I feel as if I am on fire. Heat begins in the small of my back and radiates up, tendrils extending over my arms, legs, belly and breasts, culminating in a searing cluster of pain—like a branding iron, on my chest. I sit up too quickly and stars pop in my vision as I reach for the bedside water-pitcher, awkwardly spilling half down my shift. To douse the pyre between my breasts. My teeth chatter violently—the world is changed. Something is off. Or wrong. The moonlight shines through the window and outside the fireflies bob around my window like tiny lighted sentries. Same guest room in Brighton’s cottage. My meager belongings at the foot of the bed. I force my eyes closed and breathe deeply, feeling my nostrils flare. I analyze my body, flexing and bending each part; the only pain is from the heat. I open my eyes and blink—my vision is unchanged. A blast of music, an internal orchestra, vibrates the inside of my head, knocking me sideways with the force and I collapse to the bed, panting.
