They left the noise and stares of the Refectory behind, heading into a smaller side corridor that lead into the belly of the building. Softly hissing gaslights lit their way, not daylight. They were far from any windows here. The green wallpaper that this corridor held in common with the main one gradually darkened into a blue so deep that it seemed black. It grew steadily lighter as the two of them progressed, as if they had taken a plunge deep down into the sea and had only now begun to kick their way back up to the surface. Funny, that she could remember the sea while forgetting herself.

The blue of the walls shifted to the shade of a midday sky, one accompanied by the topmost branches of trees. Between the boughs flitted bright birds. Puffy clouds skirted by in a wind that she could not feel. Yet she could almost taste spring air filled with flowers, almost hear the breeze stirring leaves together, almost feel grass bending beneath her feet. A closer look, she needed a closer look. Her hands propelled her to the wall on her right, then stopped her short of it. She leaned forward, dangerously close to sliding out of her chair. What color could that bird be there, the one hopping from branch to branch in what looked like a cherry tree? Violet or indigo? If she moved just a little closer, she might be able to tell.

"Everything okay?"

She jerked in place, startled. Ian leaned down towards her, his face full of concern. He'd come to her without making a sound — or worse, without her having heard him. Her fingers darted for her pendant, which wasn't there. She had put it under her blouse when getting dressed. They itched to stroke that piece of gold and jet. Instead, she contented herself by tracing a finger around the pin in her tie, tracing the numeral seven embossed there. Seven for Hall Seven. "Yes," she said, "everything's fine." She flicked her wary gaze to the wall. Nothing moved there now. "Do they always do that?"

"Huh?" He followed her stare. "Oh, yeah, Rambling has all kinds of neat tricks. Sorry I didn't warn you, considering your head and everything."

Neat wasn't the right word. "Are they harmless, those tricks?"

"Yeah."

The way that wall had drawn her forward, the way that it had made her forget anything else existed hadn't seemed harmless, but Ian spoke with such earnestness that he must've been telling the truth. He didn't have the sharp, mercurial temperament of Marek, or the cool, sarcastic one of Gerver. His face seemed as open as a book. More importantly, he'd shown her photographic proof they'd known each other. They were friends. "Then it's all right." She made herself smile despite her lingering unease. "So, where are we going?"

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She hadn't asked before, because the answer had seemed likely: the newsroom. He had just left the place.

"The kitchens," he said. When he got behind her wheelchair to push, she didn't stop him. He turned her back to the direction they'd been heading, then started off. "None of us had time to come down for breakfast, so I thought it'd be best if we brought some." He picked up the pace until they headed along at a comfortable stroll. "Having something to eat will keep everyone from arguing for a few minutes, at least."

"Do all of you argue a lot?" She winced. Spoken aloud, the question sounded rude.

Ian didn't seem to mind, because his voice sounded light as he spoke. "Everyone argues sometimes," he said. "We do a bit more of it because of the paper."

The walls on either side of them grew lighter above the wainscoting, filling with pale clouds. None moved. "You'd said something about us working on a paper before, hadn't you?"

"Sure did."

Such a little fact cheered her. Elise Ellsworth had more than just schoolwork and classes in her life. That made the newsroom worth seeing. If she'd found it important before, she might find it important now.

The two of them came upon a narrow corridor not far from the Refectory. It led directly into the kitchens, a vast room of grey stone, huge stoves, and massive smoke-stained fireplaces that ran three aisles deep. Dirty dishes filled half of the dozen sinks. At a large table on the far end of the room sat the staff, busy with their own breakfast. They knew Ian by sight, and allowed him to borrow a large basket, into which he and Elise put a variety of food that would travel well — bacon and toast re-purposed into sandwiches full of lettuce and tomatoes, and slathered with mustard and mayonnaise; cold cuts and cheese assembled into yet more sandwiches; great helpings of yesterday's salt and pepper potato chips; and, for desert, blackberry hand pies.

"This is more lunch than breakfast," Elise said, folding up one of the last sandwiches they'd assembled in wax paper.

Ian, standing next to her by the counter in the middle aisle, grabbed up the sandwich she'd finished and put it in the basket. "The kind of breakfast that you shouldn't have is usually the best kind of breakfast."

She wasn't sure of that, but she was willing to test the statement. They soon left the kitchens behind, journeying through the labyrinthine manor to an old elevator with a brass gate on it. This took them straight up to the third story, its gears clattering and complaining every inch upward. Elise clenched her hands tight on the basket during the whole ride, and kept them there well after they fled the contraption. Their destination proved to be a few corridors away from the elevator, behind a door with frosted pebbled glass on the upper third. There stood the words RAMBLING HERALD'S HEADQUARTERS in stark black letters. Ian opened the door for her.