Your thoughts spiral, each question leading to another. Six hundred miles. Your mother. Bartholomew. The wishes. Someone following you. Leila. The horrific truth about your mother's work.

Your heart pounds. Your breathing quickens. The exhaustion from the disastrous engagement party, the argument, everything that's happened tonight weighs on you like a physical burden.

But some instinct makes you look up, scanning the room.

The only obvious entrance is the door you came through, the one leading back to the tavern. There are no windows in this room, no other obvious ways in or out. The tavern staff would notice anyone trying to follow you here. You should be safe.

Your eyes drift across the rich textiles hanging on the walls, the deep reds and golds and blues. The patterns seem to shift slightly in the lamplight, geometric designs flowing into one another.

Then you notice it.

In one particular spot, one of the large cloths moves. Just slightly. As if a breath of air pushed against it from behind.

But there are no windows. No drafts should be coming through.

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[b]What do you do?[/b]