Fire. The fire raged. The fire devastated. The flames licked the shadows, fought against the black. Hell increased, darkness subsided. All was silent. For a while. So it hadn't worked very well at first, or at all, Amber reflected as she stood in line waiting for her tea. Her eyes drifted to the window seat in the corner of the cafe as she hoped and prayed that no one would grab it before she could grab it. There were two women and a child in front of her, and judging by the child's screams, they were not going to stay inside the structure, and there was a boy, a little older than her but still a teenager, standing awkwardly with an earphone in one ear and a backpack falling from one shoulder: he figured he would move on too. However, inside himself he sang "go", "go". If there was any justice in the world, they would have let her take her place in peace. She felt rotten and confused. There she was, sitting in the BBA office, all excited to announce the doom of the world - or just part of it - and Mr. Dickinson had politely implied that she was a child playing with her imagination. Really fairies, who would ever believe in something like that? You're so melodramatic. Here's an idea: find a new host. Impossible. I am cursed by you. Amber rolled her eyes, placing her earphones in her ears. She didn't play music, but if anyone caught her talking to herself, she could pretend she was singing. The fact was that she had been cursed; not the voice in his head. The two women with the screaming baby moved into the waiting room, and Amber breathed a sigh of relief when she saw two Styrofoam cups being prepared for their order. A new table was opening up in the center of the room, like an old couple. .....middle sheet......: why had he lied in the hotel? Why had she gone to see Mr. Dickinson? What was happening? Was she an enemy? Was she a friend? And when Ian phrased the question like that, it all seemed so surreal and far-fetched. “We may simply be overreacting. I think we're so suspicious because every year something terrible has happened: "Nothing bad is happening this year!" Hilary turned to find Ming-Ming standing behind them with a fist on his hip, another finger pointing at them in warning. “Shouldn't you be singing?” “I'm just making sure Mr. Dickinson and his guests are taken care of. We've got the Mayor of Belfast and the Minister for Sport or something visiting. As an Ambassador, I must provide for their every need and since this is my tournament, I am warning you all now. Nothing, and I mean nothing will happen!'-Chapter Seven