“Okay, tell me how to get there and how to get back.”
“Do you have your wand?” he asked. I nodded. “Good. As you discovered that terrifying night in August, your wand was crafted of wood freely given from a portal tree. Ergo, your wand will function as a portal key and return you home.”
Lesson duly noted. “Does the wand get me to any portal tree?”
“No, only this one.”
I gulped. “Should I be doing this, Bas? Tell me the truth.” The surge of excitement that had gotten me this far was cooling fast.
“Calliope, I will always tell you the truth. You’re a witch. You will be tested. And some of those tests will come when there is no one familiar around to help. You will have to make decisions on the spot. Better to test your wings when there’s no pressure, no life or death consequences.” He gripped my shoulders. “Let me ask you again. Are you ready?”
“Yes.” I squeezed my fists and fixed my posture.
“Lesson number one. Speak clearly.” He lifted my chin. “E-nun-ci-ate. Lesson number two—have patience. There may be other travelers ahead of you in the queue, especially during rush hours. You will feel a slight tug in the vicinity of your navel as you get closer to the portal activating. Do not let your attention wander. Period.”
“Can I specify any destination in the world?”
Alabastair paused. “Well, yes. But not every destination is a direct trip. And some trips are rather arduous.” He looked me up and down. “For instance, you are not dressed for the desert, the tropics, or the more northerly stations. Do you know where in France you want to go?”
“Tanner’s with his teacher on Mont Blanc.”
There went those perfect eyebrows again. “You do know that’s the French Alps, n’est ce pas?”
“Oui?” I answered. I knew very little French. This trip was doomed.
Bas tsk’d. “Don’t give up so easily, Calliope du Sang. You will go to Paris first. Your ensemble verges on the overly casual but adopt the right attitude and no one will notice. Once you arrive, speak to a Portal Keeper. They’re usually hired from the fairy realm—dryads, tree nymphs, and the like—and they will answer in whatever language the traveler uses. Tell them you wish to visit Chamonix and do not let them intimidate or distract you.”
“Chamonix,” I said. I repeated the name twice for good measure.
“Es-tu prêt?”
“Oui.”
“Bon voyage, ma chère.”
Alabastair squeezed my shoulders once more, took a step back, then another, and disappeared into the charcoal gloom. I gripped the tree, straightened my spine, and said, “Paris. Please.”
I forgot to take the time difference between British Columbia and France into consideration. By the time I landed in a copse of unfamiliar trees in the Bois de Boulogne—I only knew my location because of the nameplate attached to the tree—the sky was dark, and the night air was heavy with the potential for rain. Somewhere along the way I’d lost my can-do attitude.
“Do you require assistance?” With the crackle of heavy feet landing on dried leaves, a barely dressed being appeared in front of me. I noticed its horns first. They gleamed like polished chestnuts in the lanterns’ light and were set flush against the being’s head. Tufts of slightly more reddish hair tumbled over the horns and its forehead.
“I might have made a mistake,” I said. I stuck out my hand. “I’m Calliope. Earth witch.”
He looked at my hand, then grasped it in both of his. “Gilles. Portal Keeper, tour guide, and companion for hire.” He bent at the waist in a mock bow. “Once I am off duty, this faun could be all yours.”
I dropped my gaze to the ground. Hooves to match the horns and ankles to envy. “That’s very nice of you, Gilles, but I’m meeting a friend in Chamonix.”
He feigned a broken heart, recovered, and pointed toward the narrow, curved pathway between the rows of trees. “Cross the path, count two trees in that direction. Jacques will assist you.”
Other travelers arrived. The faun turned to answer their questions. I felt inside my bag for the tin Bas had pressed into my hands. Dropping four tablets under my tongue, I imagined I traveled this way all the time and presented myself to Jacques.
He wasn’t nearly as flirtatious as Gilles. The older faun took my palm, slapped it against the tree, and sneezed.
The ride to Chamonix was bumpy, its portal tree situated in a section of hilly land overlooking a small city. I was the only one there. Waiting for the Portal Keeper to appear—assuming every tree had one—I squealed when a pair of arms wrapped me from behind and lifted me off the ground.
“It’s you,” Tanner said. He pressed his nose to the side of my head, inhaled, and lowered me to the ground. He spun me to face him and asked, “Where is everyone?”
“I came by myself,” I said. This man had seen every inch of me, up close, personal, and naked. We’d bathed muck off each other. We’d grappled with each other’s exes. We’d said our goodbyes only a few hours ago. And here I was standing on a hillside in the French Alps, enfolded in his arms, feeling giddy. I wanted Tanner to be proud of me. “Christoph and the kids decided to stay in Vancouver overnight and I—”
Tanner didn’t let me finish my sentence. His lips, warm and firm and tasting faintly of wine, sought and found mine in the dark. He had my shirt unbuttoned, my back against the tree, and his hands on my breasts before I could register whether we had company. “How long can you stay?”
“Long enough?”
“Can you handle one more portal?”
He held me tight with one arm, reached for the branch overhead with the other, and said something in French. I recognized the word for castle, and then the world went dark. I opened my eyes to see the flutter of Tanner’s pulse at his throat.
