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“Itisreal,” she insisted, in a whisper.
But she had to prove it to herself one more time. Despite Izzy’s reservations she knew she wanted to use it again. Who could turn down magic? Who would refuse?
She climbed out of bed and tiptoed to her bedroom door.
She thought of the holiday she had taken in Europe years before—the best months of her life—and she knew that the book could let her have that sort of happiness again.
She closed her eyes and tried to remember another doorway from her travels. She remembered the hostel where she had stayed in London. She remembered that door, the dark wood, the pair of tall narrow windows, the way the door had screeched whenever it was opened. She felt the book grow heavier in her hand and when she opened her eyes, she saw that same halo again, as if the book existed in a cloud of rainbow air.
“It’s beautiful,” she murmured, the light reflecting on her face.
She reached out for her bedroom door, holding the Book of Doors in her other hand, and when she opened it, it screeched like her bedroomdoor never did and Cassie felt a smile of delight on her face, even as the rainbow halo dissipated.
She peeked around the edge of the door and saw that street in London she remembered so well, a gray morning and rain and cars parked along the sidewalk. She was watching this foreign city across an ocean from the comfort of her own bedroom.
“Wow.” She giggled. Cassie couldn’t remember the last time anything had made her feel so elated, but she felt it now.
She closed the door, shaking her head as she did so, not because she regretted what she was doing, but because she couldn’t believe what she had just done.
She returned to her bed, holding the book between both hands and gazing at it like it was the face of a lover.
She could do magic.
She could return to any door she had ever been through, anywhere on the planet.
Drummond Fox in the Snow
Drummond Fox was in the snow, with ghosts.
He stood at the edge of Washington Square Park, thinking of a day a decade earlier when his world had changed.
He didn’t know why he had come—it was stupid really, dangerous even—but he had felt the need to come back to this place to remember the friends he had lost.
Drummond lowered his face against the weather and walked north toward the fountain, his mind a chaotic jumble of memories and emotions from that day so long ago. Laughter and hugs and long walks. And then screams and light, blood and darkness. A few moments of madness in Manhattan that had marked the dawning of a more dangerous time. The start of his life as a wanderer. The creation of the Shadow House. All of these things had come from that moment ten years earlier.
He reached the Washington Square Arch and stepped into its shelter. He was cold, his old coat offering little protection from the weather, but he didn’t want to leave just yet. He stood motionless for a while, letting the wind chill him, watching the park. After a few moments he realized that he wasn’t alone.
A shape formed beyond the fountain, and Drummond felt his heart kick into a faster rhythm. The figure grew larger, nearer, and Drummond watched as a man emerged from the snow and stepped into the space beneath the arch next to him.
“Mr. Fox,” Dr. Hugo Barbary said. The man smiled, but to Drummond it looked like the satisfied expression of a predator upon cornering its prey. “What luck to meet you here, of all places? I don’t know whether to be surprised or disappointed in you that you would actually come back.”
They were standing only a few feet apart, close enough that Barbary could reach out and touch Drummond if he wanted. Drummond tried not to show his fear.
“Hugo,” he said, his tone neutral. He pointedly turned his gaze back to the storm, refusing to be intimidated, but slipped his hands into his pockets to be ready.
Barbary was a large, round man with a big bald head and dark eyes behind the thick frames of his spectacles. He was dressed in a three-piece suit beneath a long overcoat, the waistcoat stretching taut over his stomach, and he wore a large fedora, sheltering his face from the snow. He was carrying an old-fashioned leather bag by his side, like a doctor on a home visit.
“People have been looking for you, these past ten years,” Barbary said. “A lot of time and effort has been spent trying to locate you.”
Drummond said nothing.
“What luck that I am the first to see you again.” Barbary was South African, and although his accent had softened over many years of moving around the world, it was still there in his odd, clipped vowels.
“It sickens my soul,” Drummond said, and Barbary tilted his head as if interested, “that a man like you is still alive when much better people died here for no good reason.”
“Ouch,” Barbary said, grinning. “I won’t take that personally. But what happened ten years ago was nothing to do with me. I wasn’t even here. If I recall, I was out in Thailand chasing down some bloody book that turned out not to exist. Have you ever been to Thailand? Bloody hot. Hated the place. Everything they eat is full of lemongrass. It all tastes like medicine and soap.”
“What do you want?” Drummond asked, tired of the man, tired of his fake bonhomie.
