Evening came, as it seemed fond of doing. The staff of the Herald had time enough to tidy their headquarters and work on the newspaper before the night arrived. Elise had insisted on doing her share of both activities. She was next to useless at cleaning, so Willow ordered her to go to the table, shoved a stack of articles in front of her, then told her to mark any mistakes with a blue pencil. Elise stared at the daunting heap of paper. Could she really do this? She glanced to Willow, who had sat at her side of the table with her own stack of articles; the taller girl gave Elise an encouraging wave.

All right, Willow thought her capable. Let Elise prove that faith hadn't been misplaced. She grabbed a blue pencil from the jar of them sitting close by, then started reading. Her initial worries dissipated as she became absorbed in slashing unnecessary words and correcting sentences. Editing came to her as easily as eating food did, a mindless, hungry activity.

That discovery gave her such satisfaction that she made it through nine articles before the dinner bell chiming in the corridor outside headquarters. It didn't matter that most of those articles had only been a paragraph or two — something of the person she had been still existed within her.

Everyone broke from work so they could head downstairs. They parted ways just inside the Refectory, moving to their respective tables. She found herself once more at the end of a long bench among the rest of the Hall Seven students. No one invited her to join the conversations flowing around her. Eager for a familiar face she sought and found Gerver at the professor's table, an action that she immediately regretted — he was in the middle of eating what looked like egg-yolk soaked raw meat on dark rye bread.

The ghastly sight forced her gaze to Table Seven, where a delightful feast awaited her: countless appetizers, the most notable of which included deviled eggs, celery filled with cream cheese, stuffed mushroom caps, tomato rarebit, and fresh fruit cups; main courses like roast beef, lamb, pork, and chicken; half a dozen different types of sausages served with sauerkraut and mustard; potatoes baked, boiled, and mashed; a baker's dozen of casseroles; various soups and stews; festively colored gelatin salads filled with chopped fruits and vegetables; rich, flaky meat pies; and all manner of delicious sides and sauces. This she washed down with a glass of water as frigid as snow. For desert, she had three slices of pie (vinegar, blueberry, and Key lime); two bowls of ice cream (cherry and pineapple) that she ate with five different kinds of cookies (sugar, shortbread half covered in chocolate, molasses, peanut butter, and lavishly spiced mincemeat); and three glasses of milk so cold that it made her head ache when she drank it too fast.

Only some of the more popular appetizers, desserts, and that godawful raw meat dish never found their way to her, the latter of which she hardly regretted.

Her various pains faded thanks to the long meal, yet remained tremendous. The food seemed to do little for the exhaustion stealing over her. Curious. Perhaps she could ask Gerver or the nurses in the clinic about it. The very thought wearied her. Tomorrow, she'd ask tomorrow. For now, she had a more immediate problem to deal with.

Getting into her wheelchair proved a struggle in her sleepy state. The work she had done for the paper must have taken more out of her than she thought. But she didn't bother asking for help. Except for Marek, no one from Hall Seven had treated her with much kindness.

Several minutes later help sounded pretty good when she almost tipped herself onto the floor. Despite the chair's brake being firmly set, the thing had a tendency to wobble when she got in or out of it. That wasn't much of a problem when she'd had nothing to do but sit in bed and read and gather strength. In her current state, it was like trying to slash overgrown brambles with a butter knife. Leaving the Refectory seemed a distant and impossible dream.

"That looks like a good way to hurt yourself," someone said from just behind her.

She knew that voice without seeing its source. "I'm fine, Marek."

"Fine, she says." He made a small, short noise that could've been a laugh. "Ellsworth, you're far from fine. You've been battling that thing for a full five minutes. Let me help."

Helping her would, at this point, mean hauling her around. He had done enough of that on the night she had awoken, carrying her like a bride. Her face heated at the memory, growing so hot that it hurt. That seemed to happen whenever she got embarrassed or tried to fib, like she tried to do next. "I'm taking my time on purpose," she said.

"Boy, oh, boy, that has to be one of the lousiest excuses I've heard in a while," he said, "and I've heard some doozies."

Why couldn't he just go away? She didn't need help, certainly not his. The boy he had been when they'd first met had been a far cry from the one insulting Adesso and Romilly at the breakfast table. Yes, he had stood up for Elise, but he had also frightened her with all his talk of killers and victims. The boy talking to her now might be that particular version of Marek, and she was too tired to deal with him.

"But if you really want me to leave you alone that much, I will." A few footsteps sounded behind her, each one quieter than the last. "All alone, mind you, because everyone's left this place."

That couldn't be true. She looked over and between the tall centerpieces. Not counting abandoned dishes, Table Seven was empty. She forced herself to twist on the bench, then looked at the rest of the room. Her back and hips throbbed at the awkward position. No one sat at the tables behind her, either. The Refectory was devoid of life except for her and Marek. She hadn't heard anyone leave. No, she'd been too busy eating, then trying to get in that damned chair. How could she have not noticed whole crowds of people passing her by? Panic thumped in her chest. "Where have they gone?" she said, staring up at him. "Where has everyone gone?"

