She closes her eyes like she needs a nap, right now. “We have to stay here, Clara. This is where I’m supposed to be.”

She means that this is where she’s supposed to die. I swallow.

“The house is safe,” she says.

“And the school grounds,” adds Mr. Phibbs. “I saw to that years ago.”

“Wait,” I interrupt. “How is it safe?”

“Hallowed,” he answers. “The ground’s been consecrated. A Black Wing can’t set foot on holy ground, it’s too painful for them.”

“So our house is on hallowed ground?” I ask. The word is familiar. The congregation was talking about whether or not the cemetery was hallowed.

“Yes,” Mr. Phibbs answers.

I think back to the day I first saw our house, the sense of warmth and security and well-being that filled me as soon as I got out of the car. I wonder if that was its hallowed-ness, or whatever you’d call it.

And school. That’s why Mom had Angela and me go to the school, that time I had the sorrow attack. Because it was safe.

Mr. Phibbs turns back to Mom. “Billy and I can shuttle the children to and from school every day.”

“All right,” Mom says. “We’ll work out a schedule. I’m sorry, Clara, but I’m afraid it will feel a bit like being grounded.”

“What about me?” Jeffrey asks.

I’d totally forgotten he was there, standing in the corner with his arms crossed over his chest.

Mom’s midnight eyes flash with sadness. “You’ll have to stay home, too. I’m sorry.”

“Fantastic,” he mutters. “Just what I needed, another heavenly dictate. For how long?”

“Until I’m gone,” Mom says.

He turns and glares at me like this is my fault, his jaw flexing like he’s clenching his teeth, then off he goes to his room to brood about it. We listen to the door slam.

“And as for you,” Billy says, “absolutely no more middle-of-the-night trips to the Lazy Dog. I will be the one nailing your windows shut, I swear. This is no time to be gallivanting off to see your boyfriend.”

Tucker. I keep flashing back to the look on his face when Samjeeza was going to hurt him.

The way I felt in that moment, unable to stop it.

But you were able to stop it, says my inner voice.

Yeah, but what about next time? What about Wendy, her arm broken in two places, moderate concussion, her confused expression at the hospital when she woke up and they explained what had happened. A moose? she kept saying. I don’t remember. . . .

All my fault. They would never have been in danger if not for me.

“How is Tucker?” Mom asks. “Is he okay?”

“He’s shaken up. But he’s fine. They say Wendy’s going to be okay, too.” I don’t want to think anymore about what might have happened. I’m too thrashed. “I think I have to go to bed now. Good night. Or should I say, good morning?”

Mom nods. “Good night.” Then as I’m climbing the stairs, she says, “You really did make me proud tonight. I love you, don’t forget that.”

I know she loves me. But she’s keeping something from me. Still.

The secrets never end.

The sun is coming up by the time I get out of the shower. I put on a clean cami and pajama pants, then gather my ruined ball gown from where I left it by the bathroom door, take it and dump it in a corner, where it lays like a deflated balloon.

No more dances for me. No more formal wear. No more stupid guys doing stupid things like fighting over who gets to dance with me, who I belong with.

No more car.

But Tucker is alive.

I detect movement outside, and jump back, heart beating fast even though now I know Samjeeza can’t come here. Then Christian moves into the window, stands there looking in like he has every right to be here. I wait for his voice in my head or a flicker of what he’s feeling now, but I get nothing. My head is completely quiet, locked up tight.

Christian frowns. Then he reaches up and taps softly on the window.

I’m so freaking tired. It’s like every muscle registers the night I’ve had at the same time. I want to ignore him, stumble over to my bed and hide under the covers.

Instead I go to the window and force it open.

“It’s not a good time,” I say.

“Are you okay? I came by earlier, to apologize for being such an idiot at the dance, and your mom said you got in a car accident.”

I don’t have the energy to tell him the story. So I reach out the window, lay my hand on his shoulder, and unlock my mind for him, let him see every terrifying moment of the entire ordeal. When I’m done his face is pale. An involuntary shiver passes through him. He coughs.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

He leans against the windowsill. “I’ve never done that before,” he says. “Had something like that . . . dumped directly into my head. It’s a lot.”

“Try living it.”

“And your mom is sure you’re safe here? She doesn’t think it would be safer to—”

“Flee? Run screaming for the hills? Go into the witness protection program? Nope. Mom says it won’t do us any good. Plus the house is on hallowed ground.” He nods like that nugget of information is no surprise. Of course my house is on hallowed ground. Aren’t all the good houses?

“I wish I could have been there for you,” he says. “Helped you.” He means it. And it’s nice. But I’m crabby. I’m tired. I’m not in the mood for nice.

“I should go,” he says.

“You really should.”

“I am sorry about what happened at the dance,” he says. “I don’t want you to think that I’m that kind of guy.”

He thinks I’m mad at him about that. Like I’m still thinking about that.

“What kind of guy?”

“Who’d move in on another guy’s girlfriend.”

“I don’t. Think you’re that kind of guy. So it’s okay, really.”

“I do want us to be friends, Clara. I like you. I’d like you even if it weren’t for all the duty stuff. I wanted you to know that.”

Seriously, I am way too tired to be having this conversation. “We are friends. And right now I have to tell you, as your friend, go home, Christian. Because I really need this day to be over now.”

He summons his wings and goes. I shut the window. And even though I’m exhausted, and the last thing I want to think about is the dance and my purpose and how all arrows still seem to be pointing at him being at the center of it, now that he’s gone I feel lonely, as lonely as I’ve ever felt.