She can both hear and see (even talk, though she senses that Greg is weirded out enough without seeing a flower with a mouth), so as he sounds the all clear, the orchid gleams again, its form giving way into a cloud of light. It grows, reforms, reshapes . . . until suddenly it's human-shaped again, kneeling beside the bed, hands braced at the edge.

When the light recedes, though, it's Lapis, not Luna -- blue, and lacking the slight differences that distinguish the two. Her eyes are wide and worried, the anxiety clear in her face.

"Steven . . ."

It's worse. He's worse, and it scares her.