She couldn’t sleep. Every time she did, she drifted down into the same dark nightmare: a long black tunnel, lined with cages, and human hands reaching for her, whispering her name, begging for help. Finally, she sat up. Max’s bed was already empty. She must have gone to the bathroom.
Pippa shoved her feet into her slippers and reached for the robe she kept near the bed. Mr. Dumfrey had given it to her for her last birthday. She was headed to the stairs when she heard a rustling and a soft muttered curse from the common area. Peeking over the bookshelves, she saw Thomas pressed to the ground, fishing for something underneath the armchair.
“What are you doing?” she whispered.
He sat up quickly, banging his head on the underside of the chair. “Ow,” he said, and rubbed his head. He held up a small wooden eyeball; she knew from watching him that it was a critical piece for some of the more complicated strategies of DeathTrap. “Found it.”
“You can’t sleep, either?”
He shook his head. “I’ve been awake for hours. I’ve played three games already.”
“How’re you doing?” she whispered.
“I won,” he said. He made a face. “And I lost.”
“Hey.”
Pippa spun around, startled. Sam had appeared behind her, his face shadowed by the curtain of his hair.
“You, too?” she said.
He shrugged. “I’m not tired.”
“Shhhh.” Several people said simultaneously from the dark.
Pippa gestured to the stairs. Thomas stood up, nodding, and he and Sam followed her out into the hall and down the spiral staircase. Pippa’s slippered feet slapped loudly on the steps. There was something delicious about the museum after dark: cool and vast and theirs, like a secret vault full of hidden treasure.
The light was on in the kitchen, and Max was standing at the stove.
“It’s about time,” she said, when they entered. “I thought you’d be down sooner.”
There were four mugs centered in the middle of the table. Max turned away from the stove, holding a steaming pot, and carefully ladled hot chocolate into each of them.
“You’re the best, Max,” Sam said, with sudden emotion.
Max tossed her hair. “No need to get all gooey about it,” she said, but Pippa noticed she couldn’t quite conceal a smile.
They sat together in quiet for a bit, sipping the hot chocolate, which was surprisingly good. Max had even remembered to froth the milk. The kitchen was warm and bright, and Pippa found herself wishing that they could stay there forever, together, with the darkness held at bay behind the windows; with the nightmares safely trapped upstairs, among the shadows.
“What is it, Pip?” Thomas said gently. “You’re shaking.”
It was true. Pippa had spilled a bit of hot chocolate on her thumb. She set down her cup and took a deep breath. “I’ve been having these . . . dreams,” she said. She avoided Max’s gaze; Max would only laugh. “Awful dreams.”
“Everyone has nightmares,” Thomas said. “Statistically, one out of every seven dreams is actually—”
“Lay off the math lesson,” Sam said. Then he turned to Pippa. “What kind of dreams?”
She dug her fingernail into a knot in the wooden table. She was embarrassed, now, that she had brought it up. But she couldn’t stop the words from tumbling out of her mouth. “There’s a tunnel,” she said. “And—and cages. Like the kind you see at the zoo. Only there aren’t any animals. There’s only—”
“People,” Thomas finished for her. She looked up, astonished. He was staring at her, wide-eyed. “I’ve—I’ve had the same dream,” he said.
Pippa felt a sudden thickness in her throat. “That’s impossible,” she croaked out. “People don’t dream the same things.”
“They must,” Sam interjected. He had pushed his hair out of his eyes; his gaze was sharp and alert. “Because I’ve had the same dream, too.”
There were several long moments of silence. Pippa felt as if her brain was wrapped in a slow, sticky syrup. What did it mean? What could it mean?
Thomas was staring off into space, as though he could decode the answer there. “The probability of three people dreaming the same exact thing,” he murmured, “is one in three billion eight hundred and seventy-five.”
“What about the probability of four people dreaming the exact same thing?” Max said in a shaky voice. Pippa looked up. Max wasn’t laughing after all. She was gripping her mug so tightly her knuckles had gone white.
“Impossible,” Thomas whispered.
Pippa’s chest felt tight. She remembered the conversation she had overheard backstage just after Max’s arrival. What had Mr. Dumfrey said, exactly? Now I know all four of them are safe. Almost as if they were connected . . .
In the silence, Pippa heard it: the faint tinkle of shattered glass. Max jumped to her feet.
“Did you hear that?” Sam whispered, and Max hushed him. In one fluid movement, Thomas vaulted over the table and crept silently up the stairs, pressing his ear to the door.