The room was all darkness and indigo shadows. It was eerie and cold. Sound had smothered dead. This isn’t happening, she thought. This isn’t possible. This is home. She gripped the handle of the knife as her eyes adjusted to the loss of light—midnight-blue shadows slid up the wall like beads of lava under glass, bending in weird directions, unnaturally slow. Was this still real? What had happened to Ink’s wards? It looked like her kitchen, but not. She watched the clock tick forward. Time was still alive. “Dad?” she said, not too loudly. She thought she saw movement, a black shape against blue. She wasn’t alone. Joy drew the knife out of the cake and held it in front of her, mimicking Ink and his blade against the bubble of shadow at school. She moved away from the counter, one step. Two. Sparks lit the tip of the knife. A pale, electric shimmer traced a curving path and disappeared.
