The moment Wilburn’s body hit the floor, the vexpids turned around—and left. Some scuttled up the remnants of the walls while the rest filed out through what did not remain of the walls, moving with unhurried, orderly efficiency like patrons exiting a theater. Ez might have been invisible for all the notice they took as she jostled her way through them to where Wilburn lay, and knelt, pressing an ear to his chest. He was alive. The buzzing of the swarm made it impossible to hear, but she could feel Wilburn’s heartbeat through his shirt, solid and steady, although she wasn’t much relieved. Few poisons killed instantly, she knew. It might take hours, even days for the full extent of the damage to manifest. It was insanity to hope. The fact that the hornets were leaving bespoke doom. It meant their task had been accomplished—their purpose fulfilled.

In her mind’s eye Ez watched the corruption spread through Wilburn’s body, radiating outward from the point of the sting like a splash of violet ink. Ought she to amputate the finger? The whole hand? …Or was that only for infections? She tried to remember how her father used to treat snake-bitten animals and couldn’t, and she was pretty sure she would have if it had been amputation, so… not that. Something dull then, like a poultice, perhaps yarrow and quillroot extract with… but a poultice? What was she thinking? This was vexpid venom, no mere common snake bite. If an antidote existed it would surely belong to the realm of the impossible, the unreal—magic. Despair washed over her. Once again, she could do nothing for her son. The only person who could possibly help Wilburn now was… Gramma Fark…

Ez’s throat tightened. Thoralf stepped back to give her room as she crawled, half choking with tears, to Gramma’s side. The older woman could hardly have looked deader than she did. But when Ez pressed a finger to the artery under the corner of her jaw, she found a pulse, albeit ominously faint. “Wake up,” she begged, squeezing Gramma’s shoulder. “Wake up, please. I need you. Please. Please… WAKE UP, DAMN YOU!” Gramma’s head lolled as Ez shook her roughly, only stopping when Thoralf whinnied in protest.

“Sorry!” Ez gasped. She sat back on her heels, breathing heavily. You’re in shock, she told herself. Well, no shit, she told herself. It was very hot. Ez coughed. It was very hot. As the hornets’ humming faded in the distance, a new sound was growing louder: a crackling, hissing, rumbling roar. Ez turned around. Dozens of vexpid carcasses in varying states of dismemberment littered the room, their mangled shapes jutting from a quagmire of thick, acid-green gumbo. And thank heaven it was so, for without the gumbo, the fire would have spread across the floor, whereas at present it was confined to the cottage’s southwestern quadrant, where both of the oil lamps had broken. It was a mark of Ez’s weariness that for a moment she considered doing absolutely nothing about it. The cottage walls, which were of solid brick, could not themselves catch fire, though they certainly could break if they got hot enough. All that was burning was the table and the chairs, the kitchen cabinetry, a window frame, and the front door: in other words, every wooden thing the fire could touch. But the smoke couldn’t accumulate too thickly thanks to the extra ventilation the hornets had added. Perhaps she could get away with just… not putting it out. After all, there wasn’t much dry wood left to be burned. Even as she thought it, a large ember jumped from the top of the linen cabinet and landed on the bottom step of the loft staircase, which burst instantly afire.

Damn hell… Ez staggered to her feet, then nearly toppled over as a head rush whited out her vision. No no no. She couldn’t lose consciousness now—they’d all be toast. Bracing a hand on Thoralf’s shoulder, she waited with her neck bowed, her chest heaving. After several long moments, a semblance of strength returned to her, and she stumbled her way through the wreckage to a missing section of wall and thence into the outer darkness. Shovel, she thought. She moved robotically in the direction of the potato patch, focusing on not focusing on the many boiling pains throughout her body. She gulped deep lungfuls of the chilly air and found herself reviving slightly. The way back was rendered easier by her use of the shovel as a walking stick, but as she set to flinging gore into the flames, fatigue slammed over her anew.

Her vision narrowed. One more scoop, became her mantra. One more scoop… One more scoop… Nock, draw, loose—no wait. One more scoop… She was vaguely aware of Thoralf kicking bricks around or… something… she was too tired to check, but she assumed he must be helping. One more scoop…

The hornet sludge made an ideal extinguishing agent, for it was both thick enough to smother oil fires, and wet enough to quench the burning wood. The only drawback was the smoke. Greasy black clouds of it chugged off the dying embers, and it was this, on top of the pervading stench of slaughter, which at last forced Ez to be sick. Dropping the shovel, she bent over and retched until no more would come. As she straightened up, ears ringing, her vision a blur, she was struck by the self-evident fact that she was finished. Her body had given all it could. Now it was over. Not over over, she hoped… just... for awhile. She felt as if she’d crossed an ocean since waking up that morning. Had it really only been a day? Just one?

