AI The oak standing stones had no roots that Rory could see. They rose from the grass in a crooked ring, their bark silvered by moonlight, their tops sawn flat as pillars. Between two of them, a patch of darkness hung without casting a shadow.
Rory held the Heartstone away from her throat. The thumbnail-sized gem gave a faint red glow, and warmth pulsed against her fingers.
“That’s a portal, then.”
“A door,” Isolde said, “and a mouth. Take care which part you feed.”
Rory glanced at her. Isolde stood among the wildflowers in a pale coat, her waist-length silver hair stirring in a breeze Rory couldn’t feel. The grass beneath her feet remained unbent.
“You could have mentioned the mouth before we walked across half of Richmond Park.”
“You might not have come.”
“Exactly.”
Nyx gathered themselves out of the shadow of an oak. In solid form they were taller than Rory by a good margin, a silhouette with faint violet eyes. Their edges moved like smoke in a draught.
“The cook’s name again?” they whispered.
“Mei Chen .” Rory took the folded photograph from her pocket. Mei stood outside the Golden Empress, squinting into the sun, one hand raised to shield her face. Behind her, Yu-Fei had caught the edge of the frame, smiling at something out of sight. “She used to work evenings. Her daughter hasn’t heard from her in eleven months.”
Isolde regarded the photograph. “The living can be lost without being dead.”
Rory had been hoping for more than that when she’d gone to the grove. Still, Isolde had brought them to this door.
The pendant warmed again. Rory tucked the photograph away, drew the moonsilver blade from her coat, and stepped between the stones.
Cold passed over her face. For an instant she smelled wet leaves and the river; then a rich, sweet scent closed around her, like pears left too long in a bowl.
She stood in an orchard beneath an amber sky.
The trees grew in precise rows over a slope of dark red soil. Their trunks were broad and knotted, their branches heavy with fruit: purple globes as large as melons, clusters of green pears, and pale translucent shapes that rang softly whenever they touched. Beyond the orchard lay vineyards, gardens and the tiled roofs of distant buildings. Farther off, a long table stood on a terrace, bright with lamps and crowded with people. Even from here Rory could hear music.
Behind her, the portal shimmered between two dark trees. Nyx emerged from it without a sound. Isolde followed, pausing on the threshold as if listening to something too distant for Rory to hear .
“This is Dymas?” Rory asked.
“Yes,” Isolde said. “And that is the house you seek.”
At the foot of the slope stood a building of black stone, half swallowed by the orchard. Its roof had collapsed beneath the roots of an enormous tree. A single round window faced them, glazed in dull gold.
Rory had expected gates, perhaps guards. The place looked abandoned.
They descended between the trees. Soft wind moved through the branches, carrying the scent of roasting meat from the terrace. Rory’s stomach tightened. She’d eaten before leaving the flat, but the smell made her suddenly , fiercely hungry.
Nyx stopped beside a tree. One of the translucent fruits had split, revealing a small silver spoon at its centre.
“An odd crop,” Rory said.
“The tree appears to have taken an interest in dessert,” Nyx whispered.
Rory reached toward the fruit. A branch shifted, putting it within easy grasp.
She pulled her hand back. The branch withdrew.
“Nothing here is free,” she said.
Isolde’s pale eyes followed the movement. “Some things cost more when refused.”
“That’s comforting .”
At the bottom of the slope they found a path paved with broken plates. Glazed flowers, gilded rims and fragments of painted faces flashed underfoot. No two pieces matched. The path led to a pair of bronze doors set into the black stone.
The doors were warm. A groove ran across them at Rory’s chest height, filled with some dark, tacky substance. She touched it with the tip of the blade and lifted away a thread of amber syrup.
On the left door, words had been scratched into the metal in several hands. Some were in scripts she didn’t recognise. Near the bottom, cut deep enough to scar the bronze, was a single English sentence:
IF YOU CAN STILL TASTE HOME, KEEP YOUR NAME.
Rory stared at it.
“Did Mei write that?” she asked.
