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of laughter went through the room.
    Professor Varick smiled thinly, letting them enjoy their own amusement for a moment. Amber understood that it was all choreographed; it was a show to him, and one he had performed many times over. But that was what she appreciated the most about Professor Varick—his showmanship. It was what made his lectures so memorable, and memorable lectures were invaluable when it came time for midterms and finals.
    “If any of you did the reading, you might be able to tell me who served as regent for the child emperor,” he said, surveying the room with a dismissive glance, a challenge. “Anyone?”
    Amber waited to see if anyone else would answer, then raised a tentative hand.
    “Miss Morrissey?” Professor Varick said.
    “It’s a trick question, Professor.”
    “Is it? Would I do that?” he asked, arching an eyebrow.
    “Constantly,” Amber said, and the class rewarded her with a cascade of chuckles. “There were two regents before Theodosius was old enough to rule. I don’t remember the first guy’s name, but the second regent was his older sister.”
    Professor Varick frowned, always surprised when his students actually did their homework.
    “Not bad, Amber. It may be that some of you aren’t complete airheads after all,” Professor Varick said, turning to write the name Pulcheria on the board. “Much like ‘Augustus’ for Octavian in Rome, they called her Augusta. Probably because her actual name sounded like some kind of sexually transmitted disease. Or maybe as a sign of respect. I’ll let you all logic that one out.”
    The whole class scribbled in their notebooks. Amber wrote Pulcheria = Augusta and kept her pen flying, trying to keep up with the stories of ancient Byzantium. As she wrote, her hand began to tremble, and she frowned at the strange markings on the page where she knew she had written words. Her writing had become a trail of swoops and scratches.
    She frowned, blinking, and looked up at Professor Varick, who was gesturing to the class, almost acting out the lecture. But Amber couldn’t hear him anymore, just a muffled drone, as though she had her ear pressed against the wall, desperately trying to eavesdrop on a conversation in the next room.
    The aftertaste of her morning coffee turned bitter on her tongue.
    “Professor?” someone slurred. And maybe it had been her, because now blurred faces were starting to turn her way.
    Her arms flailed and her legs shot out as she began to shake violently. Her chair toppled over and she hit her head on the floor, a murmur of warped monster voices around her. Her whole body jittered, her teeth clacking together, and she tasted blood in her mouth, coppery and warm.

     
    . . . AND she stands on the beach, her feet sinking into the sand as the surf foams and ripples around her ankles. She feels a moment of peace before it is shattered. The golden sunset darkens too quickly, the sky turning bruise-purple, indigo clouds beginning to gather, low-hanging and pregnant with brutal storm. It is as though the storm and the angry night chase the sun out of the sky, drowning it in the ocean on the horizon.
    “Why?” she asks, though there is no one to answer, and she isn’t even certain of the meaning of the question.
    Car horns blare and tires screech and she tenses, waiting for the crash that must follow, but instead that scream turns into another . . . a human scream. She glances up the beach and finds that she is standing in the center of Hawthorne, though the tiny waves still ripple around her and the street is still giving way beneath her feet like sand. Glass shatters and there are more screams as it begins to rain.
    Hot rain. The drops are painful, searing her flesh.
    Dark things flit in the storm. A man and woman—she knows their faces but not their names—run down the street, water splashing around them. Their terror is carved upon their faces, and suddenly they have a child with them, a little girl with a long