“Thoralf,” she mumbled, “can you…?” She gestured blearily to the few remaining places where the rubble still smoldered. Fortunately, Thoralf stamped to the affirmative, because Ez hadn't the strength to pick the shovel up again. She barely made it back to Wilburn before falling to the floor. Her final act, as darkness closed around her, was to reach out for his hand, his warm, blessedly living hand. Then she was gone.

* * * * * * *

It was Jack’s hand Ez was holding as they strolled along a country lane, flanked by wheat fields of early-summer green. A honey sun hung low before them; whether on the rise or on the set, Ez didn’t know. What she did know was that none of this was real. There had been a time when she would have allowed herself to forget that Jack was dead. Not anymore. Indulging such illusions only led to further grief. “This is a dream,” she said firmly.

“A beautiful dream,” Jack replied. As he turned his head, the stark light cut across his face, leaving one side of it in shadow and the other glowing gold. On that side, the pigment of his iris was revealed to be deepest brown, not black as it appeared most of the time. It was torture to look at him.

“Seven years,” Ez said. “Why do I keep doing this to myself? Why can’t I let you go?”

“Our love is stronger than death, babe.”

Ez snorted. “You would say something like that.”

“I just did say it.”

“I mean the real you would have, before…” Ez put a hand to her forehead. “Why am I explaining myself to myself? Why am I talking to you at all? You’re just a figment of my stupid brain.”

Jack winced. “Ez, look around… This is a perfect moment. Can’t we let ourselves have this? Can’t we just pretend?”

“No, me,” Ez said, nudging him with an elbow. “I can’t let myself pretend. Because tomorrow I have to wake up and live my life without… him.” She had almost said you.

“I’m sorry—”

“No!” Ez stopped walking and pushed Jack away. “I’m done dreaming about him, brain. He’s gone. Give me a dream about Wilburn. Hell, give me a dream about Gramma Fark for all I care.”

“How is Wilburn?” Jack asked eagerly. “How’s Mom? Have you seen her lately?”

“SHUT UP!” Ez shouted, clamping her hands over her ears. She spun around to face the empty green horizon. Jack tapped her on the shoulder. Ez folded her arms, refusing to look at him.

“Okay,” Jack said. “Okay. I’ll try not to come back for a while. It’s just… I love you, Ez. I can’t stop loving you.” He sighed. “I’m such a selfish bastard. I know it’s wrong to turn up in your dreams like this… even though you probably won’t remember. But it’s still wrong. Okay, I’m sorry. I’m going. I’m sorry. Okay, bye. But just in case—I’m a wizard…” he recited the final three words in an exasperated, learned-by-heart tone, and then was silent for so long that Ez began to think it had worked, that she had finally quit dreaming about him. But when she turned around, she found him still standing there, ashen-faced, his jaw hanging open. “I said it…” he said. His jaw dropped further. Jack stared into Ez’s eyes, then did double take. “You know…” he breathed. Then— “YOU KNOW!” he shouted, and he swept Ez up in his arms as if she weighed nothing and spun her around and around and around, laughing uproariously.

It was so spontaneous that Ez forgot the greater context. She forgot that she was dreaming, that the man embracing her was only a projection of her sleeping mind. She forgot to remember that Jack was dead, and for a moment she was caught up in his joy. They laughed together as they spun. Ez hadn’t noticed that their feet had left the ground. But suddenly, they were flying, flying high above a green sea, stretching from forever to forever, unbroken but for the wending ribbon of the road.

“I always wanted to do this,” Jack said, and kissed her, a bajillion feet in the air. After some time, or perhaps no time at all, their lips parted and Jack let out a wolfish howl, throwing back his head and punching his fist in the air. “Magic!” he yelled. “It feels so good to finally say it! …to you, I mean.” He sighed, as if a great burden had been lifted from his shoulders. “Magic,” he repeated, with relish. “So, Wilburn inherited the gift. Well, of course he must’ve. How else could you know? Unless... wait, babe, you didn’t marry a different wizard, did you?”

“No, Jack,” Ez laughed.

“Thank GOD.” Jack looked as if he’d actually been worried. “Okay, listen, I’m dying to hear the details—mmm, poor choice of words—I need to hear the details, but the thing is, I’ve edited this dream too much. Agents will be here any minute to arrest me. Do you know about Frogswallow’s yet?”

“Only that it’s a school for wizards,” Ez said. “Your mom mentioned it.”

