My fingers twitched restlessly. In the past I’d calmed myself when anxiety rose by practicing my lock-picking skills. I had no desire for another burn, but I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, allowing my hands to twist and move reflexively, replaying old memories. I saw myself, crouched in a dim room, dexterously slipping a hairpin into a door lock and applying just the right amount of pressure.
“Is that all there is to it?” a teasing voice asked from behind me.
I laughed. “If you think it’s so simple, why don’t you give it a try?”
I opened my eyes, replaying that dear voice, though even now it sounded muffled, like I couldn’t quite get the timbre right. A stab of longing went through me as I remembered that I hadn’t always been alone. I squared my shoulders, renewing my determination to solve this mystery.
I glanced at the rose, still lying on the floor with deceptive innocence, looking almost expectant, as if waiting for me to try again. To anyone else, it might have presented an unsolvable riddle—but not to me. When objects whispered their stories with a single touch, their secrets never stayed hidden for long. Though it had been silent the first time, I wouldn’t be so easily defeated.
I crouched down and slowly extended a hand to brush the tip of my finger across a single velvet petal. Familiar warmth rose through me, the first stirrings of magic responding to my will. Yet as before, I detected no flickers of memory, no images form a story waiting to be seen. Just silence.
I tried again, this time pressing my palm against the bloom. The warmth of my magic flowed outward but met no response. My suppressed panic rose, an emotion sheer willpower wasn’tenough to suppress. My powers couldn’t be gone. Even when I’d lost everything else, they had always remained—silent companions when I had none, threads of meaning when the world made no sense.
Desperate to test them, I scanned the room for another object. A golden candlestick rested on the mantle, gleaming faintly in the shifting light. Hardly the most promising artifact, but even the mundane offered welcome reprieve amid my current worry. I rushed to it, plucked it from its perch, and pressed my hand to the base.
Relief bloomed as a story trickled into my mind—not the usual flood, but a gentle, steady stream. A flicker of a servant polishing it, the idle musings of someone setting it down, the faint echo of laughter from a conversation barely remembered. Ordinary fragments, but real, evidence my magic was still a part of me.
Some of the tension cinching my chest loosened as I exhaled. Yet my anxiety hadn’t fully subsided. Desperate for reassurance, I moved methodically around the room, touching everything in sight—the velvet drapes framing the windows, the polished bedposts, the fireplace poker, even the thick rug beneath my feet. One by one, the objects surrendered their stories to me.
Dull accounts of routine—servants tidying, guests passing through, dust swept away, garments folded—faded tales of servants who had come and gone, the nobles and dignitaries who had stayed here, even a brief glimpse of royal children playing hide and seek.
I moved to the bed and pressed my fingers to the carved footboard, searching for any record of how I’d woken up there rather than the chair where I’d fallen asleep—some sign of a maid adjusting the covers, or a guard delivering me like a parcel. But there was no indication that anyone had moved me, or even touched the bed since I’d arrived.
However, as I pressed more insistently, I detected an unusual reading. Frowning, I crouched to touch the low footstool beside it…and stilled. There, embedded in its fibers, was a story, faint and recent.Mystory. I saw myself, half-asleep, stepping onto the stool and climbing into the bed, without even a flicker of recollection from the moment.
I had no history of sleepwalking, no childhood stories of dreamy wanderings—never in my life could I recall falling asleep in one location and waking in another. Yet the evidence was there, etched into the room itself. What did this mean?
The room suddenly felt too confining. The air thickened, pressing against my lungs. The chamber seemed to shrink, the walls tilting inward, closer and closer until I could barely breathe—tighter than the stone cell I’d been imprisoned in only the evening before.
I turned and rushed to the window, fumbling with the latch. It swung open without resistance and a gust of fresh air swept in, sharp with morning chill. I took a deep breath, clearing my head enough to slowly go over each riddle that had bloomed with the dawn, each thornier than the last. A dream flower that crossed into reality. A palace that was both familiar and strange. A vanished memory of movement I never made. And a rose that refused to speak.
Despite the weight of the many questions pressing upon on me, a small smile curled my lips as the bracing air flowed over my face. I loved a good puzzle, and this one was proving to be quite diverting. For once, I wasn’t sure which mystery to chase first.
As if in answer, a whisper of magic beckoned my attention to the grounds below. A shadow suddenly moved near the edge of the garden path—a tall figure, half-hidden by the hedges. I couldn't make out the face, but something about the stance and the tilt of the head was familiar, as if I’d seen him before.
I blinked, and he was gone—vanished so suddenly it left me doubting whether he’d been there at all. I started to turn away from the window…only to pause. A soft breeze stirred my hair, with it awakening a memory that seemed to have been forgotten from waking to this strange situation.
No matter my uncertain standing within the royal court, I was still a prisoner…and when I’d fallen asleep, I was certain this window had been firmly locked and reinforced with magic. This puzzled me even more than the changing furniture and clothing. Everything about this palace had been strange and unpredictable so far, but the constant between dungeon and guest room had been that I was a prisoner.
I examined every inch of the frame, paying particular attention to the latch and grooves with a touch as practiced as it was precise. My fingers were trained to detect even the most subtle traps—an imperceptible shimmer, a hairline rune, the hum of latent magic.
But there was nothing. No enchantment, nor any trace of the barrier that had barred my escape the night before, almost as if it hadn’t been there at all.
Last night, I’d been certain it had been sealed—closed off with magic that even my best lock-picking tools couldn’t breach. But now, it was nothing more than an ordinary window, unlatched and open to the dawn. As if the enchantment had never existed at all.
I stared down at my hand, flexing my fingers as though the motion might summon answers. My power still pulsed beneath my skin, steady and sure. I’d used my magic to read nearly every object in the room, uncovering faded memories and invisible secrets—enough that I felt slightly dizzy from the magical exertion—yet not a single one hinted that guards had entered during the night to lift the spell trapping me in this gilded prison, or that anyone had touched the window at all.
No explanation came, no logical conclusion I could grasp. I raked my thoughts for one anyway, until a dull ache began to pulse behind my temples. This scattered confusion was such a contrast to my usual clarity, tangling and twisting, as though the dream’s thorns had followed me into waking and wound themselves around my thoughts.
Footsteps suddenly echoedbeyond the door, snapping me back into the present. I stilled, instinct dispelling my previous fog. Quiet as breath, I tiptoed to the door and pressed my ear against the smooth wood, listening carefully. Two sets of footfalls, the clang of armor. Guards, drawing closer.
I didn’t hesitate. The open window beckoned like an invitation, and I intended to accept. As fascinating as my little detour into captivity had been, it was an experience I had no desire to repeat. Unlike last time, I wasn’t bound or locked in. This time, I had a way out; no intriguing mystery was worth remaining imprisoned.
I briefly wondered if I was wandering into a trap, but the sound of the footsteps pausing outside the door compelled me to take my chances.
I hurried to the window and climbed onto the sill, my foot nearly getting caught in the silk skirts of my inconvenient attire. I cursed and ripped the seam in the fabric enough to move more easily, then perched lightly on the sill, testing my balance with practiced ease. The wind caught my hair, tugging it gently as I peered down, searching the grounds.
No guards were stationed below, just empty flagstones veiled in morning mist. I looked up. I appeared to be on the fourth floor, just one level beneath the roofline. Perfect. I braced myhands against the frame, found footholds along the rough stone, and began to climb upward.