He moved his sleeve back to show her his wristwatch. "It's nine o'clock," he said, tapping the crystal face. "Well, nine-oh-six to be exact, and that much closer to curfew." He tugged his sleeve back down, frowning. "You'd know that if you'd read the University's handbook that I gave you."

Curfew? God, she must've looked so stupid to him. A silly, empty-headed girl who saw danger in every shadow. She had good reason for it, but would that really matter to someone as changeable as he was? In the clinic, he had seemed first to her a beast stalking its next meal, then he had been a nice, yet flippant boy. This morning he had been a cold and acerbic creature. She didn't know him or his intentions, which made him a danger. A great one, with that exceptional strength of his.

But he wouldn't do anything to her. He hadn't before in the clinic, and if he had wanted to, that would have been the moment for it. Anyone could come along and see the two of them in the Refectory right now. He wouldn't risk it ...

Or would he?

She swallowed down her fear. It lodged in her chest like a great lump of dirty ice. "Yes, curfew, of course," she said. "I did read that handbook — and thank you, for everything. The notes and the books. It was very kind of you to go to the trouble."

He gave a lopsided shrug. "It's all part of being an Underseer." He adjusted the strap of his book bag. "You know what that is, don't you?"

An Underseer, yes, he was an Underseer, just look at his Hall tie pin and the unmistakable ring of white mother-of-pearl around its head. Willow had worn the same sort of pin, as was required of Underseers. Elise nodded, then recited, "They're students who work with Overseers to monitor and protect the rest of the student body."

A small smile flashed on his face. "You must've been pretty bored in that clinic if you practically memorized the handbook definition."

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

"It'd been underlined," she said. "There were a lot of underlined things in that handbook of yours." His name had been just inside the cover, so he had likely been responsible for the rest of the mess.

"Sorry about that," he said. "I like to mark what's mine. That way other people know better than to take my things."

What a strange thing to say. "Do people often take your things?"

Marek gave a start, as if surprised by that question. "No, not anymore." He smiled at her again, this time insincerely — his eyes showed no sign of warmth. "Where were we? Ah, right. Help. If you want my help, just say so, and if not, I'll be on my merry way."

How could he admit to being the target of thieves so lightly? It must have happened more than once if it hadn't been anything out of the ordinary for him. That thought stirred something in her, like the memory of a dream half-forgotten before even getting out of bed. It had meaning, weight, importance. But it slipped from her like handfuls of rainwater, their shape quickly lost in the dark currents of her mind. What stayed behind was pity. The small distance and great light between Elise and Marek now revealed the reasons for that pity, every little drop of it that had escaped her only seconds ago. The wear on the cuffs of his jacket, his patched book bag, the scratches and scuffs on his shoes that no amount of polish could hide.

"Don't," he said, voice dark. "Don't look at me like that, like I'm something you can feel sorry for." His hands flexed into fists. "Because I'm not."

She ducked her head in guilt and alarm. But that made her look at the hem of her skirt, at her shoes, at the wear on both of them. They'd been excellently repaired, but they had seen use. She had missed those details getting dressed this morning. The cuffs of her jacket, those looked the same. And that girl in the photographs, that younger Elise, her clothes hadn't been like her sister's bright, frilly dresses. No, hers had been plain and dark. Things that drew no attention. She had known that the Ellsworths hadn't cared much for her, yet to see it, to have solid proof ...

It hurt. And it hurt to see someone else standing in front of her in an old and frayed uniform so much like her own. But if the situation had been reversed, if he had noticed her tatty clothes and let his stare linger on them, she wouldn't have wanted his pity. That would've just reminded her of why she was pitiable.

"I know that you're not," she said, as much to herself as to him.

Whatever he'd been expecting her to say, it hadn't been that. His eyes — they were of a pale green too vivid to be normal, weren't they? — widened the slightest bit, and the rest of his shock rippled outwardly from them. Control set in seconds later, his expression closing, his gaze cooling, his jaw tightening. He showed nothing else. "You," he began, "know? Forgive me if that sounds funny coming from you."

Part of her, a very large part, wanted to curse at him, call him names. He didn't make it very easy to like him. She still tried to because of how well he had treated her after finding her cowering in the clinic, and because it was all too easy to imagine the kind of things that Abriana Adesso had said about his shabby clothes, things that beastly girl had no doubt said about Elise's, too.

"I've lost my memories, not my sense," she said, "and if you think that you're the only person anyone pities in this world, then you're sorely mistaken."

He stopped glaring at her after that. The boy didn't have enough decency to look as if he regretted his words, but a lack of visible ill will counted as progress. Maybe.

She shifted on the bench, unwilling to look at him any longer. "Now, if you're still offering help, I'll gladly take it."

Centuries passed in silence. He was probably thinking of leaving or telling her that he wouldn't help her if she begged him. Then hands wrapped around her waist, lifting her with ungodly strength. Heartbeats shuddered through her and her stomach seemed to float somewhere in the middle of her chest. He let go of her as soon as he had got her into place. Her stomach didn't settle when she did. She had no reason to feel sick — he hadn't swung her around until she was nauseous, or done anything untoward. Far from it. So why was her heart still pounding like that?

