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A few people come in, chatting and making coffee. I recognize the two guys who were talking about the portal earlier, and busy myself making coffee next to them so I can hear the conversation. It’s mostly complaining about quotas and lists, but finally it turns back to the portal.

“Dude, how long did it take for you to get your ticket?”

The man with the cravat sighs. “I submitted my application back in April.”

“Ugh, that waiting list is gnarly. I can’t imagine the folks who commute every day, but I get it, it takes so much more energy to cast anything here. The pay is so worth it, but I miss my shows.”

“Have you watched any of the entertainment here, though? I can’t get enough of this Gordon Ramsay fellow. I also don’t know how he transforms those kitchens overnight, either—”

“Imagine lifting all those ovens to get them in place, ugh.”

Finished with their coffee, the two guys leave the lounge. I follow them at a short distance, keeping track of the time.

They beep their keycards at another set of heavy doors. Cravat Guy sees me behind them and holds it open for me with a smile.

“Oh, thanks,” I mumble, stepping into an open, brightly lit factory-style floor.

“No problem,” he yawns. “The afternoons always seem longer, don’t they?”

“Yeah, especially after they serve chicken tikka at lunch,” I joke.

He laughs. “Right! I always say everything is so good I just want to take a nap. Maybe I’ll sneak one in at my break.”

I laugh at his joke and point finger guns at him, and he nods back at me.

“See you later, I gotta get back to it,” I say, waving brightly.

Everyone here is wearing a white lab coat, too, and is completely absorbed in their work.

I quickly walk away, holding my clipboard confidently as I take it all in.

I see huge vats of liquid, and rows and rows of glass bottles waiting to be filled, and the finished boxes of soap loaded and sealed into boxes, ready to be shipped.

But there are no machines.

The floor is filled with people, concentrating and chanting, their hands making gestures in synchrony. Vats of concentration are stirred and mixed, and I watch in fascination as the liquid stirs itself as five employees move their arms together in rhythmic circles.

Lines of mages cast more spells to fill the bottles, and I watch precise amounts of soap fly into the air and land in each bottle neatly as a cap levitates on and screws shut, and the finished bottle moves to join the others, ready for boxing.

It’s a production line of magic .

My heart pounds, and I pull out my phone, snapping pics and videos of the magical process.

“No recordings! That’s the very first policy in the employee handbook.”

I pocket my phone with a gulp. A woman in a severe bun wearing a navy gown approaches me with a disappointed smile. “I’m going to have to write you up,” she says. “Who is your supervisor?”

Heeled stilettos echo behind us. “Well, well. You are not where you’re supposed to be, little duckling.”

I whirl around.

Shannon Mayfield is standing there, giving me an appraising look.

My stomach sinks with dread with every step as we walk off the factory floor and take the elevators up to Shannon’s office on the top floor.

In the uncomfortable sleek modern chair, I can see Santa Monica laid out in front of me through the full glass wall: the downtown skyline, cars trekking down the Pacific Coast Highway, waves rolling peacefully toward the shore in a steady rhythm.

I can even make out the Ferris wheel on the pier.

Through a seamless screened window, a fresh ocean breeze flutters through.

It’s a beautiful view, but I can’t enjoy it.

I’m probably going to get in major trouble for trespassing. And I’m definitely not winning that scholarship now.

I realize, in a huff of anger, that I don’t quite care.

Fields Forward isn’t a sustainable marvel at all.

I’d looked up to Shannon Mayfield for being a leader in green energy.

But she’s been using magic the whole time to make her products, and doing shady things to cover it up, including messing with people’s memories.

And that’s not even counting what we don’t know about the Order and the Ritual and how that’s connected.

Shannon taps her fingers on her glass desk. There’s no computer, just a few personal effects: a fountain pen, monogrammed notepad, and a small potted orchid.

It’s clear to me my hero is just another greedy power-hungry phony after all.

“Brenda Nguy?n,” Shannon says, smiling at me. Her white teeth gleam. “You must have questions.” She draws a few gestures in the air, and a porcelain tea tray appears. “Tea?”

I take the cup warily. “Thanks.”

Shannon pours us both a cup, then takes a long sip of her own, her nails clacking against the delicate china.

