As we crossed the compound I tried not to think of anything. In my head I sang that Trash and Thrash song, “Damn it, slam it, break it; I don’t want your repercussions.” I sang it over and over again, hoping it would fill my thoughts, drown out everything.

At the door to Roland’s hut, Alex whispered, “Songs make flimsy shields, milady. I live in songs.” He closed the door between us. I was left alone in the hut with Roland, and I was trembling in cold, cold terror.

Roland groaned, “Lyra?” I didn’t answer. I desperately hoped I would faint, shut down my mind... but I wasn’t the fainting type. Had it been Alex? Or was it the Singer? His shirt was buttoned. And back in my hut he’d talked like Alex, fumbling for words, shying away from unpleasantness. But he’d told me not to take the parrot, and he’d known about my sore arm, about singing that song in my head.

“Lyra!” Roland’s voice was louder. The medi-bot whirred briefly but did nothing. “Lyra!”

“What?” My voice was hoarse.

“Lyra?”

“Yes. What do you want?”

“Come here.”

I stirred myself and approached the bed. Roland’s face was pale but with flushes of pink on both cheeks. “I look worse than usual, don’t I?” he said with a weak smile. “I know what you’re thinking.”

“I thought your parrot died.”

“Oh, yeah. It died.”

“Looked like a traumatic experience for both of you.”

He gave a small snort of a laugh. “You know that phrase ’My life flashed before my eyes’? Not a completely accurate description, but it will do. I think my entire subconscious uploaded into my consciousness for a second.”

“Instant self-knowledge,” I said. “If word gets out, Caproche will be crawling with mystics.”

“I think not,” he replied, closing his eyes with a shudder. “It’s not an entertaining experience. I’ll probably kill myself soon.”