Elise launched out of the elevator so fast that she almost hit the wall opposing the shaft. The scissor gate closed behind her with a laugh-like creak. Rambling Manor had no end to its surprises. She struggled to reorient her wheelchair. Her arms gave pained protests the entire time, then kept giving them well after she restarted her journey. Only halfway down the long corridor did she notice the numbers on the doors. Rooms Ten, Eight, Six — she was going in the wrong direction!

She wasted more of her precious strength turning around. By the time she actually reached the twenties of the east-facing end, she was blinking frequently. Nothing else helped to keep her sleepy eyes open, not even the passing doors that differed in color and decoration. She could barely read their numbers. The odds were on her right, and so too would be her destination. Room Twenty-Three, Room Twenty-Five, Room Twenty-Seven. Ah, finally.

Now she could appreciate at least one door: her own. Carved pomegranates and lush branches covered the dark wood. She touched the golden handle and a lock clunked loose behind the keyhole. The Manor must have had unlocked it for her. Had it known that she didn't have a way in? But how could a building know anything? For that matter, how could it change its own decorations or turn its own lights on and off or do anything that it had done?

Her head spun with the possibilities. She could puzzle out the details from someone tomorrow, after she had rested.

The door pushed open easily at her touch, and behind it sat a room with same style as the rest of the Hall: richly-colored decor that would have been popular after the turn of the century. A single pendant gaslight hung from a ceiling dense with gilt vines. Deep red pomegranates popped against a background of leafy green wallpaper, a theme that carried into the half dozen paintings and the delicately curving furniture. Books lined the many shelves built into the walls, and formed stiff-backed islands on a desk by the window. A half-open door led into the tiled throat of room that likely housed a bath and lavatory. All of it was beautiful, but what captured her gaze again and again was the fantastical bed that appeared to be carved from a tree that had grown into a twisted bow-like shape. Roots cradled the mattress below, and boughs dripped diaphanous curtains from above.

Bed covers had never looked so inviting. She propelled herself into the room, and the door clicked shut behind her. Once out of the chair, her unsteady legs held her upright long enough for her to change into nightgown. They carried her to bed, too. The lamp overhead winked out, and she muttered her thanks. It seemed the polite thing to do. She nestled her head into her pillow, closing her eyes against the

* * *

Light.

Someone has turned on a light in her room. Heart thumping, her eyes fly open. Soft light pours through the window between the curtains she neglected to close the night before. It's only morning. She slept ceaselessly through the night, and now she is awake.

The room looks different by daylight. No, it is different. Isn't it? Oh, that can't be true. She was so tired last night that she just didn't pay much attention to anything, that's all.

She pushes out of bed, an action that shakes off some sleepiness. The shock of the cold floor beneath her feet wakes her the rest of the way. She scurries into the bathroom to find that the tiles even colder. At least it isn't marble like downstairs. Midway through brushing her teeth, it hits her: there is no one to observe her, no one to tell her to keep a tight schedule, no one to herd her about. Today is Sunday and she can take her time, and so she will — after she hastily spits out her mouthful of gritty tooth powder, that is.

A bath, she must have one. The deep copper bathtub is perfect for luxuriating, as is the hot water that streams out of its faucet.

When she finishes her soak, she does not look in the bathroom mirror. Nothing changes in the glass. She feels what she avoids seeing when drying off, though. Fingertips accidentally graze the unbroken scar that neatly trails up her torso. Her touch doesn't linger. It never does. Touching means remembering the ugliness of her body, and the ugliness of other things. Like what caused the scars beneath each collarbone, or how they join in a fork to met the larger scar. She finishes drying herself, then slips into the dressing gown hanging from a hook by the door. Her hair takes longer to manage; its straightness gives her little trouble with brushing, but the length — exactly to her shoulders when wet — is an irritation. Perhaps she'll try another style soon, something short and easy to dry.

She pads barefooted into her bedroom. There isn't much clothing in her wardrobe, yet making a selection is difficult. What would be right? That pastel blouse with the brown skirt, maybe? Or would it be better to go with a sweater and slacks? No, non, none of that. Her uniform. She needs to get used to wearing it.

Elise doesn't look at herself in the mirror standing by the vanity until she is fully dressed. It's to straighten her clothes, not admire them.

Ridiculous. That is exactly what she looks like, ridiculous. What sort of college institutes a uniform for its students? And what a uniform this is: a jacket, a cardigan, a darned tie. Well, all right, the skirt isn't so bad. Sort of pretty, like the feathers of a grey dove. And the low heels, those are all right, too. Brown leather has always suited her more than black. But everything else? How can anyone stand it?

