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The iron lock stamped with the royal symbol clamored against the floor.

Using brute strength, Anckar set his shoulder to the door and forced it open. The hinges moaned. She stood stone still, fingertips itching to do damage. Lyonesse quelled the urge, refusing to use her magic to enter the room. Some things could not be borne. Breaking into her father’s secret chamber on her own was one of them. She didn’t want to enter. Her father was no doubt rolling in his grave, but time and necessity dictated the play.

She needed to use the machine.

It was the only way for her to get a message through to Earth Realm — to those who would understand the urgency. The idea made her itch with impatience. She wanted to hurry her guard, but waited for Anckar to push the door all the way open. The moment he did and stepped aside, she entered, and with a whispered word, lit the torches ringing the chamber edge.

Light splashed over barren walls and bare floors.

She scanned the chamber in a single visual sweep. Lyonesse frowned. She didn’t know why, but she’d expected more. Something better. Something closer to what her father enjoyed in the capital: thick floor rugs, comfortable chairs, ornate tables and fancy wine goblets, beautiful artwork crafted by a master’s hand.

What she found was the exact opposite.

A round, windowless room with a high ceiling, capped by plain wooden planks. Stark stone walls without any ornamentation. A stout table with a rough top made its home in the middle of the chamber, and on it sat a black metal box.

Her wingtips swished across tile as she strode toward the machine. On closer inspection, it wasn’t just a box. The front of the frame boasted a host of buttons, round keys with a single letter stamped in the center of each one. A system of letter writing, one Earthlings used to communicate with one another.

She’d never seen the machine. Had never wanted to, but she’d seen the missives. Her father had taken great pains to hide the correspondence, but she’d watched him read them from her secret spot inside his chamber. Even now, she remembered the smile on his face as he read the words stamped on paper, his excitement when letters arrived from Earth Realm every week.

Reaching out, she stroked her fingers over the keys. The buttons moved. She pressed a little harder. A slim bar flew up, striking the sheet, leaving a letter stamped in black ink on white paper. She stared at the mark a moment, then with the flick of her fingers, beckoned a chair to where she stood. Wooden legs scraped across the floor. The chair settled. She sat down on the worn cushion.

Dust drifted from the upholstery.

The letter on the paper faded, then disappeared.

She smiled. Excellent. The machine still worked. The single letter she’d pressed into the paper was on its way, traveling through time and space, flying through theEcotoneto land on the page of the person who now owned the Door Master’s machine.

Ignoring the musty smell of the chair, she set her fingers to the keys. The type bars struck. The name of the person she needed to reach appeared on the page as the machine clanked, sending an awful racket clamoring through the quiet.

She shoved the carriage to the right.

A tiny bell rang.

The machine waited, patient and unassuming, as she stared at the blank page, deciding what to write.

Not that her message needed to be perfect. The group she wanted to reach didn’t care for formality. The human militia excelled at stealth and intelligence gathering, hunting and killing magic wielders in Earth Realm. One of the reasons she and the people of Azlandia weren’t safe crossing theEcotone. The Yeomanry didn’t discriminate. Their hatred of magic was legendary, and had been for centuries.

An unlikely ally to call upon, but uncertain times called for unusual methods.

She only hoped the group was still operational.

Whether Isaac and his merry band of “witch killers” still hunted was anyone’s guess. Twenty-seven years was a long time to go without news. But as she typed her message, relaying information about Westvane — along with what she’d gleaned about the Door Master — Lyonesse prayed the Yeomanry responded. She might not like Earthlings, but they’d proven useful in the past. A valuable resource to be exploited. A strategy she wasn’t above using to ensure Westvane returned to his cage, and the Door Master ended up dead.

13

BLACK AND WHITE. NO SHADES OF GRAY

One hand pressed to the shower wall, Truly stared at a simple pattern set in shades of black and white. Handmade, the glazed tiles were wavy with rounded corners, as though each had been left out too long, the edges worn down by time. Imperfect beauty. Perfect precision, laid by the hand of a master.

Breathing in steam, she traced over an uneven spot with her fingertip. Hot water streamed over her hair. Blinking droplets out of her eyes, she slicked the wet strands out of her face and tried to reboot her brain. She should be taking advantage of the quiet, leaning into relaxation instead of rehashing the events of the last few hours, stewing about things that couldn’t be undone.

Would never be undone.

The fact Westvane had slept in her house, under her roof in a bedroom down the hall, was all the proof she required to know nothing would ever be the same. She might not have the full picture yet, but the information he’d given her about the Mirror Kingdoms — along with the unfamiliar spark she felt sifting like hot sand through her veins — couldn’t be denied. Neither could the blue smears left behind on white tiles every time she moved her fingertips.

She traced over one of the uneven edges again. Her finger bumped over the wavy surface. A trail of tiny blue shimmer drew a line across ceramic. Drawing symbols with sparkles, Truly leaned in to rest her temple against the shower wall. She watched her fingertip move. No sense pretending it wasn’t happening. Sticking her head in the sand wouldn’t change anything.

Something had happened to her. Something was still happening to her, and no matter how frightening the shift, she must face it without flinching. Past experience told her ignoring a problem never made it go away. It simply made whatever had gone wrong even worse.