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“Is there electricity in Zorsted?”
Not the way you understand it, but there’s something else, which you might perceive to be . . . legerdemain. Conjury. Wizardry.
“Wizardry?”
Magic, says Steen. Those candles won’t go out for a very long time.
“Are we going to meet wizards? Like, with wands? Like in Harry Potter?”
It’s not like that, he says soothingly, and anyway, we’re not going far.
“Okay,” says Jane, flustered. “Is it night right now?”
Yes, says Steen, the sun has just set. That’s why that bell rang, did you hear it?
“Bell?”
When we were in Tu Reviens and you were deciding whether to go with Kiran or not. Remember? A bell rang?
“I thought it was wind chimes.”
Yes, that’s what Tu Reviens people tend to think, because there are wind chimes in the east spire. They ring bells here in Zorsted, at sunrise and sunset. But these rooms are often dark. The duchess’s spy network operates from the servants’ quarters, which is where we are. These particular rooms are unknown to most people. They’re used for secret meetings.
“Spy network! What if someone sees me?”
I’ll bite them while you make a run for it, he says.
“Seriously? That’s your plan?”
Well, you don’t need to be making all that noise, he says. Stop talking. I’ll understand you even if you think your thoughts at me.
This is too much. “Are you telling me that you can read my mind?”
Only the things you mean to tell me.
“How can I know that’s true?”
Steen doesn’t answer. Then he says in a small, dejected voice, Because I told you so. You’re my person. I’m not going to lie to you, especially not on the same day I finally get to commune with you. He starts making wet, slurpy noises.
“Are you crying?” she asks.
I’m extremely sensitive, he says. It’s just how I am. And this has been an overwhelming day.
“I’m—sorry,” Jane says in utter confusion. “Jasper, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you upset. There’s just a lot to take in, you know?”
You’re the only person in Zorsted for me. You’re the only person in either land, Steen says. We were meant for each other, don’t you see?
“But Jasper, don’t you see? It’s like I discovered my long-lost twin, except I never even knew I was missing a twin, plus he’s clairvoyant and always wants to sit in my lap! I’m sorry, Jasper—Steen,” Jane says hurriedly, worried she’s making things worse. “It’s just—” She stops when Steen starts to make a snorting noise. “Are you laughing?”
It is a little funny, he says.
Jane gives up. There’s a window in this room, hidden behind heavy curtains. She pushes the fabric aside. What she sees stuns her into silence.
It’s a dark city lit with pinpricks of flame, set against the backdrop of a vast purple sky. She’s high above the landscape; she looks across roofs and through windows into rooms lit with candles. She looks down thoroughfares, lit by street lanterns, that end abruptly at a darkness that puzzles her, until she sees water moving with the flashes of stars. This is a city on the shore of a great sea.
Reflected on the water are two enormous round moons.
“Two moons,” Jane says. “Two moons! Reflected like that, it’s four moons!”
Yes, says Steen. What’s the Other Land expression?
“For what? Multiple moons?”
We’re not in Kansas anymore, says Steen.
A strange instrument is playing wisps of music, somewhere so distant that Jane can barely hear it. It sounds like a piccolo, but even higher. Then laughter rings out, faint and far away.
“Jasper?” Jane says, overwhelmed by the moons, but comforted by the way he’s pressing himself against her feet. “I mean, Steen? Should I pick you up? Do you want to see the view?”
No, he says. I just want to look at you.
“Oh, don’t be such a dip,” Jane says. “You’ve seen plenty of me.”
Ahem-hem, he says. You know how when I stepped through the hanging into Zorsted, I became a different dog?
“Yes.”
Well, he says. You know what, never mind, it’s a lot to absorb, we’ll talk later, yes, please, pick me up so I can see out the window.
Jane has been standing with her face pressed to the glass. Now, looking down at Steen, puzzled by his sudden evasion, an impossible thought touches her. Backing away from the window so that she can see the reflection, she looks into her own face. Someone else’s face looks back at her.