“Did she mention the hovels?”

“What hovels?”

“Good,” Jack spoke softly in her ear. “Bodfish, Dukleth, Akerblade, Hinkle, and Zwifelhoffer: the Five Hovels of Frogswallow’s College, named for the five original disciples. I was in Akerblade. Mom was in Hinkle. There. God’s balls, this is incredibly illegal, but that’s proof, Ez, proof that I’m not a figment of your imagination. When you hear those words,” Jack rattled off the list again, “you’re going to remember, and you’re going to know that I’m—”

Ez screamed. Two figures had appeared from nowhere. The two figures appeared to be made of nowhere. Their forms were surfaceless, as if someone with a giant pair of scissors had cut human-shaped holes in reality. They made no sound as they seized Jack by either arm and began hauling him away. “Worth it!” Jack called, beaming at her. “So worth it. I love you, Ez!”

“I… love you too,” she answered. Then she was falling, and the dream dissolved around her like a soap painting rinsed off a pane of glass.

* * * * * * *

Hot, peach-pink sunshine filtered through her eyelids. She lay still, and didn’t open them at first. It had been such a curious dream… Already the details were fading. Only the image of Jack’s beaming face remained, that and a sweet, wistful longing. Ez lay savoring this strange set of emotions, reluctant to confront, or even contemplate, reality. She wished she could fall back to sleep, dream on and on and on, never attending to her responsibilities again. Everything hurt. Her throat and sinuses were raw, and her mouth stickily dry. In fact, her whole body was sticky… sticky… with blood. Her eyes snapped open.

Bars of sunlight fell between the rafters, which cut stripes across a clean blue sky. It must’ve been midafternoon. “Wilburn?” Ez’s voice came out as a croak. She tried to sit up and nearly fainted from the pain as muscles up and down her torso spasmed. Gritting her teeth, she wrenched herself up on one elbow and surveyed the room. It was a ghastly sight. The twisted corpses of the vexpids looked no prettier by day, nor had the butcher’s stew improved as it congealed; when fresh, the blood had been a vivid green; now it was the dark color of pond scum. But pond scum would have smelled like sweet perfume compared to this reek. There was no sign of Wilburn or Gramma Fark or Thoralf.

Standing up was an ordeal. Every inch of her felt swollen, and so stiff, as if she’d rusted in her sleep. Her head was pounding. Her left leg wouldn’t bear weight. But it was not yet time to take stock of her injuries. First, she had to find out… A series of small hops took her across the room to the new door the hornets had smashed in the south wall. Picking her way over the loose bricks, she emerged into an autumn day, more beautiful than it had any right to be. She cocked an ear.

“… a little lower, boy. I like a good char on my weenies.” That was Gramma’s voice! If it lacked it’s usual emphatic energy, Ez failed to notice. Her heart soared. Never had such inane words given such comfort. She knew instantly that her son was alive—and better than alive—for surely, even Gramma Fark would not talk weenies with a dying person. Limping as quickly as she could, Ez turned the corner to find Wilburn and Gramma seated in the shade of the old sycamore, a small campfire crackling between them, while Thoralf grazed a short distance down the hillside. Her relief was overwhelming. Ez had to lean against the cottage for support as her eyes feasted on the glorious tableau.

Wilburn appeared perfectly healthy. He was glaring at a sausage link which floated in the air over the fire. The tip of his tongue poked from the corner of his mouth the way it often did when he was focused on a math problem. He sat crisscross in the grass with his left hand outstretched before him. The hand showed no mark of the sting, although Wilburn was making an odd gesture with it, as if twisting an invisible doorknob.

He glanced up as Ez began to hobble over, and gasped. It belatedly occurred to her that she must look a wreck. In her haste to check on Wilburn, she hadn’t paused to consider that it might not be the best thing in the world for a boy of seven to see his mother caked in gore, half beaten to a pulp, her clothing ragged and her hair… she shuddered to imagine what her hair was doing.

“Not that charred!” Gramma cried.

Distracted by the sight of his mother, Wilburn had forgotten about the sausage. As soon as he had taken his mind off it, the sausage had reverted to obeying the laws of physics, and had dropped into the flames and disappeared. “Oops!” Wilburn shouted. He made a snatching gesture—the sync. There was a great woof of sparks. Gramma squawked and rolled out of the way as flaming bits of wood flew everywhere. “Sorry!” Wilburn bellowed. Sweeping his arms wide, he brought his hands together in a clap. There was a second explosion of sparks as the scattered embers crashed back together. When the sparks settled, it became clear that Wilburn had put a tad too much oomph behind the spell, for all that remained of the campfire was a dense fistful of coals. The sausage, meanwhile, was nowhere to be seen.

