18th December (Thursday), Just after midnight

Thomas was still driving toward Boston, but I'd slipped back into my Domain—my workshop, my sanctuary, my wardrobe of borrowed faces. I dragged all of my wigs and costumes across the fabric of time and space and let them float in my room of zero gravity. If I wanted my personas to become truly interchangeable, I couldn't waste time redoing makeup every time I needed to change skin.

High-grade theater paints had carried me this far. The same kind used for stage plays and films, built for permanence, for illusion that could hold under hot lights. But permanence wasn't speed. A mask was an option, sure—but masks always looked wrong in motion, a fraction too rigid, a breath too artificial. Someone sharp would notice. Paint, even with its artifice, still breathed like skin. Paint had to be my hide.

But there was a problem. Paint clung to its medium. I couldn't just peel it off canvas or sculpture and smear it onto my living face through connection. Every piece of art came to me still bound to the thing it was born on. I needed a workaround. Maybe my will and the power over the Domain was enough?

My gaze swept the Domain until it caught on one of the statues—me, but not me. Jess Hare, captured in stone, locked forever in that ridiculous dress I'd once worn to charm mobsters into loosening their tongues. Perfect.

I approached with my kit. Brush in hand, I worked the statue's marble skin, layering foundation to erase freckles and blur imperfections. Broad, circular strokes—forehead, cheeks, nose, then down the neck and chest, blending until it was seamless. Sharp highlights to carve cheekbones I didn't have. Red lipstick, bold and voracious, built to tempt and play. Green lenses over cold stone eyes. Finally, the wig: thick, flowing, red as fresh blood.

When it was done, I stepped back. "Be Jess Hare," I told it.

The statue absorbed my Authority without protest. The makeup didn't change, not physically. It didn't have to. What shifted was deeper: the art itself believed, because I told it to believe. And belief, in my hands, was power.

I pulled myself back, narrowing my focus on the shadowlight link—the invisible threads that tethered me to everything I'd declared art. They existed somewhere just out of sight, a plane of perception I could only brush at the edges. When I poured shadowlight into something it blazed visible, but most of the time I wasn't walking around lit up like a prism despite carrying it inside me. There was a duality there, something I hadn't yet named.

I reached for the connection, called Jess Hare's face to me—and nearly buckled when the statue tore itself from its plinth and crashed forward. Far heavier than I'd imagined. With a single thought I sent it back, my Domain knitting the cracks smooth as if nothing had happened. Odd. It repaired the statue immediately but not the gouges in my walls and ceiling. Another mystery.

No matter how precise my thoughts, I couldn't strip the makeup off the medium and apply it directly to my own skin. The art clung to its anchor. It would have to wait until I found the right way—some soulmark of freedom, or limits, or unbinding. Judging by the names they could work that way. One of them had to exist somewhere in Ideworld, but either they were rare or very well hidden.

The Monument mark might let me rip the paint away and wear it myself, but I wasn't going to burn a temporary test on something that could become permanent later.

So I sat at my makeup station, brush in hand, and painted Jess Hare onto my own face the old way. A little defeated, yes—but with a clear path ahead.

It always took longer this way. Freckles covered me almost everywhere, and while I usually left a scatter of them over the bridge of my nose and on the outsides of my arms and legs for convenience—plausible enough on a redhead—covering the rest was painstaking work. Painstaking, but necessary. I'd learned to make concessions where clothing would hide the difference, and today was no exception.

When I finished with the makeup, I reached for the wardrobe. A two-piece suit this time, tailored just right, with a crisp white shirt underneath. I stuffed my bra a little, enough to make my chest fuller, more pronounced, more hers than mine. Dark, almost blackish greens for the fabric, the kind that made my hair look like living copper, and a jacket to sharpen the silhouette. Finally, I looped an orange scarf around my neck—the perfect flash of color to finish the look.

When I checked myself in the mirror, Jess Hare stared back at me. Not a mask, not a trick of paint, but a person ready to step into the world. With everything set, I was ready to drop back into Thomas's car.

I summoned the belt around my waist, spellbook swaying from its chain, and set my focus on the RV. Reality bent, and I slipped back into place. This time I pictured myself already seated up front, passenger-side, and the world obliged.

"I'm ready," I said, glancing out the window at a skyline I didn't recognize. The buildings stretched high enough to give me a clue. "How far are we from the destination?"

"Almost there, Jess," Thomas replied, steady at the wheel. "We should hit Harvard in few minutes."

"It's at Harvard!?"

He blinked at me. "Didn't I mention that?"

"No!"

"Why are you so shocked? Means something to you?"

