They closed their door, and through the wall I heard murmurings and the squeaks of dresser drawers—and then private sounds I didn’t care to hear. I pushed my hands over my ears and told myself, Drink it, drink it, drink it . . . I slid out the box of toys and Klan notes and derringer ammunition from beneath my bed and dug around for the bottle of Necromancer’s Nectar. Another fiery spoonful. Another rush of heat exploded through my chest, my stomach, my head, my extremities. This time around, I remembered to screw the cap back on and tuck the bottle into its hiding place, and as soon as I pushed the box back beneath my bed, my hair, too, seemed to catch fire. Flames scalded my cheeks and my neck, and I couldn’t stand the heat of my burning curls against my back a moment longer. Time jumped forward again. I found myself in the hall. Then the middle of the staircase. The kitchen. I fetched silver scissors from Mama’s worktable and cut my hair until my skin cooled and the fire died.