A long pause followed in which the three of them all looked at one another. Then, Ez started laughing. She didn’t get very far into it before pain forced her to stop. But it was funny. Oh, it was funny. There seemed to be a straight line connecting this moment to yesterday afternoon, when she’d knelt laughing in the mud, having her epiphany about how everything she had ever believed was bunk, and how, at the root of it, she had no idea what was really going on. It was as true now as it had been then.

“Are you okay?” Wilburn asked.

“Yes, honey.” Ez smiled, but it turned into a wince. Even her face was sore. “I’m a little banged up,” she admitted, “but I’ll heal. How are you feeling?”

Wilburn shrugged. “Pretty good.” There was a slight edge in his voice that told Ez this was not quite true. Of course, there were a dozen reasons why the boy might feel dysphoric, not least being the fact that he’d suffered a seizure and been stung by a magic hornet, only to discover, upon awakening, that his home had been demolished. And yet, Ez had a hunch that wasn’t it. “Did Gramma scold you?” she asked.

Wilburn nodded. “She said I’m a gosh darned dunderhead.”

“Oh?” It was an effort for Ez to keep the amusement out of her voice. “Why did she say that?”

Wilburn shook his head. “She doesn’t get it,” he muttered. “She wasn’t there. I tried to tell her, but she wouldn’t listen.”

Ez shot Gramma a glance, intending to exchange some of their usual silent dialogue. She was so taken aback by the older woman’s wan countenance, however, that she instead asked, “How are you feeling?”

“Like a stepped-in turd,” Gramma said croakily. Her naturally tan skin was yellowish, and her eyes, behind her fractured spectacles, were bloodshot, and bore heavy purple bags. Well, a quart of strong cider on top of a few glasses of wine, plus not much sleep, and that on a hard floor would take the spring out of anybody’s step, Ez reasoned, and Gramma Fark was no youngster. And then you had to factor in the consequences of magical over-exertion… whatever they were exactly. Ez waited, in case Gramma wanted to defend her dunderhead remark, but she did not. So, after a moment’s consideration, Ez said carefully, “Wilburn, I’d like to hear what you remember from last night. Would you please tell me?”

The boy’s countenance lit up at once. “I met God!” he said happily. “Did you know She’s a vexpid? And now I’m a vexpid too! But before that I met Toukie. He’s alive! At least, he’s some sort of alive… he talked too much. But then we flew around and ate a bunch of ice cream, because I turned all the snow into ice cream, and it was really good! Then we were gonna go tobogganing, but then Her Majesty turned up, and Toukie ran away. But I was stuck. But before that, Toukie showed me this gold stuff called igzalchurer, and he kept telling me I created him because I rubbed his wing so much. Then when I met Her Majesty, She sort of uncreated me and then un-uncreated me, and that was when I saw that golden stuff again, and I realized I was gonna be igzalchurered, and I got really happy!

“Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you, I saw myself here too, in Real Life. I heard you calling, but I couldn’t do anything, because the Queen wouldn’t let me. She knew I would’ve tried to run away, because I was really scared, but that was because I didn’t understand yet, but then I did. And then I swore to serve Her and She let me go, and gave me back my power so I could do the ritual touch. And then I did it. And then… I got igzalchurered, I guess…” Wilburn’s brow furrowed in puzzlement. “I kind of… learned a bunch of stuff really fast… except… I don’t know any of it yet… It’s like there’s a big book in my head,” Wilburn tapped the center of his forehead, “but I can’t read it. Because it’s not a book. It’s not… words.” He shrugged. “Anyway, I can’t wait to go Astro projecting again. But Gramma says next time to just sit there at the crossroads and not do anything fun!” Wilburn gave Ez a beseeching look, as if requesting her permission to… to...

“Hang out with Toukie in Open Dreamspace!” Wilburn said eagerly, as if reading her mind. This clarified not much, however. Ez still had no idea what to think. She studied Wilburn, who slowly gave her a mysterious smile. “You don’t understand either,” he said gently. “But you will. Someday.” This pronouncement unnerved Ez more than anything else he’d said. It was his certainty. That knowing twinkle in his eyes… Jack’s eyes, so brown as to look black.

Ez cleared her throat uncomfortably. “Did you say you… are a vexpid?” she asked.

