Dr. Hastings trusted Stephens. Stephens knew this because Dr. Hastings told him so.

People had come to see him at hospital. They came a lot at first. They made sounds, words, and waited for Stephens to do something. Stephens, sitting in a chair or lying in bed, had stared at them, knowing there was something he was supposed to do, but not what. After a while, they came less and less.

That was good. Stephens didn't have to try and think what it was they wanted him to do. Whatever it was, he couldn't do it.

Then, Dr. Hastings found him.

The doctor gave him a drink. It tasted bad, but he made Stephens drink it. It made things different in his head. Sounds made sense if there weren't too many of them. And he had to do what the doctor said. That was very important. He had to do what the doctor said.

When the doctor told him to bring people to the dark room, he did it, even though the dark room scared him. When the doctor told him to put people on the table or to clean the man in the cage, he did that, too. Sometimes, the doctor told him to go away while he worked on people on the table. That was better. Stephens liked to be far away while that was happening.

But, sometimes, the doctor told him to wait. Sometimes, the doctor needed him to help. Stephens didn't like that. They made awful, loud noises. It reminded him of when he was first in hospital and people tried to talk to him—he knew that was what the sounds were, now. They were words. And, when there were a lot of them together, that was talking.

Dr. Stephens told them not to talk to the man in the cage. He had tried to talk to them, but Stephens just pretended it was noise and ignored him. Lucas sometimes forgot, but that was OK. Lucas couldn't talk much.

The doctor had told Stephens why he was in hospital. Stephens had had a job. He helped build buildings. They had been big buildings with big stones in them. Stephens was a big man. He had helped with the big stones. Then, one day, there was an accident. That was why Stephens had a scar on his head.

His body got better, but his head didn't. The medicine the doctor gave him made him smarter, so he could understand words.

The doctor knew Stephens didn't like the dark room. He knew he didn't like the noise the people on the table made and he didn't like cleaning up what was left of the people when the doctor was done. The doctor said it was because Stephens didn't have enough mind to understand things. If the doctor didn't do this, he couldn't make medicine. Without medicine, Stephens would be stupid and not able to understand things. That was why Stephens had to do what the doctor said.

The doctor had said to go to this house and find a woman. The doctor had made something so Lucas and Stephens could find her. She was the small woman with red hair the doctor had kept in a special cell. The doctor gave her medicine, too, but it didn't help. She must be very stupid, Stephens thought. She didn't talk at all or else she screamed a lot.

But, she was important. There were a lot of rules about her, things they always had to do when they were taking her somewhere or locking her up, things they were never supposed to do to her—or let anybody else do to her.

That wasn't hard. They were in hospital. They were guards. People left them alone. People left the woman alone when she was with them. It was easy.

This was hard. The doctor had told them to find her and bring her back. He had told them what to do if anyone tried to stop them. Lucas could use his knife (Lucas was good with knives) and Stephens could use the gun. It was supposed to be easy.

But, this wasn't easy. Lucas had grabbed a woman who didn't have red hair. There was a man yelling at Stephens that the gun he had belonged to somebody else and he should put it down. Stephens didn't know what to do.

Do what the doctor tells you. That was the rule at hospital. But, what was the rule here?

"The doctor gave me this gun," Stephens said. "It's his."

"It's not his," the man said patiently. "See those scratches in the barrel? It got those when a wolf tried to take it away from Emma with its teeth. The doctor made a mistake."

Stephens looked at the gun. It had scratches. They might have been made by teeth. No, this was wrong. "The doctor doesn't make mistakes."

"Everybody makes mistakes," the man said. "He could have made a little one. Just a little one. That's why you need to give me the gun. It's not your gun." He held out his hand. "Give it to me. I'll show you. You'll see I'm right."

Stephens tried to think of the rules for this. This was noise, he decided, just noise. He pointed the gun at the man. "No," he said and pulled the trigger.

X

Neal tried to remember what he knew about control spells. Papa hadn't liked them, he knew that. He might make a bargain binding someone to serve him till the end of time, but he left them free to run away—or try to run away—and suffer the consequences.

If their hearts had been taken, these two guys would be acting out some script they'd been ordered to follow. They wouldn't even hear his arguments, not if they didn't fit whatever story they were acting out. Bespelled, then. Acting like they were hypnotized. They could be talked to. With a little luck, he might be able to get them to shake off whatever was controlling them.

Neal figured he'd made the wrong call when the scarred man lifted the gun and shot him.

But, the scarred man moved slowly, as if he were in a dream. Hired muscle, Neal thought. There to look tough and push people out of the way. If these guys were from the asylum Miss Thomas had been in, they were probably used to grabbing people who were already chained or drugged. If someone tried to get away, all this pair would have to do would be to stand shoulder to shoulder in the hallway. The exit would be blocked by a matching set of monoliths too big to move and too solid to hurt.

Anyway, all that happened was that Neal tried to dive out of the way and got shot in the shoulder. Again.

His defensive dive turned into a big, heavy belly-flop on the marble floor.

OK, that plan was a bust. Plan two: Play dead. Only, Neal wasn't sure it was playing. His shoulder burned, and he could feel the blood spurting out of it.

Think, Neal. There has to be something you can do.

Somewhere, far away, he heard the housekeeper, Mrs. Muir, screaming. There were two men talking.

"Is he dead?" one said.

"I don't know," the other replied. Neal knew that voice. Scar face. Had to be him.

"Make sure of it," the first one said. That had to be the one with the knife. Neal felt proud of himself for figuring that out. Now, if he could just think of something to do to stop them putting a hole in his head.

"Stop!" Belle—no, Miss Thomas ordered them. "That is not what Dr. Hastings told you to do."

"How do you know what the doctor told us?" Scar face asked. He sounded puzzled, like a little kid.

"I know him at least as well as you do. He didn't tell you to murder these people, did he?"

Scar face hesitated. "He told us not to kill unless it was necessary." He drew out the word as though it was hard for him to say, neh-seh-sair-y.

"Necessary for what?" Miss Thomas asked.

"To get you back."

"Well, then, you've got me. Nothing more is necessary."

Her voice was getting closer. Neal felt someone step over him. He heard Mrs. Muir scream. A body fell against him.

Then, there was the cold, burning feeling of a spell being unleashed as darkness claimed him.