“I do not know,” Isolde said.
The Heartstone pulsed against Rory’s skin. She looked back up the slope; the portal was still visible between the trees.
Nyx flattened into the narrow shadow beneath the doors. For a moment only their eyes remained, low to the ground. Then those vanished too.
Rory waited with her blade ready. The music from the terrace drifted down the hill, joined by laughter and the clink of glasses. Somewhere nearby, something crunched steadily through an apple.
The doors juddered. A bolt scraped back, and Nyx re-formed beside them.
“There is a latch on the other side,” they said. “And a corridor. I could not see where it ends.”
Rory pushed the doors open.
The corridor smelled of old wine and damp stone. Shelves lined both walls from floor to ceiling, packed with jars. Some held herbs and spices, their colours still vivid despite the dust. Others contained things Rory couldn’t identify: a curl of blue smoke, a tiny storm turning slowly over a thimbleful of water, a row of teeth suspended in clear jelly.
She leaned closer to a jar filled with what looked like grey sand . As her breath misted the glass, the grains rose and arranged themselves into a miniature street. A red bus crossed it, no bigger than her fingernail.
Rory stepped back. The street collapsed.
“Don’t open any of them,” she said.
“I had no intention,” Nyx replied.
From somewhere deeper in the building came a low, rhythmic thudding. It might have been a pestle in a mortar, though Rory couldn’t imagine the size of the bowl.
The corridor opened into a vast kitchen. Its vaulted ceiling rose beyond the reach of the lamps. Copper pans hung in ranks overhead, some big enough for Rory to lie in. Stone counters ran the length of the room, scored with knife marks and darkened by age. At the far end, a fire burned beneath a range, though no one stood near it.
The thudding came from a wooden dough trough. Its lid lifted and fell, lifted and fell, against something working inside.
Rory kept her distance.
On one counter lay a leather-bound ledger, open beneath a weight of black glass. A neat column of names covered the page. Beside each was a dish and a date. The last entry was only three days old.
Nyx moved to the hearth, their body thinning against the shadows. Isolde went to the ledger. Rory stayed near the centre of the room, watching the trough.
“Chen ,” Isolde said.
Rory hurried over. Halfway down the page, in careful black ink, was MEI CHEN. Beside it someone had written PEAR AND GINGER TART, followed by tomorrow’s date.
“She’s here.” Rory pressed a finger beside the name. “Or she will be.”
“She may be here already,” Nyx whispered. “There are people below us.”
Rory hadn’t heard anything but the trough. She crossed to the hearth, where a narrow stair descended beside the range. Warm air rose from it, carrying the smell of ginger and sugar.
They went down single file. Rory led, the cold hilt of the Fae blade firm in her palm. At the bottom, a door stood ajar.
A woman sat at a table, peeling a pear.
She wore a white apron over a dark dress. Her black hair was pinned up untidily, and flour streaked one cheek. A dozen peeled pears sat in a bowl beside her. Another dozen waited in a basket, though every time she took one, Rory thought she saw a fresh fruit settle into its place.
“Mei?”
The knife stopped. The woman looked up, wary at once.
Rory put the blade away and took out the photograph. “Yu-Fei gave me this. Your daughter asked her for help.”
Mei set down the pear. For a moment she didn’t move. Then she stood so quickly her chair fell backwards.
“Is she all right?”
“She misses you. She’s with your sister.”
Mei gripped the edge of the table. Her eyes were bright, but her voice stayed steady. “How old is she now?”
“Eleven. Nearly twelve.”
Mei closed her eyes. “I thought it had been less.”
Rory took a step into the room. “We found a way in. We can take you back.”
Mei looked past her to the stair, then at Nyx and Isolde. “You can’t. Not until I’ve finished.”
“Tomorrow’s tart?”
“The tart, and the next one, and the one after that.” Mei lifted her wrist. A thin black line circled it, too even to be a scar. “I signed for a year. That was what he said.”
“Who?”