Well, being picked up like that had been startling, that was all. It couldn't be anything else, because she didn't know him, didn't care about him, didn't like him. The only person she remembered feeling anything for was Charlotte Cooke. Everyone else was a stranger, even Willow and the rest of the Herald staff. "Thank you," she said.

"Don't worry yourself over it."

Did he think politeness a form of pity, too? No, never mind, it didn't matter. She needed to get to her Hall Seven, and —

Her dorm. She had no idea how to get to it. Seeing its location on a map in a handbook or from an illusory bird's-eye view wasn't the same as actually knowing which corridors led there. But Marek shared her Hall, so he'd know the way there. She'd need to ask for his help again. Or could she just follow him? That could be the easiest way of doing things.

"Ready?" Marek said.

Oh, thank goodness, he wanted her to come with him. "Yes," she said. "Yes, I am."

They left the Refectory traveling the same route that Ian had taken her down before. She kept her eyes firmly on the way ahead rather than risk looking at the dangerous walls, wheeling herself at a good pace behind Marek. They passed by the kitchens, then the elevator, then pressed into uncharted territory. Gaslights lit their way, cutting out when the students had passed beyond their light. The pale wallpaper grew darker foot by foot until utter blackness covered the walls on both sides. Tiny lights winked into existence along the paper, drawing her gaze. Stars, those were stars. And she had stopped to look at them. They emitted a soft, silvery sound that could barely be heard above the blood hissing in her ears. If she could just lean forward a little she might hear what the stars were trying to tell her ...

Her chair started moving without any effort from her, and the spell broke. "You oughta be careful," Marek said. He was behind her now, pushing her along. "Rambling has a mind of its own."

She shivered, helpless to stop it. "What do you mean?"

"This place used to be a manor, not a university. Some rich Englishman carted it off to America way back when." The gaslights shimmered a little higher. "That guy was an Extraordinary, and a genius, too. He wanted this place and Valens Valley to both educate and research people like him, but he didn't want a bunch of servants running around tending fires and making beds. They'd spread rumors, and rumors are dangerous to people like us." The flames grew higher, lengthening some shadows and burning away others. "So he made this place run on its own. It took years, but he finally succeeded. Rambling Manor was opened to special students not long after that."

There had to be more to the story, for a man who could do that could do anything. "What did he do for his next trick?"

"He disappeared." Now the lights shrank down, dropping the two travelers into near darkness. Marek didn't skip a step, as if he hardly noticed the change. "Then the Manor started doing all sorts of things it wasn't supposed to do, like adding on useless rooms or making stairs that lead to nowhere."

Hair raised on her arms, pressing against the sleeves of her blouse. "It's still doing those things, isn't it?" she said. "The gaslights, the wallpaper ..." The compelling little stars that invite you to come closer and listen.

"Yeah." His voice dropped low, as if he were imparting a secret. "It still does those things."

That should've been crazy talk. It would have been if she hadn't seen what she had seen — a boy who lifted her like she had been made of air, a man who looked like a corpse, paper butterflies that flapped around like they thought themselves real. A manor that decorated itself didn't seem far-fetched in comparison, especially when it had been doing that before her very eyes. But if it could do that, it might do more. Like think. She rubbed at her arms, which still felt chilled. "That certainly wasn't in the handbook," she muttered.

"It wouldn't be." The stars on the walls now clustered together so thickly that they nearly outshone the guttering gaslights. "Mrs. Rambling knows that it makes people nervous, so she lets them think the house runs strictly on gears and motors."

More stars burst into the black of the wallpaper, close and lambent. Their silvery song grew louder. "Mrs. Rambling?" Elise said, desperate to have a distraction from that noise. "Is she related to the man who disappeared? Is the University named after them?"

Marek seemed unaffected by the stars, pushing the chair at a leisurely speed. "Yeah," he said. "He became a lord or something over in merry old England when Queen Victoria was still above ground, bought some ancient stone pile, and modestly slapped his name on it. Then, like I said, he shipped it here."

Galaxies and nebulae popped into existence, throbbing in what looked like a pattern. No, that wasn't true. This place wasn't alive, wasn't capable of making any patterns. It had just been made by someone with enough intelligence and creativity to invent the Eighth Wonder of the World. "What was his name?" she said.

"Edmond Prasad Rambling, but, humble guy that he was, he insisted everyone call him Lord Rambling."

Comets whizzed by, burning blue across the black walls. Stars ruptured into waves of colorful light that washed away the dark. She threw an arm over her face on instinct, blocking out the harsh glare. It ebbed away in time, but ghosts of it flared on the backs of her eyelids, harsh and red.

"And if you can't tell by now," Marek said, "the Manor doesn't really like it when you insult the old man." He started pushing the wheelchair again, having at some point stopped doing so. The light show must have made him cover his eyes, too.

"I'll keep it in mind." She truly would. Any house that could take offense and rearrange itself at the same time qualified as a danger.