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as she swam back to reality and found herself in a corner beneath the heavy weight of her desk. Her head felt as if was breaking, breath came hard into her aching ribcage and her ears rang. She shook her head. What just happened? One moment she had been watching the security cameras, getting ready to go back upstairs, and then the world had ended with the thunder of doom, and…? That was all. A horrendous crash, flying through the air, and bright flashes of red and orange. Oh, and something about a missile.
    The castle’s emergency generators kicked on and the remaining light fixtures bloomed, dropping pools of dim illumination through the darkness and piercing swirling clouds of settling dust. Her digital wristwatch lit up when she pressed a button: ten minutes after eight o’clock. They had entered the great hall only six minutes ago, so she had been immobile for too long, but she was covered with debris and junk. Although the office was destroyed, the scattered material provided some inanimate reassurance, for it was familiar and she could recognize individual items. The small desk tilted against her had become a protective shield that diverted much of the blast force. The bottom half of the chair was still on its wheels nearby but the back had been snapped off by a large chunk of falling concrete. She wanted to get up and run, but remembered Kyle’s motto for times of danger: Slow is smooth, smooth is fast . Delara took several breaths, counted her hands and feet, stretching her fingers and toes and determined that no serious damage had been done. The air was so thick with dust that breathing made her cough, and jabbed sharp pains through her side, where perhaps a rib had been cracked. When she raised a hand to her scalp, there was a patch of wet blood, but no gaping wound. Her legs worked. She could move.
    Using the desk as a prop, she rose, and then pulled open a drawer in which she kept her jogging gear, found the gray sweatshirt and pressed it against the soggy head cut. The fancy dress shoes were gone, so she rummaged around to find her Nikes. More familiarity, more personal comfort, the dawning realization that she must go find Lady Pat and Sir Jeff. Moving across the room was like navigating a maze, her path hampered by fallen chunks of wood and nails and shards of brick and glass. She worked toward the stone stairs.
    A large wooden beam leaned at a diagonal across the doorway to the main floor, but the big door was gone. Sliding beneath the beam, Delara found herself in a wonderland of destruction, and stumbled into what had once been the grand dining hall. Not another soul was standing, and she rushed into the dark ruins, shouting as loudly as she could: “Pat! Jeff! Where are you?” To her left, several small fires gnawed at the rubble.
    Moans and cries of pain were coming from various points of the big room, and in moments, security men from outside were charging into the area, the beams of their strong flashlights crossing like sabers. Someone shouted orders to put the fire out before it spread. Her hearing was returning.
    Delara recalled the seating chart. Sir Jeff was to have been at the head of the table, but no one had yet taken their seats for the dinner, so he and Lady Pat were both likely still at the far end of the room. She headed that way. “Pat! Jeff! It’s Delara! I’m coming!!” Her foot slipped and she fell hard onto a body in a tuxedo. It did not have a head. She gagged in horror and someone grabbed her arm and lifted her up: a uniformed soldier with a flashlight. He saw her head wound and said, “You’re bleeding, luv. Let’s get you outside for some medical treatment.”
    She shook him away. Pointed to a doorway on the left. “I’m all right, so tend to the others,” she said, her voice surprisingly strong, regaining the tone of certainty that she used to run this massive place. She pointed to a side door. “Go look in there. Prince Abdullah had just gone to the loo when the