* * *
Jane can’t get herself through the hanging into Tu Reviens fast enough. She’s so desperate that she’s careless about it and bursts onto the landing without checking to see if anyone’s there who might witness her appearance. There is, in fact, a man on one of the bridges, the cleaner who interrupted breakfast because he was lost. He’s washing the banisters, wringing a cloth out repeatedly into a bucket of water. Luckily, he’s mostly turned away from her.
Steen—Jasper?—is more circumspect. He waits until the man has completely turned his back, then steps out of the painting, a basset hound again.
Jane has collapsed onto the landing. She sits next to the painting with her back to the wall and legs spread out before her in a V. Jasper—Steen?—takes the long route around her legs, then nudges her thigh with his nose, gently, in a gesture clearly meant to encourage her to get up and step back into the painting.
“No,” she whispers. “Forget it. Never again.”
He burrows his head under her arm and rests his chin on her lap. A moment later, apparently deciding that’s not good enough, he climbs over her leg and rests his chin on the other side of her lap, then, when perhaps that strikes him as no improvement, he tries to perch himself lengthwise on top of one of her legs. Basset hounds are ridiculous. She crisscrosses her legs to give him more room and he manages to nestle awkwardly on top of her lap. Laying his head on her arm, he stares up at her fondly. He weighs a ton.
With tears rising to her eyes, she pets the short hair on the back of his head, gently. Then she strokes his long ears. His basset hound ears are much longer than his strayhound ears.
She both wants his comfort and doesn’t want it. She wants his dog comfort; she doesn’t want his strayhound comfort. “Can we communicate with our minds on this side of the painting?” she whispers to him.
Jasper shakes his head.
That, at least, is relieving. Closing her eyes again, Jane sits there for a long time.
Soothing noises surround her: the man wringing his cloth out into his bucket. The voices of Lucy and Phoebe below, moving across the receiving hall. The sucking of air when gala people open and close the doors. Sometime later, the voice of Colin, speaking to someone who’s not answering—probably Kiran. Jane breathes slowly and pretends her lungs are a jellyfish. She is as vast and deep and heavy as the sea.
Then a new sound: the distinctive shutter slide and clap of Ivy’s digital camera. Opening her eyes, Jane finds Ivy on the opposite landing, seeming to take a picture of the cleaner with the bucket. She remembers, not much caring, that Ivy’s been lying to her about something, or at any rate, been evasive; that Patrick and Philip and Phoebe were up to something sneaky last night. That Grace Panzavecchia might be in the house.
Across the landing, Ivy watches Jane curiously. “Hi again,” she says.
When Jane is unable to stretch her face into anything pleasant or friendly, Ivy’s own face goes guarded, almost a little hurt. Then, as she continues to watch Jane, she begins to look concerned.
“Hey, are you all right?” she asks, walking across the bridge toward Jane.
No, Jane thinks. I stepped into a painting and turned into someone else. “Take a picture of me?”
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Ivy pauses, surprised by this, then brings her camera to her face and clicks. Then she comes to Jane’s landing and crouches beside her, pressing a few buttons and handing Jane the camera so she can see her own image on the screen. It’s nicely framed. Jasper is adorable in her lap. And the person in the picture looks just exactly like Jane: Jane’s facial features, her hair, her clothing, her body, and an expression of distress on her face that mirrors exactly how Jane feels. That’s me. That’s me. Right, Aunt Magnolia? Jane resists the urge to touch her own face for further confirmation.
“Thanks,” Jane says.
“You’re welcome,” Ivy says. “You seem . . . upset. Did something happen?”
Did something happen? Laughter rises into Jane’s throat, bursts out of her mouth. Ivy tilts her head, puzzled. There’s nothing Jane would rather do than tell Ivy all about it. She’d like to send Ivy through the painting to show her, as long as she doesn’t have to go in again herself. “Yes,” Jane says, then swallows. “Something happened. I want to tell you what it is, but I don’t think I can just now. I’m sorry.”
Ivy seems unfazed by this. She’s comfortable, crouched beside Jane, her arms resting on her knees and her camera perched in one hand. “It’s funny you say that,” she says, “because there are things I’d like to tell you too.”
Footsteps sound very close. Coming from the direction of the east wing, Mrs. Vanders appears on the landing, then stops short.
