You turn back to the east wing. You are certain he must be alive. He could be there, hardly able to breathe, gasping for—
A large part of the ceiling—twisted, blackened, aflame—falls to the floor, missing you by inches. You try to go around it, but the heat is too great.
You hear a howl coming from the main hall. A woman’s voice, high and terrified, crying out for help.
“No,” you whisper hoarsely. You must get to Gregory. You must.
You feel a hand on the back of your neck. The fingers caress it slightly before gripping your collar and yanking you backwards. You stumble and then turn, flinging your arms wildly at your assailant.
The hallway is empty.
The hand, again. It shoves you this time, a full palm on your back, down the corridor. You try to turn toward Gregory, and the hand pulls you backwards again, and again. You cannot go any closer to him. You have to go back to the main hall.