I’m in a room made of cobwebs, staring down at a sleeping girl—Bec. She lies on a bed of thick webs, covered by a blanket of much finer strands. She looks pale and exhausted but bears no wounds and breathes easily, calmly.

Her left hand moves upwards and brushes her cheek, as I knew it would. Her nose twitches and again I’m not surprised. I’ve seen it all a dozen times. When you experience the same dream over and over, you start paying attention to the details, to stop yourself going mad. I try to find something new tonight, a little movement or quiver that I missed before, but everything is exactly the same.

Bec’s eyelids flutter open. A moment of panic—“Where am I?”—then her look of alarm fades and she rises. She’s dressed in a beautiful nightgown, the sort I’ve only seen in old movies. It’s not made of webs. I guess Lord Loss took it from one of his victims—I can’t imagine him going shopping for it.

Bec walks to a small, round window and gazes out over a landscape of cobwebs. This is Lord Loss’s realm, a world of countless sticky strands, a massive network of despair and sorrow. The air is thick with misery and suffering. I can sense that thousands of people have died here, crying out for their loved ones, alone and separated from all they’d ever known.

Bec turns to a table and chair, both carved out of webs. There’s a mirror set in the wall over the table. The girl sits and studies her reflection. She looks tense but not scared. She reaches out to touch the face in the mirror, as if she’s not sure it’s really hers, then pauses and lowers her hand.

Standing, she walks to a wardrobe on the other side of the room. The doors open as she approaches, and a clothes rack slides out. Long, frilly dresses hang from it, the sort a princess or movie star would wear. I don’t think they’d suit a plain girl like Bec. She must think the same thing because she smiles at the dresses and shakes her head.