The usual pains pulse down her chest, reminding her of needs that must be fed. She goes to the nightstand where she left her necklace yesterday. Her hands are shaking when she gets the vial out of its pendant, and she almost drops her medicine. It wouldn't have been a great loss if she had; there's only a quarter left. Still a close call, though. Five drops, she can have five today. That many at once will last for a while since she isn't so bad today, not after that warm bath.

Five drops fall onto her tongue. Her pain almost disappears. She fumbles the vial again when the knock comes, an insistent tap-tap-tap that refuses to be ignored. She stows her silvery little secret around her neck and beneath her blouse before answering the door.

A girl radiant with happiness greets her, and it isn't one with a number 7 on her tie's stickpin. "Well, look at you up bright and early!"

Charlotte is here. How is she here?

The other girl pushes past Elise into the room, not bothering to shut the door behind her; it does that itself. She whirls around, inspecting everything. The sun catches the hair that falls in stylish waves halfway down her neck, the brightest points of light glinting there like rubies. She looks as if she's dressed for a date, lovely new handbag included. "This is terrific," she says. "A little old-fashioned, but terrific." She plops down on the bed, which must have made itself when Elise was in the bath. "Rambling must really like you; my room took three whole months before it finally started changing."

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

Elise is staring. She shouldn't stare, not at Charlotte's long legs dangling off the edge of the bed. Looking away doesn't curb her risky thoughts. Curling her hands into fists helps her to concentrate, not the least because her her fingernails are close to drawing blood out of her palms. "The rooms change, too?" she says, reaching for the first thing she can think of. "Not just the wallpaper?"

"Yep." Charlotte beams. "Isn't it nice?"

"Is that what you came sneaking into a different Hall to tell me? I thought it was something urgent." While that helpfully gave an explanation for the differences that Elise has noticed in her room, it isn't exactly the sort of thing that would have pushed Charlotte into breaking the rules. There has to be something more to this visit.

Charlotte primly crosses one ankle over the other, then smooths out the fabric of her daring black and red dirndl skirt. "I didn't sneak anywhere; I'm an Underseer, remember?"

Elise lowers herself into the chair by her desk. It had been a plain wooden one yesterday, but now sported gorgeous inlay and plush upholstery. "I couldn't forget that after the party we had in the name of your new title," she says. "Ian ate three whole pieces of the congratulations cake that Stella baked you, then he spoiled Ash's backseat with them."

"Ash deserved it for racing around like he did. I thought he'd kill us in that old hot rod of his!"

The girls share a laugh. Yes, this is how it should be. The two of them as friends, and that is all. That is enough.

Like all good things between them, it doesn't last as long as it should. Glancing at her watch sends Charlotte to her feet. "It's breakfast in ten minutes. We'd better hurry if we want to have anythi —" The older girl stops talking as she catches sight of Elise's face. She expels a put-upon sigh. "No makeup, Ellie? You do realize that you are in college, don't you? A college full of fine young gentlemen?"

A terrible heat seeps into Elise's cheeks. Gentlemen haven't concerned her lately, but she can't say that. It would destroy their friendship in an instant. "I don't need it, really I don't."

All protests are in vain, for Charlotte drops her handbag on the desk like a crate of munitions. She starts hauling out so much feminine weaponry that Elise freezes at the sight. Half of that stuff looks like it could help lead to a long and lustrous career as a circus clown. Charlotte considers her powder compact for a moment before setting it aside with a comment on their skin tones being too different. Elise turns her head away once an appropriate shade of lipstick is brandished at her, but a thumb presses to the dip just beneath her lower lip. "Let me," Charlotte says, curling her fingers around Elise's chin.

They're so close right now that their warmth mingles in the air between them. Elise wants to lean back as much as she wants to lean in. She can't. Think, she has to think. "Didn't you say that my mouth is red enough without covering it up?"

A frown crimps Charlotte's forehead. "I said that because your parents still wouldn't let you wear makeup after your eighteenth birthday, and I wanted to cheer you up about it." A note of rebuke creeps into her voice. "But you're in college now. There are girls getting married at your age. We have to think about those sort of things."

"You make it sound like you want to marry me off."

Charlotte's mouth purses. "Oh, all right," she says, "no lipstick." She taps the tip of a finger against Elise's lips, a touch that makes the shorter girl shiver. "It would be a shame to cover that cute little cupid's bow of yours, anyway, even if the shape's unfashionable."

