I felt weak as I closed my windows. …or rather, TRIED to close my windows. The first two proved to be effective though reluctant barriers against the chill October air, but the third remained stiffly and stubbornly open – a portal through which the cool of the night seemed eager to invite itself in.

I remember how warm I had felt that morning. The heat had been oppressive and draconian. And yet everyone insisted that the day had been crisp – that my memories had been hallucinations. Is there nothing in this world so frightening as the thought of being unable to trust the reality presented to you by your own perceptions?

I had dozed and drifted. I awoke once to the sound of Mr. Purvis prattling about in the kitchens and the sight of Mrs. Duvenmeyer, clutching a pillow to her chest and glaring unhappily in his direction for having disturbed my sleep. I awoke again later to find that Mrs. Duvenmeyer had nodded off. It was my chance, I decided, to steal back off to my own rooms and my own bed for the remainder of the night.

The stairs had proven to be much more treacherously steep than I had remembered them being. By the time I reached the landing outside my door, my body was near exhaustion.

I shivered. And then I cried.

I wasn’t the only one.