“Yep,” Wilburn said proudly. “I’m not crazy,” he added, which was precisely what Ez had been wondering. “I know I’m a boy. That’s why I had to be the one to finish the ritual. If I’d waited for Her to do it, I wouldn’t be Wilburn anymore. I’d just be Her, like the rest of the hive. I guess I’d basically be dead, because my mind would be erased. But since I chose to serve, I get to keep myself. Except… myself is part of Her now.”

“Part of who…?”

Wilburn’s eyes went a little round. “Her Majesty,” he said, with such reverence that, in spite of the day’s warmth, Ez felt goosebumps prickle up her arms.

“And who is this… Her Majesty?” she asked.

“God,” Wilburn said simply.

It was Gramma’s turn to clear her throat. Wilburn and Ez both turned to look at her. “No,” she said. “You’re wrong about that, boy. She might be a god, with a lowercase g, but she ain’t the God, although I’m sure that’s what she wants you to believe.”

“She is too God,” Wilburn said stubbornly. “You didn’t meet Her.”

“And I never will,” Gramma said wearily, “because I can’t Astral project. Now go build up that fire, boy. You still owe me a weenie. And roast one for your mother while you’re at it. And Wilburn?”

“Yeah?”

“Just skewer ‘em on a stick. Magic’s more trouble than it’s worth sometimes.”

Wilburn looked disappointed, but he moved to obey. While he was working, Ez limped closer to Gramma and asked softly, “Is he going to be all right?”

“Hardly,” Gramma said, not lowering her own voice. “You’d better sit down, Ez. We’ve got a lot to talk about. And there’s no point trying to do it quiet; the boy can read your mind.”

“He… ?” Ez said, thinking she must have misheard.

“You didn’t,” Wilburn said, from several yards away.

I must have misheard Wilburn too, Ez thought a little desperately. Wilburn can’t read my mind. If he could read my mind… he’d know I’m thinking this right now… why—it was the easiest thing in the world to disprove! Ez picked a random number.

“Nineteen,” Wilburn said, somewhat apologetically.

Sitting down... yes, that sounded like a very good idea. Ez did so stiffly and leaned back against the tree trunk. She waited for someone to explain.

“You’d better do it,” Wilburn said.

“Do what?” Ez and Gramma asked in unison.

“Explain,” Wilburn said. He blinked. “I guess Mom didn’t say that part out loud. She needs us to explain about that… psycho… thingy. But I can’t, but because I kind of zoned out while you were talking. Sorry.”

Gramma massaged her eyebrows, sighing through her nose. “All right,” she said. “Just… focus on roasting them weenies, Wilburn. Maybe if I can make your mother understand, you can read her mind… then maybe you’ll understand.”

“Why can’t he read your mind?” Ez asked, feeling this was exceedingly unfair.

“Because I’m too lousy a psychovate to lower my mental shield on command,” Gramma said. “Guarding my mind is an unconscious habit. Took years of meditation to ingrain it, and that was going on five decades ago. I reckon it would take another decade to break the habit, but that would only put me right back where you are, vulnerable to any psychovate who cared to tamper with my mind.”

“What’s a—”

“Psychovatry is mind magic, one of the five fundamental arts. Remember how I told you every magician has a knack for one of them? Well, Wilburn has two knacks. He’s a psychovate as well as a kineturgist. That’s rare. So rare it’s practically unheard of… at least, in humans. Sounds like a blessing, but it ain’t. Part of the reason double knackers are so rare is they run twice the risk of accidentally destroying themselves. Yeah. You should be worried.” Gramma nodded at Ez’s alarmed expression. “Now get ready to worry harder, because psychovatry is a sight more dangerous than kineturgy. At least with kineturgy it’s only your body that’s at risk; worst case scenario you die, which we’re all bound to do eventually anyway. But with psychovatry, you risk your very mind, maybe your soul too. They say the ever-present peril of psychovatry is madness... of a thousand different stripes.” Both women glanced sidelong at Wilburn, who was busily snapping sticks over his knee. Sensing the attention, the boy made a ridiculous face at them, and said, “Bleh-leh-leh-leh-leh-leh-leh.” This reassured Ez somewhat, for it was classic Wilburn behavior.

“Unfortunately,” Gramma went on, “I’m only a yellow hat in psychovatry, which I’m afraid means I won’t be much help to the boy there. Kineturgy, sure, I’m a purple hat. I can teach him the basics, and far more. I can practice with him, correct his mistakes. Most importantly I can keep him safe—well, relatively speaking. But I can’t do any of that with psychovatry. I never learned to Astral project. I can’t even tell what’s happening on the Astral Plane, much less do anything about it.”

“Mom’s lost,” Wilburn announced. “The hat thing threw her off.”