That remark doesn't leave Elise feeling as grateful as she should. That gratitude sinks even lower when eye makeup is announced as a must. Charlotte hums as she works, then finally stands back when satisfied by the carnage she has wrought. "Well, at least you listened to me and started shaping your eyebrows," she says, "though I do wish you'd try something a little more dramatic with them."

Elise lets herself be pulled up, then steered to the vanity by her bed. It's no use turning away from her reflection; a standing mirror is right beside it. There hadn't been that many looking glasses in her quarters last night. Charlotte urges her forward a few more paces, and Elise forces her head up. For a moment, it's like staring through a window at a stranger. Her eyes seem almost pretty done up in pale green shadow and dark pencil. Is it possible for her to be pretty?

"What is it?" Charlotte says. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong, exactly." Elise leans in for a closer look at herself. "It's just ..."

Just that she looks like any other girl. Just that she can be normal. Just that she isn't ugly. But the words stick in her throat, thank God. If she mentions being ugly, then Charlotte would demand to know why, soothing Elise with words and caresses until the truth came out, the truth of those hidden and dangerous scars. And Elise couldn't stop what would happen to Charlotte after that confession.

Charlotte's reflection steps into view. "It's just right," she says. "That shadow brings out the color in your eyes." She puts an arm around Elise's shoulders, and the sudden contact makes the shorter girl go still. "You're lucky you know, having hazel instead of boring brown like me."

"I have brown, too," Elise says. "Right there in the middle of all that green." Before she can hold herself back, she adds, "And you're not boring, you're beautiful. I love your eyes." She bites her tongue. God, she might as well have said I love you. Did Charlotte hear that in her voice?

A grin sparkles on Charlotte's face, and Elise almost sags with relief. "You've always had bad taste." She checks her watch again, gaiety disappearing. "Darn, we're going to be late!"

They hurry out of the dorm, heading for the stairs. Upon reaching the landing to the second floor, Charlotte cries out that she's forgotten her purse. She tells Elise to wait while she rushes up and gets her things. "I'll grab your bag, too, while I'm at it," she says, just before she ducks back upstairs.

It's the sensible choice to let Charlotte go alone, as she's both taller and faster. With little else to do, Elise leans her back against the one of the stairwell's walls, and waits. A boy pushes the door to the second floor open. She jolts with recognition just as he jolts in surprise. That dark copper hair and those Addy eyes are an unmistakable combination.

"Oh, um, hello," she says. "Good morning, I mean." She attempts a smile, though it stretches uncomfortably on her face. "It's nice seeing you, Marek."

The use of his name seems to awaken him from his blank staring. "Is it nice?" he says. "Seeing me?"

The question takes her aback. She him over for a long moment. Is it nice, seeing him? He is wearing his uniform like she is, though his looks much better on him. And he's no longer the boy she last saw as when he was a senior at their old high school; at nineteen, he's finally started to come into that good jawline of his. Her gaze finds his mouth next, one that has a shape and color not much different from her own, though the bow of them is a bit less pronounced than hers. She has wondered more than once what it might feel like to kiss such similar lips.

Her skin runs hot and cold all over. There must be something wrong with her. First she liked him, then Charlotte, then him again. Couldn't she just stick with one and stop being so confused?

"Something on my face, Ellsworth?" he says.

There is, technically. The light coming through the stained glass skylight throws patches of color on him, as if he's stepped into a cloud of butterflies. Saying something so silly aloud would embarrass them both, so she doesn't. "N-no, I was just" — not going to let him know what she is really thinking — "startled. Your question startled me, that's all. Of course it's good to see you." She tries smiling again, and this time it's a natural one. "You're always a welcome sight."

"Am I?" His voice is cool, measured, careful.

Everything he has said to her so far has been a question, each one short to the point of curtness. He doesn't want to talk to her. That stings more than she likes admitting. It's foolish of her to have kept some small candle burning for him through the years, but even now she doesn't have it in her to douse the flame. That doesn't mean, of course, that she wants to be burned by bad habits or worse attitudes.

"Yes," she says to him, "until a moment ago, you were very welcome."

He doesn't reply. Just stares. His eyes seem more intense than usual. Why? He isn't wearing his glasses, but it's not just that. Something else about his expression draws her in. If she got a little closer to him, she might —

A clatter yanks her gaze up. An unseen Charlotte starts complaining about their lack of time, saying that she ought to drag Ellie back up into the room and put her in something more attractive than a uniform. Elise looks back to an empty space where once stood a boy. The only traces he has left of himself are the footfalls fading below her and the lingering