Sometimes, Heathcliff hallucinates—it had been the cause of some confusion when he was a child, and though they seemed to diminish with age, only upon meeting Mr. Faust had he learned the truth of the matter: they were not hallucinations, but sensory experiences evoked by the presence of strong spirits. Younger wizards, Mr. Faust had explained, are particularly susceptible to the voices and whims of the spirits, though he had admitted such was rare for those born in the East.

"Eastern spirits tend to keep to themselves, so the fact that you could hear them so clearly indicates a particularly strong sensitivity. If you had been born in the West or the South, something much worse could have happened."

"The West or the South? Why?" he had asked, puzzled.

Faust had fixed his gaze on Heathcliff, a complex expression overtaking his face. "Are you familiar with the phrase 'spirited away?'"

Quietly, Heathcliff had gained a new appreciation for the servants and attendants who had always looked after him so closely.

And he clings, now, to that feeling of 'being protected,' hugging his arms around himself in his thin nightwear as he watches the manor burn. The wood is howling, shrieking, crying out in pain—and behind him, lurking under the flowers, a familiar panther creeps closer, hissing between its fanged teeth.