“There’s more than one divining pool?”
“Of course. There’s one wherever there are Fayte. You should know that.”
One more thing I didn’t know. But that was a topic for another time. I pulled out the Faytling from beneath my own collar. “Would it be better to use this one?”
His eyes widened. “How did you get that?”
“It’s Mrs. Crossey’s,” I said. “She lent it to me.”
His expression changed. “Did you have it when she was attacked?”
I nodded, making that connection for the first time. “Do you think that made a difference?”
“We have them for protection, among other things.” His lips twitched. I could sense there was more he wanted to say, yet he didn’t.
I held the amulet in my palm. If she had had it instead of me when she was attacked, she might not be fighting for her life.
“But to answer your question, yes, it would be preferable to use yours. May I?”
He extended his hand. I pulled the Faytling over my head and handed it to him.
He took it and stepped up to a deep, jagged crevice in the tree’s gnarled trunk.
“Stand behind me,” he said.
When I did, he touched the Faytling to the tree and muttered words I didn’t understand.
A purple glow grew within the Faytling’s stone and the crevice slipped apart, creating an opening nearly as wide as a door.
I gaped. My mind groped for a reasonable explanation of what I’d seen, but there was none. Had the world always contained such magic?
Mr. Wyck looked at me. “Are you ready?”
Cautiously, I peered into the hollowed-out tree then back at my dragonfly. She was still hovering behind, urging me forward. I might not trust him, but I trusted her. I faced him. “I am.”
Without another word, he took my hand and led me into that dark place.
Stepping inside, I blinked hard, trying to make out something of the space around me, but I could discern nothing. Only the musty odor of moist earth, a biting cold on my cheeks, and the warmth of Mr. Wyck’s hand clutching my own. He pulled me onward.
But how could that be? If it were a tunnel, it would have had to slope down.
I dropped his hand and backed out, back into the starlit night where I could make out the clear silhouette of the tree.
Mr. Wyck emerged as well and watched me lean around the trunk, searching for the missing space. “Wondering about the dimensions?” he asked.
“It’s all wrong.” I searched the right side again. “We stepped in, both of us, yet there should hardly be room for even one. Where is the rest of it?”
“That’s magic for you. You see what you want to see. When it comes to the Other Realm, the world plays by different rules. It’s best not to think too much about it.”
“But how—”
I stumbled back to avoid my dragonfly, who was buzzing at my nose, or as close to it as was possible without an actual collision.
“I think she wants you to move along.”
I was going to thank Mr. Wyck for that profound insight but caught the sparkle in his eye.
Fine. I pushed past him, annoyed. Perhaps he found this all very amusing, but I knew she wasn’t trying to be funny. She was frantic.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
I hardly knew, but that wasn’t going to stop me. I trusted my dragonfly, and she was telling me to go.
Again, I stepped into the tree’s black crevice, and the moonlight vanished. Again, I was in complete and utter darkness.
I gripped my Faytling with one hand and brushed the tunnel’s rough bark walls with the other. “I wish there was some light in here,” I muttered to no one in particular.
As soon as the words were out, a weak light pulsed through my fingers from the Faytling. I opened my hand to see the stone was glowing. Only faintly, but enough to see a narrow path of packed earth and tangled tree roots in front of me.
“How did you do that?” The question sounded more like an accusation.
“I have no idea.” I was still staring at the thing in my hand.
“How many spells did Mrs. Crossey teach you?”
“I don’t know any. I just…” I just wanted light, but that wasn’t a spell. Was it?
Behind me, he muttered something I couldn’t hear but I surmised the meaning. He didn’t believe me.
I ignored him and hurried on. Even with light, it was difficult ground to cover. The tunnel was tall but narrow, not even wide enough for us to walk side by side down what was now a noticeable downward slope.
As we moved, the temperature dropped. Tree roots wove in and out of what were now rough dirt walls. I watched for unnatural movement.
After a hundred feet or so, the passage hooked to the left and we met a tall and wide door made of roughly hewn wood and crude black hinges. I’d seen that door before—or one like it—and at last I knew where we were.
“Do we just go through?” I whispered.
“I believe so, unless I’m gravely mistaken.”
I shuddered at the mention of a grave. How far underground were we anyway? I let the thought go and grabbed the metal handle. I pressed the lever that dislodged a latch and the door slid open. I peeked around the edge to see what awaited us on the other side.
More darkness.
I held out the Faytling, and the white light illuminated the space, revealing walls of uneven stones.
Familiar stones.
“What’s there?” Mr. Wyck whispered.
“The tunnel from Mr. MacDougall’s office.”
Mr. Wyck passed me and searched in both directions. “You’re right, and I believe we head that way.” He pointed to the left.
The tunnel bent in a long, smooth curve, just as I’d remembered, and soon we were at the massive polished door.
When I reached for the scrolled handle, Mr.
