The blanket fell from around her, and she touched the table to support herself as she stood up. For a moment, her mind was blank, unable to recall anything; not even her own name.

Then it all came rushing back to Rachel. The poisoned apple, getting kissed by Guy, writing herself out, her final words to them...then nothing. What had happened? Where was she? Had writing herself out failed? But then, where was she? Had they won?

Forcing herself to move, Rachel went to the door of the sparsely furnished bedroom and went out into the hallway. She looked around the dimly lit hall, feeling the plush brown carpet beneath her bare feet. There was no sign of anyone, and that more than anything else made her anxious. Where was she?

Trying to bulk up her courage, she walked down the hall, her breaths coming short and quick. Her nerves were on edge, and she couldn't figure out why there was nobody around. She reached the stairs, finding she was on the top floor of what felt like some sort of massive home. She leaned against the wall next to a door, coming to a decision. "HELLO?" she yelled as loud as she could.

Rachel was not expecting the answer to come from directly behind her. "Hullo!" With a shrill scream Rachel spun around to face the man who had answered her. Her nerves had been on the edge and the surprise of someone being behind her had told in her scream.

Bending over, Rachel gasped for breath. "My gosh, you nearly scared me to death, Alan!" Still bent over, staring at the floor, Rachel wondered why something was odd about what she had just said.

Then she realized it and straightened abruptly, staring at the bard of Sherwood himself, Alan-a-Dale. "Wh—what?" she gasped, terribly confused.

Alan stepped aside, opening the door wider. "Perhaps you should sit down," he said with a crooked grin. "You seem unwell."

Rachel allowed Alan to lead her into the room, and he closed the door behind them. "Go ahead, sit on my bed, have a bite to eat," he invited her.

A large tray of food sat in the middle of the floor, and Rachel's stomach growled despite her confusion. She dug in enthusiastically, still staring at Alan. "How?" she asked between bites.

"You're smart," Alan said. "I'm sure you've guessed it by now."

"This is Final Death," Rachel said, the words sounding hollow even to her. "I'm dead."

Alan nodded. "Knew you'd figure it out. And don't give up hope! The Editor could write you back in."

Rachel snorted, throwing aside a hunk of bread in a fit of anger. "That's not going to happen." She remembered clearly the Editor's plan to change The Story. What had she done?

She stood up abruptly and went to the door. Alan's surprised voice stopped her. "Wait! Where are you going?"

Rachel turned back to him. "I'm finding a way out of here and back to The Story," she said. "I'm not staying here any longer than I have to."

Alan hesitated, then grabbed his lute from next to his bed. "Sounds good," he said. "I'll help you. When do we start?"