warily—he didn’t want to intrude. Aken and Sanda were sensitive about their privacy.
    Aken was nowhere to be seen; instead, Sanda was standing at the open casement, leaning out and calling,