Gramma made an impatient gesture. “Hats are like ranks for magicians. The color shows how good you are. It goes white, yellow, orange, red, blue, green, purple, black. A black hat is a master. I’ve got a black in vivopathy, and purples in the other arts except psychovatry. Having a yellow hat means I’m barely less ignorant than you are, Ez.”

“So what’s the Astral Plane?” Ez asked, ignoring the jibe.

“Ah, well, that’s trickier to answer. I’m afraid it has to do with the nature of the universe, a subject I detest above all others.” Gramma clucked her tongue, and shook her head. “I’ll admit, I have very little patience for philosophy, and even less for philosophers. But, I suppose I ought to try to give you some idea at least. Hm… I suppose, the easiest way to understand it is—what’s the last dream you remember?”

A mishmash of images flickered across Ez’s mind. A country lane… a honey sun… Jack’s grinning face… Wilburn looked over at her sharply, his eyes wide with understanding. With a jolt, Ez realized that he had, technically, just seen his father for the first time in his life. Oh, this was bizarre. She expected Wilburn to say something, but all he did was snap another branch over his knee and toss it in the fire, which was beginning to crackle back to life. Of course, Wilburn was aware that she didn’t want Jack brought up in the present conversation. He was listening to her thinking this… Could she possibly get used to such a thing? “I was walking through the countryside,” Ez said. “That’s all I remember.”

Gramma nodded. “Good enough. Walking. That means you’re moving in four dimensions. Left, right, up, down, forward, back, and time—but we don’t have time to talk about time. Point is, you’re experiencing a physical and temporal world, your body, a countryside, a sequence of events. Of course, we both know what I’d find if I sliced open your head while you were sleeping, and it wouldn’t be no countryside. That’s because Dreamspace isn’t in your brain—it’s metaphysical—it’s in your mind. But where is your mind? Where is it when you’re dreaming?”

“I suppose,” Ez said, when it became clear Gramma was waiting for an answer. “I suppose… it’s… in the dream.”

“Exactly. Your mind is in the dream, but the dream is in your mind. Well, according to the philosophers, that’s pretty much how the entire universe works. Dreams within minds within dreams within minds, on and on and on and on and on. They reckon time and space are really a continuum, which they call spacetime, and they reckon mind is another continuum that permeates spacetime, and each of our individual minds is part of that continuum. Now, spacetime’s only got the four dimensions: left, right, up, down, forward, back, and time. But really conveniently there are—or so the philosophers claim—infinite mental dimensions. One of those dimensions is what we call Real Life. Everywhere else,” Gramma sighed heavily, “is the Astral Plane. In other words, it’s the vast majority of the universe. But ordinary people like us can only operate in three Astral dimensions: Thoughtspace, Moodspace and Private Dreamspace, although apparently we exist in many others.

“There’s an Astral enforcement agency in charge of kicking psychovates out of other people’s dreams; that’s why we call it Private Dreamspace. Thoughtspace and Moodspace, however, are public property. Like air. They feel private because we normal folks can only perceive ourselves in those dimensions, our own thoughts, and memories and feelings, and only a few of those at a time—but we don’t have time to talk about time. Thing is, a psychovate like Wilburn perceives Thoughtspace and Moodspace all around him, unless something specifically blocks him from doing so. It gets really, stupidly, annoyingly complicated, but that’s the nutshell of it. That’s why the boy knows what you’re thinking.”

“Wow…” Ez said. It was all she could think to say. The unenthusiastic manner in which Gramma had doled out these secrets of the universe amazed her. The older woman might have been explaining how to boil beets for all the interest she showed. She acted as if the whole subject were some tedious chore, but Ez couldn’t have felt stronger to the contrary. This is what science misses, she thought to herself. The continuum of mind… It might explain how magic happened in the first place, and why it was only real for some people. Something to do with overlapping dreams, all sorts of different kinds of dreams, and different kinds of minds… all interconnected, part of the same strange, wonderful thing. The notion rekindled a spark of her old epistemic optimism. Perhaps life wasn’t so incomprehensible after all. Perhaps it did make sense, in a drattedly complex, inside-out, backwards sort of way.

“I’m afraid there’s more,” Gramma said. “Wilburn is reading your mind passively, because, of course, his conscience would never allow him to invade or tamper with another person’s mind.” Gramma glared at Wilburn sternly. “But not all psychovates are so scrupulous. Given the chance, they can explore your memories and alter them, make you forget things that really happened and remember things that never did. They can influence your thoughts and feelings, and by doing so, manipulate your actions without you ever getting wise. Or, a psychovate could go the other direction and use brute strength to dominate your mind, lock you in a trance prison and take full possession of your body. It’s all strictly forbidden under the Secret Laws of Argylon, but who’s enforcing that? No one on the Astral side. So it’s down to psychovates to police themselves, and the rest of us are just supposed to trust them. Well, I don’t. They might all be in a vast conspiracy together. That’s why I trained myself to shield my mind against intrusion at all times—that and the entities.”

