"Sit down," Dorian said to Marco. "Before you fall down."
Marco didn't sit, he still stood in the middle of the kitchen with his hand pressed to his temple. His breathing had gone shallow, and I recognised the look on his face because I'd worn it myself three weeks ago, standing in a room full of photographs, the look of someone watching the floor of their own life turn out to be a trapdoor.
"The corridor," Dorian said, gently, the way you'd talk to someone standing too close to an edge. "Tell me what you remember. Everything, even if it doesn't make sense."
Marco closed his eyes like he was trying to pull things out of his memory, which of course he was.
"Fluorescent lights," he said slowly. "They were too bright. There was a smell of antiseptic, but also something else, flowers, some
