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“Yes. Are you a resident?”

She nods, and I’m not sure if I’m relieved or disappointed.

“So this would be Galentine’s apartment?” she asks.

“Formerly. It was hers up until this morning, when we signed the paperwork. Now, it’s mine. And again—I’d like to know why you’re in my closet.”

“So would I,” she mutters, turning around and running her hands along the walls as though seeking a hidden door or passage.

It’s a walk-in closet but barely meets the definition. It could possibly fit two people, though not comfortably.

The woman—Willow, she said?—is now pushing on the back wall. She rattles the single rod with its two empty hangers, and for a moment, I wonder if she’s going to test its strength by hanging from it.

I clear my throat before she can try. “So. You live in the building. And you’re inmycloset … why?”

She turns to face me again, and again, I’m drawn to her blue eyes. They’re suddenly guarded. Vulnerable. Once more, I force myself to glance away, then take a step back, not wanting to make her feel like a cornered animal. And because I need a bit of distance.

“I don’t know,” she says. “I walked intomycloset inmyapartment and then—poof!—now I’m in yours.” She emerges from the closet, stepping closer to me, and the large bedroom suddenly feels small. “It was almost like … magic.”

Chapter Two

Archer

I rememberone of my father’s wives—the second or third?—reading to me exactly one time, and it just so happened to beThe Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe.

After much begging on my part, she kicked off her heels with a heavy sigh and climbed into bed beside me. Her perfume made my eyes water, and the sequins on her dress dug into the bare skin of my arms, but I didn’t dare complain. Having anyone but a nanny pay attention to me was a rarity.

In a somewhat bored tone, she read about half a chapter before my father called her name from downstairs. She scrambled away like she’d been caught, grabbing her heels and leaving the book face down on the floor.

I rescued it, reading for hours until I understood that Edmund—the character I most related to, perhaps because he also didn’t seem to fit—turned into the bad guy. With my stomach feeling sour, I tiptoed downstairs, where the night nanny was drinking wine and watching television, and stuffed the book into the bottom of the kitchen trash.

Now, it’s as though this woman with the wild blond hair and big blue eyes has metaphorically plucked the book out fromunder the empty wine bottle and coffee grounds and tried to shove it back in my hands.

A portal closet in the new building I own? Absolutely not.

I have filled my quota of magical talk for today—and beyond—with Galentine. She would probably be clapping her hands with glee and citing this as an answer to her earlier mutterings.

Not on my watch.

“Look, Willow?—”

“Willa,” she interrupts.

“Isn’t that what I said?”

“No, you saidWillow. Like the tree. I’mWillalike … well, like me.”

She brushes a strand of blond hair out of her face. Her hair looks unruly, like it’s rebelling and plans to fall out of its ponytail and down around her shoulders any moment, just to prove a point.

“Right. Well, I don’t know why you feel the need to lie?—”

“I’m not lying,” she says.

I pause. A long, dramatic one.

She crosses her arms, all traces of vulnerability gone from her flaming blue irises. The third time I’ve made direct eye contact. I pull out my tin of mints, this time crushing two between my teeth. The strong ginger makes my eyes burn.

“So, you want me to believe that you were in your closet somewhere in this building?—”