“Go on, duckling. It’s not poison,” she says, laughing at herself.

“You’re not in trouble, by the way. I just want to learn more about you, and I’m sure you’re curious as well.

” She pushes a plate of flower-shaped cookies toward me.

“I did find your essay to be quite invigorating. Did you have a project in mind for your fellowship?”

“Storage capacity for solar-powered batteries, more efficient composters—” I narrow my eyes. “Wait, why do you support research for stuff you don’t even do ? I saw your production line—it’s magic!”

Shannon’s smile grows wider. “You know, you’re not the first scholarship finalist to question how our tech works, but you are the first to sneak into the factory.

I have to admire that initiative.” She tilts her head, curious.

“Your reaction, however… you’ve seen magic before. You’ve been to the other side.”

“It was an accident. I just walked through a door, and I was somewhere completely different.”

Shannon sighs. “Unfortunately during this period of instability we’re unable to predict every portal that opens up or monitor them.” She shakes her head, and I wonder if she’s more talking to herself than to me. “Well, go on then.” She smiles, as if she’s indulging my questions.

“How long have you been…” I trail off, trying to keep the bitter edge of betrayal out of my voice.

I’d looked up to Shannon for so long, and to learn that there is no genius technology feels like I’ve been robbed of a future dream somehow.

“I don’t understand. Your vision, everything you talk about for a better future in all your interviews—is it all a lie? Do you just care about money?”

“Oh, honey, of course not,” Shannon says immediately. “It’s not about the money, although having more resources is necessary to my vision,” she says. “You know, whatever you might think of me now, I firmly believe my work has always been—and will be—making the world a better place.”

Something suddenly clicks for me from the books I’d been reading nonstop from Kat’s world. Mayfield. The Mayfield Breakthrough. The big advancement that allowed people to prepackage spells.

I jump forward on a hunch. “Why set up here if you have factories making spells everywhere in your world?”

Shannon raises her eyebrows. “You know, the Order does a good job guarding the Crossings, but occasionally people slip through the cracks. It’s our job to find them, and make sure they safely return to their world.

You know firsthand how confusing it is, and how dangerous.

The longest time someone from here has spent on the other side was almost six days before the Order caught up to them attempting to commandeer a radio station to send a message home. ”

This isn’t really answering my question, but I’m polite, and Shannon clearly has a lot to say, so I wait for her to go on.

“How long were you there? And how did you get home?”

I bite my lip, deciding to share as little as possible to keep Kat safe. “Just an hour or so. I walked into a Target, and people were buying spells and I read about the Mayfield Breakthrough, and I was curious, so…”

Shannon laughs. “You know, I hadn’t considered letting any of the scholarship winners into the fold, but you are so bright, it could be really lovely to have that energy in the company.

” She gives me a thoughtful look. “My great-grandfather Richard Mayfield was a genius,” she says slowly.

“But impulsive, brash, foolhardy, like a child in a candy store. He thought he could do everything, take care of everyone.”

I nod, remembering the basics from that history book. He was part of the team with Kat’s ancestor who used his breakthrough to stop that evil mage from destroying Los Angeles, and now the Ritual is cast regularly to stop that from happening.

“Richard found the first portal in Los Angeles. He knew it was special before he truly understood it, and he created the Order of the Crossings to protect the portals’ power from those who would misuse it.”

“So your family has always known about the two worlds,” I infer. “And you figured out how to go back and forth to your benefit.”

“Not without significant work and research! Calculating the sun and moon’s zenith, where the ley lines cross, finding where time and place connect just so to predict those moments when worlds align—it’s an art,” Shannon says proudly.

“So what’s happening now? You couldn’t have predicted these portals just going rogue?”

Shannon gives me a calculating look. “As the mana surges increase, the portals always get a bit… unstable. The great city of Los Angeles anticipates this and, of course, addresses it with a complex and powerful spell called the Stabilization Ritual.”

I nod, pretending I’m learning about this for the first time. Some instinct tells me not to reveal how much I actually know about her world, and maybe if I play dumb she’ll go into a villain monologue and tell me everything.

“Once the Ritual is cast, everything smooths out again. It’s just part of the cycle.”