“The…?”

“Entities, yep. The Astral Plane is full of ‘em. Creatures of infinite diversity, some good, some not so good, some altogether evil, but most too inhuman to judge. The Astral Plane goes on forever… it’s a wilderness. No telling what, or whom, you might bump into. Well, Wilburn bumped into something all right. This vexpid queen, this Her Majesty… a powerful entity by the sound of it, possibly a lower god; there’s a gazillion of those. Wish I knew more. The library at Dukleth Hovel has a scroll a mile long where they keep track of all the entities psychovates have encountered. We can check it when we get to Frogswallow’s. But I reckon we’ll be adding Her Majesty to the list, rather than finding Her. And I suppose Wilburn will get credit for the discovery. There’s going to be a lot of academic interest in the boy, assuming he survives. He’ll be the key to unlocking the mystery of vexpids, a mystery none of us even knew existed until… ”

Ez didn’t catch Gramma’s next words. Her ears were ringing. She had the strangest feeling that she was missing something… something of monumental significance. But she couldn’t think what it might be.

Misinterpreting Ez’s perplexity, Gramma said, “What I mean is: vexpids must have a collective consciousness, a hive mind, which manifests as the divine queen on the Astral Plane.”

“Hornets have queens,” Ez said, trying to wrench her attention back to the present conversation. “Makes sense that magic hornets would have a magic-hornet queen.”

“Well, it’s news to vivopathic scholars,” Gramma said. “We’re the ones who study magical flora and fauna. Not much effort has been put into researching vexpids up to this point, but that’s all about to change. My hypothesis yesterday was wrong—vexpids don’t sense kineturgy—they sense psychovatry. Look at the timeline. The first batch didn’t turn up until after Wilburn passed out.”

“Hours after,” Ez said, remembering.

“And then the second batch…”

“After he went to bed, not hours after, though.”

“That’s right. I’m working on a new theory, but it needs tinkering. Tell me again, boy, the first time you Astral projected—by gum! Are you planning to kill a moose with that thing, or what?”

Wilburn, who sat whittling a preposterously lethal spike, started. He looked down at the knife and stick as if surprised to find them in his hands.

“Were you Astral projecting again?” Gramma demanded.

“Er…” Wilburn said guiltily.

“Give me that.” Gramma took the knife from him and replaced it with a chain of sausages, which she extracted from a hollow at the base of the old sycamore. Craning her neck, Ez saw that the hollow contained a hodgepodge of foodstuff from the root cellar. It was clear that Wilburn must’ve gathered these provisions, for there was neither rhyme nor reason to the selection, which included brewers’ yeast, a pot of honey, a jar of pickled asparagus, and… a sack of coffee beans. At the sight of it, Ez’s tongue tingled.

“Mom would kill for a cup of coffee right now,” Wilburn said.

“Who wouldn’t?” Gramma said irritably. “But all your pots are busted, Ez. I checked. There’s a hole this big in the kettle. Where was I…? Ah yes—first time you Astral projected, boy, did you see Her Majesty then?”

Wilburn shook his head. “Just felt Her. She was far away, or… weaker, I guess. She chased me. But I got away, and I woke up.”

“She’s here,” Ez quoted.

“She was,” Wilburn said. “She’s all of them, only I didn’t figure that out until later.” He smiled as he skewered weenies on his spear. “Until I became one of them.”

Gramma nodded thoughtfully. “The number of vexpids in Real Life corresponds to Her Majesty’s strength on the Astral Plane,” she said. “I wonder… Can you feel Her right now Wilburn? Is She… connected to you?

Wilburn nodded, waving the stick of weenies over the flames without paying much attention to it. “The whole hive is connected," he said. "We all serve together.”

Gramma sat back against the tree, rubbing her chin and looking very old. “We’ve got to get that boy to Frogswallow’s,” she told Ez. “He needs help. This Queen, this Astral entity, attached herself to him. I don’t know what it means, exactly, but it’s bad. Wilburn needs black hat psychovates to fix him, before it’s too late. I’d take him right now if I wasn’t so wrecked.”

“How do we get there?” Ez asked.