“The man who came to the restaurant. He wanted cooks for a competition.” A bitter smile crossed her face. “He paid the advance in cash. Enough for my sister’s operation.”
The basket rustled. Another pear rolled against its neighbours.
“I was meant to cook for a year,” Mei said. “But each time I finish a dish, there’s another order. They call it a year of service. The hours between don’t count.”
Rory examined the black line without touching it. “Where’s the contract?”
“In the kitchen ledger. They brought it down once when I complained.”
Rory thought of the heavy book upstairs. “Can we cut it?”
Mei gave her a tired look. “I’ve tried. The pages mend.”
Isolde came forward. “A promise may be cut where it is written, or where it is worn.”
Rory drew the moonsilver blade again. Mei flinched.
“It cuts wards,” Rory said. “Isolde gave it to me.”
Mei looked at Isolde, who inclined her head. After a moment Mei held out her arm.
Rory braced her own wrist against the table. The dagger’s cold bit into her fingers. She slid the tip beneath the black line as carefully as she could, leaving a sliver of air between metal and skin.
The line tightened.
Mei gasped. Rory lifted the blade. For an instant it met resistance, as if she were drawing it through wire. Then the line parted with a sharp snap.
Upstairs, the dough trough burst open. Something heavy struck the floor.
“Go,” Rory said.
Mei snatched a small cloth bag from beneath the table. They ran for the stairs, Isolde moving soundlessly behind them. Rory reached the kitchen first and stopped short.
A mass of pale dough had heaved itself out of the trough. It spread across the floor, gathering flour, knives and scraps into its sticky surface. As Rory watched, it pulled itself towards the hearth.
Nyx swept ahead, a long shadow racing over the stone. They caught the edge of a hanging pan and brought it crashing down in front of the thing. The dough surged over it without slowing.
“Doors!” Rory shouted.
Mei ran past her. Rory followed, but the dough struck the end of a counter and sent it skidding across the corridor entrance. Jars shattered on the shelves beyond. A cloud of pepper rose, making Rory cough.
Isolde touched the counter. “A table set for no guest is a lonely thing.”
The counter did not move.
Rory grabbed one end. “Nyx!”
They became solid beside her and took the other. Together they shoved. The counter scraped just far enough for Mei to slip through, then Isolde. Rory squeezed after them, scraping her shoulder on the stone.
Nyx flowed through the gap as shadow. Behind them, the dough struck the counter hard enough to crack it.
They ran between the shelves. Rory caught a glimpse of the miniature street spilling from its broken jar, red bus and all, before it scattered beneath their feet. At the bronze doors Mei fumbled with the latch. Rory reached around her, pulled it free, and shoved.
The orchard air hit them, sweet and warm. They climbed the slope toward the two dark trees. Mei stumbled once; Rory caught her arm, feeling the bare skin where the black line had been.
Behind them, something pressed against the bronze doors. They boomed in their frame but held.
The portal shimmered ahead. The Heartstone grew warm against Rory’s chest.
Mei slowed. “What if it doesn’t take me?”
Rory took her hand. “Then we’ll find another way.”
They stepped through together.
Moonlight lay over the grove. The air was cold enough to sting Rory’s lungs, and somewhere beyond the standing stones an owl called. Mei dropped to her knees in the grass, pressing both hands into it.
Nyx emerged behind them, followed by Isolde. The darkness between the stones thinned until Rory could see the trees beyond.
Mei was still kneeling . Rory crouched beside her and took out her phone. There was no signal in the grove, but the screen lit Mei’s face when Rory opened the photograph.
“She’s taller now,” Rory said. “And she’s cut her hair short.”
Mei touched the image with one flour-streaked finger. “Will you come with me?”
“Of course.”
They helped her to her feet. As they passed between the standing stones, Rory’s phone found a signal and began to buzz with messages. She checked the date first. Only forty minutes had passed since they’d left the restaurant.
She called Yu-Fei. When she answered, Rory put the phone into Mei’s hand and walked beside her through the dark park, giving her room to speak.