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She walked over to it, studied the drop.

She needed rope.

She returned to the desk and looked down at the paper that had produced the key. Would using the same sheet again work?

She drew a coil of rope, using the color there was the most of—orange. She considered drawing it like the key, from a bird’s eye view, but she usually drafted her jewelry designs as three dimensional images, and she experimented with drawing the rope the same way—a coiled pile of it.

It took longer to dry than the key, and it might not work, but in case it did, she got up and looked for something to tie it to.

She settled on the leg of her bed, which was close to the window, and when she turned around, the image was still on the paper.

The paint was dry, it just hadn’t worked.

Sighing, she took another piece of paper and drew rope from the center of the page, turning it as close on itself as she could. With its capacity to hold her weight in mind, she made it as wide as she could, as narrow as she dared.

When she was done, she put the page carefully aside and quickly started a new one.

She would need a few pages to draw the length of rope she needed.

When she was done with the second page, the first had dried, and the rope had shimmered into being.

She tested it, and it seemed to hold strong. She tied knots into it at various intervals, because she would need them to help her down.

After she tied one end to the bed, she fed it out the window and saw it fell about a quarter of the way.

As she turned back to her desk, she saw the rope lying on top of the page disappear, and with a sound of disbelief, turned to look at the rope she’d tied around her bed.

It was gone, too. And so was the key, now she was looking for it.

She closed her eyes, feeling a hard, tight sense of hopelessness.

Then anger replaced it.

She would not give up.

She thought back to how long she’d been fussing around with the rope before it disappeared. At least ten minutes.

She understood there was a time limit now, and she knew she had to move quickly.

She lined two pages up, got everything ready, and began to draw as fast as she could, fitting as much rope onto each page as possible.

As soon as the first page dried, she tied the rope to the leg of her bed, rushed back and tied the second rope to it.

She shoved the blank pages into her bag, along with the box of paints, the small bowl and the brushes, went to the window and tossed the rope down.

It didn’t reach all the way to the ground, but it was close enough. She could free fall for the last bit.

She had only opened the window a little way to throw the rope down, but she needed it wide open to get herself and her things out. It stuck, and she pushed it. Hard.

It opened on a shriek loud enough to wake the dead.

She didn’t have time to worry or retreat, she scrambled over the window sill, grabbed the rope, and set her feet on the wall, then began walking down the side of the house.

“Melodie.”

The voice sounded so close, she almost let go of the rope.

She glanced quickly across—all she had time for—and saw Vinest staring at her from his own open window.