“Magic, obviously. Only I can’t do magic, on account of being up to my ears in the worst foysen dump of my life... that’s a magic burnout, like kineturgic exhaustion. Foysen’s just a fancy word for energy, the kind you get from eating and sleeping. The only art that doesn’t drain foysen from your body is psychovatry, and that’s the only one I didn’t use last night. I think it’s worse when you combine them. The harder the dump, the longer it takes to recover, and if you try to do magic while you’re recovering, you get dumped all over again even harder than before. If I owned a wizidex like a sane person, I suppose I’d swallow my pride and scry that wretched yak again. But no, I have to do things the old fashioned way. Well, darn the old fashioned way! First chance I get, I’m buying me a wizidex, and ten-pounds worth of hongos. I’ll never leave home without a pocketful again as long as I live.”

It was more madness than Ez could bear to hear uncaffeinated. Leaning over, she seized the sack of coffee beans, untied the drawstring and crammed a fistful in her mouth. Then, chewing crunchily, she let her head flop back against the tree and closed her eyes. It irked her, Gramma spouting foreign terms without defining them. True, she had divulged much in the course of the conversation, and true also that her worry for Wilburn was sincere. And yet Ez couldn’t shake the feeling that on some level, Gramma was relishing this opportunity to emphasize the depth of Ez’s ignorance. Waiting to be asked what all that gibberish meant was perhaps a subtle way of asserting dominance, forcing Ez to acknowledge her inferiority once again... but wasn’t it a moot point anyway? The years-long rivalry between the two of them had been a farce, based—in Ez’s mind—on the false premise that they both were ordinary women, relatively equally matched. Of course, that had never been the case; Gramma had known it all along, and now Ez finally knew it too. Could Gramma really feel there was something left to prove…? No, Ez thought bitterly, she just enjoys being an asshole. Then she remembered. Her private thoughts no longer were. Her resentment turned into regret in an instant. Poor Wilburn! He had probably never realized how little she and Gramma cared for one another, that they only pretended to be friends for his sake, him being the sole cause of their alliance.

Ez cracked an eyelid, thinking to find Wilburn shocked, or at least disappointed. But he just grinned a little crookedly and winked at her. “What’s all that gibberish mean, Gramma?” he asked.

Gramma cast a suspicious glance in Ez’s direction that seemed to say, You don’t fool me. But she went on to answer anyway. “Hongos are tiny purple mushrooms that taste like cinnamon, and they’re chock-full of foysen. You dry ‘em out and crunch on ‘em like popcorn, and they perk you up like nothing else. If I’d had some last night, them vexpids would never have made it past the door. Forget titanium—I could’ve turned the whole cottage into steel… Problem is hongos are too good. Addictive. Used to think I could do without ‘em… but I’d swap my cane for a handful right this minute.”

“And a wizidex?” Ez asked. She felt she recognized the term from somewhere, but once again, she couldn’t put her finger on it.

“Oh, they’re these stupid gadgets. They scry for you, see? Lazy. The old-fashioned way is better, though it does require foysen. But I guess you don’t know what scrying is… It’s a hybrid spell that uses luximetry—but I guess you don’t know what luximetry is either—it’s light magic—to swap the images between two reflective surfaces, and it uses kineturgy to do the same thing with sound waves, so you can view remote locations and communicate with people.”

“You were doing that last night,” Ez said, sitting up a little straighter. “You were shouting at a teacup… you must’ve been using the liquid as a reflective surface. I thought you’d lost your marbles. Does the old-fashioned way always include smashing my teacups?”

Gramma grunted. “No, that had more to do with who I was scrying.”

“Who?”

Gramma grunted again. “He’s a philosopher, the very worst of them. Name of Iddolorious Bungflower. But everybody calls him Iddo. I dare say he’s the most cussed person I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet.”

“Why did you scry him then, if you hate him so much?”

“Because,” Gramma said grudgingly, “he’s the most powerful magician in the world. Iddo can alter spacetime in ways no one else understands. He was the only person I could think of who could have arrived in time to help us last night. Of course, all he wanted to do was write an essay about the unbeing of nothingness, or some such malarky. That’s the trouble with him. Utterly insane. And with a deeply flawed sense of morality, I might add.” Gramma ran a hand through her gray curls. She said, seemingly as an afterthought, “He’s a yak.”

And then a very odd thing happened. Ez started to ask, “What’s a yyyyyyyaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa…” Her voice slowed down, becoming guttural as the moment stretched unnaturally long, all movement grinding to a halt. And there it was again, the feeling—closer than her own heart—of a vast, invisible machine, shifting—the sync.

A very large, extremely shaggy creature walked into existence.

“—k?” Ez said.