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“Good.” She nodded. “Then let’s create a door. First, we’ll need a line of your blood.”

I drew my sword and gave a little swipe across my ring fingertip. I winced at the pain and then pressed my hand to the floor, painting a streak of red across the wood.

“Have you thought about what you mean to sacrifice?” she asked.

How casual it seemed. How simple.

At first, I thought to give up an eye or my tongue. Both of these I relied on to keep those I loved safe. I thought, too, of giving up my poetry. But if I did that, if I saw Ofelia again, I’d scarcely be able to breathe. My words were how I understood the world. All of existence would become gray. Meaningless. And none of it would be for me.

There was another ability of mine. One I never asked for but was assigned, just because of my birth. But something I deeply cherished, nonetheless.

My fighting. I could give him an arm, or my hand, or—I stopped myself. The king had given up his dancing, yes. But he bore no evidence of any sacrifice, not even a scratch or a missing finger.

I laid my sword in the line of blood.

“Take my ability to fight,” I said.

Eglantine frowned. “Are you sure that’s wise?”

No. No, I wasn’t sure. I didn’t know how I could shield Ofelia from harm without my skills, my training. I didn’t know who I’d be without it.

“Even if the Shadows disobey, even if they pursue me, I still have my speed,” I said. “I can run for my life if I must.” My fingers balled into fists against the knees of my breeches. “But I’ll not leave until I’ve made my deal with the King Below.”

She nodded slowly. “Very well.” Procuring a quill, ink, and paper, she said, “I assume you can write, if you named yourself after a poet.”

“Yes.”

“Write the first promise, the one that opens the door. Mark it with your blood, like Mother said.”

I did, and with my fingertip bleeding still, I slid the drop of blood beneath my name like a flourish.

Eglantine read over the letter to herself, nodded, and then took a deep breath.

“I hope this works,” she admitted.

I grimaced. “Me too.”

In a slow, soothing voice, like reciting a lullaby, I read the words of my letter.

Something prickled within me, the same feeling as if I were being watched. A chill danced across my back. The flame of the candle waved back and forth. Eglantine gasped.

“Please,” I said, “answer our call.”

The sword rattled against the wooden floor. Gooseflesh crept up my arms.

I set the corner of the paper in the flame, and it was consumed in a bright flash that soared to the ceiling, fire and smoke pluming into the air, blinding my vision. I blinked, and a dark figure loomed amid the white smoke. I gasped, reaching for the sword—but it was gone. Instead, I threw my arm in front of Eglantine.

But it wasn’t a Shadow. It wasn’t a monster at all.

It was a door. Shining black like ebony, tall and pointed at the top. It was encrusted with silver spirals and delicately spotted with drops of ruby-like red stars.

“You did it,” whispered Eglantine.

My pulse bounded. Yes. Yes, I’d done it, and now I was one step closer to Ofelia. One step closer to the happy ending of our story.

“When I open it,” I said, “Shadows will come out.”

“They’ll not harm us, she said—”