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White bed, turned down. Clean towels folded into squares on the end of it. A little glass lamp on the nightstand and a rag rug. A window with the whole valley in it, October coming apart in orange and rust and smoke.

And a chair pulled up to the window. There's a cup on the sill. Empty.

I stand in the doorway and I can't move for a second.

"It's the best room in the house," Evelyn says behind me.

"I'm sure it is."

I walk in. The floorboards are old and they don't make a sound, which they probably should.

"Step into the hall."

She doesn't ask why.

She just steps back over the threshold with her hands folded in front of her, and stands there, and waits for me to do it.

I shut the door.

I put my hand on the knob and turn it and it turns all the way, easy, well oiled. Someone maintains this house beautifully. But the door doesn’t move.

I try again. I put my shoulder into it. I get both hands on the knob and haul until my boots slide on the rug.

Six days ago I could feel the seam of a ward across a doorway like a wire strung at throat height. I could feel the whole town. Right now I'm reaching with everything I have and there's nothing to reach with, no line, no hinge, no held breath in the world, just a painted door and a knob that turns and turns.

"Evelyn."

The door opens.

She's got one hand on it. She's not even leaning.

"How long has it been like that?" I ask.

"Since it was built."

"For me?"

"For someone like you."

I hear myself laugh, and it isn't a good sound. "There's a chair at the window."

Evelyn's chin lifts a fraction. "It was made comfortable on purpose. This house has held a Threshold witch before and it wasn’t made comfortable then. I’ve spent forty years being sure it would be different if it ever had to happen again."

The hall goes very quiet.

"What did you just call me?"

She closes her eyes.

I've been asking for the name of what I am since I sat on my kitchen floor eight days ago. I asked Gage for it and he wouldn't hand it to me secondhand. And here it is, in a hallway, from the woman who’s using it to explain why the lock is on the outside.

"Say it again."

"You’re a Threshold witch. Your magic doesn't burn or bless. It works on the lines. What's shut, what's open, what's between. Living and dead. Inside and outside."

"And you knew on my porch. You went white and you said it but it was too quiet for me to catch."

"Yes."