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everything will be normal. I take a few seconds to breathe deep, and then, looking straight down, I open my eyes the smallest bit. There are my feet in their sturdy black shoes, the same as ever. I lift my gaze inch by inch. The solid lower walls of the lift need a polishing, just like before. Thank God. Another few inches and I’ll be looking out through the filigree at the dusty library. One more inch—
    But going slow hasn’t helped at all. Outside the lift, there’s no broken glass to clean up; there isn’t even a window, or walls to set a window in: just a field of waving grass, long and autumn gold. Around the field, trees dance in gowns of crimson and orange and green. Morning sun filters through the ironwork in bright patterns, splashing my skin with gold. Like I’m in a church painting.
    Like I’m in paradise.
    Now there’s no slowing my breath, or my heart. Paradise? All those times I said I hated my life, that I wanted something different, I never meant this! I’m not ready to be dead! And what kind of way is this to die? I run a finger up and down the curving strips of metal. Whoever heard of a lift to heaven?
    As if in answer to my question, that warm chirrup comes again from above and behind me. An angel, calling me out.
    As I push down the handle, a message flips into place over the door: RETURN PRECISELY AT SUNDOWN . Paradise seems to come with instructions. What does that mean, “return”?
    Oh, but the air smells bright and alive! The grass is dry and springy underfoot, and so long it tickles my ankles.
    Chirrup!
    I turn. There, not ten paces behind the lift, towers a dead tree, and at the end of a long, bare branch perches not an angel, but the most magnificent bird I’ve ever seen. It must be as tall as my forearm is long. It has a rosy tan breast stippled with black, and a warrior’s broad shoulders; the head is steel-gray, so it looks like it’s wearing a helmet. Huge black eyes seem to take in the entire world at once.
    Now it tilts its head with an inquiring look, as if eyeing me bird to bird.
    That look fills me, and suddenly I don’t feel confused anymore. Why, this is a dream, is all! A hallucination. I conked my head good and proper, and I’ll wake up soon enough, with a huge mess to clean up, and Mr. Greenwood and Mum staring at me all disapproving and disappointed, shaking their heads. I’ll be miserable enough then. I might as well enjoy my dream while I can.
    The bird nods approvingly, spreads its wings out wondrous wide, and all at once it’s soaring. How did it get so high, so quickly? It circles the field a few times and then flaps off over the trees. Almost as if it wants to lead me on. All right then, I think, not even stopping to put down the tablecloth. And I follow.
    The forest welcomes me in. Soon thick branches are rustling overhead, dimming the light and hushing sounds, so it’s almost like being underwater. I can’t see the bird, so I stop, hoping to catch the sound of its cry. Instead I hear a soft burbling. Another minute brings me to a stream, and now I let it be my guide as I walk along the bank and, when it narrows, leap from stone to stone. The trees grow thinner.
    A voice calls out from somewhere up ahead. There must be people in my dream.
    I peek around the trunk of a wide oak. The stream banks climb to a bridge, and in the middle of the bridge stands an old horse, resting in front of an even older wagon, and in the back of the wagon there’s a large crate of clucking chickens.
    “Come on, then! We haven’t all day!” calls the driver.
    At first I think he’s talking to me, or even the chickens, but then I see there are more people coming up the dusty road. And it’s the most wonderful thing: they look likethey’ve stepped from the pages of Robin Hood . There are men and a boy in earth-colored tunics, belted at the waist, with leggings snugged to their calves and funny little nightcap hats. A handful of women chatter along in browns and greens, their