"Well," I said, gesturing at the streets rushing past us, "it's Harvard. The university. A swarm of people. So I naturally wonder how the hell they manage to hide the United States Guild in plain sight without anyone noticing."

Thomas snorted. "Easy. On Earth they keep a handful of staff for communications, and the rest? They live full-time in Ideworld."

That gave me pause. "And how exactly do we get in?"

"Through the Solomon Gate. Permanent link to Ideworld. Supposedly right on campus."

"Solomon Gate," I echoed, leaning back with a grin. "That's… fitting. Given its artistic message. Now I really wonder how it works."

"What message?" he asked, side-eyeing me like I'd spoken in riddles.

"I've never seen it in person," I said, "but the bars are shaped like bookshelves, and there are all these subtle nods to Alice in Wonderland—little rabbits and cats carved into the walls, etched onto the railings. If they chose that spot intentionally, it almost makes me appreciate the Guild a little more. But it could just as well be symbolic utility—Alice already screams 'otherworldly passage,' so maybe it made anchoring the Gate easier."

Either way, my eagerness spiked. If the Guild's headquarters really sat inside Ideworld, then maybe the New York outpost at Grand Central was placed elsewhere as well. Could it also be hiding a gate? So many secrets still waiting to be pulled open like hidden drawers.

"Let's hope that rabbit hole isn't too deep for us," Thomas muttered.

"We're just couriers today, Tommy," I replied, as he swung the RV into a spot near Harvard's walls.

The campus unfolded around us, an architectural patchwork of centuries—stately brick Colonials beside granite facades, Victorian Gothic spires looming over shadowed courtyards, and the occasional brutalist block shouldering in like it had no manners. Parking here felt like sliding into another era entirely.

"So," I asked as he killed the engine, "can you remind me, what exactly are you delivering? Some proposal from Penrose?"

Stolen novel; please report.

"Yes," Thomas said, his tone flat as he reached for the envelope.

"And how did he even arrange it, if phones are off-limits?"

"He met with the branch back home. They sent word ahead somehow."

"Why not just send the proposal?"

"Penrose insisted it had to be placed directly into the Guild Master's hands or his direct representative in here."

"And he agreed to accept it from some unknown mage? That doesn't sound believable."

Thomas gave a dry laugh. "The proposal came tied to a hefty money transfer. I'd wager coin opens doors even in the wizard world."

"They'd have to. Ideworld's money doesn't spend well here, but on the other hand, powers like Phillip's could break an economy overnight—unless Reality stepped in."

"What do you mean?"

"Reality bends for us but protects the baseline. If someone noticed our dear boss's account ballooning out of nowhere, Reality itself might fix it. Penrose must be real clever, working around that. I wonder how."

"Some high-tier laundering?"

"Seems so."

We circled along the outer edge of campus as we talked. My eyes wandered over the buildings beyond the walls: venerable brick giants with ivy choking their facades, granite halls weathered by almost four centuries, Gothic arches clawing upward as if reaching for secrets. To study here, in rooms where great minds once clashed—philosophies grinding against each other like tectonic plates—it had to be intoxicating.

We reached the Gate before long. Closed to this Reality, but unmistakably ajar to the awakened eye. A cracked sphere hovered there, a perfect circle split through the center, warping the air around it. The craftsmanship of the man-made thing was beautiful, almost reverent—yet its fracture twisted the symmetry into something uncanny. A door and a warning, both at once.

"This is the opening, right? Like the one we saw in the Bronx?" Thomas asked, more enthralled by the shimmering tear in reality than by the ornate human-made gate framing it.

"Yes. That's it."

"Wouldn't it block mages from entering the grounds the normal way?"

"Yes. I suppose they just use another entrance when needed. What bothers me more is why it isn't guarded at all. This is supposed to be the front door to the most important magical institution in the States."

"Maybe that's why," he said. "Or maybe all the guards are on the other side."

"I'd bet on the latter. Big guy—lead the way."

"Me?"

"Yes, you. You were the one meant to do this alone, weren't you?"

"Yes, but that was before you decided to tag along. Now I've got a mage with me, so—honors are yours."

"Ladies first?" I asked with a mock smile.

He nodded firmly, though the tautness in his shoulders betrayed him. I understood it. Passing through one of these openings wasn't easy. Even for me, who crossed between worlds in a dozen different ways, it was disorienting. It felt like someone reached into the very coordinates of your being, plucked you out, and shoved you back in. Unpleasant, but only in sensation. No real harm—just the vertigo of being displaced.

I stepped forward. The sphere rippled around me, and the wrought-iron gate behind me dissolved, replaced by a tunnel of metal and brick that bent inward, its bars braided like roots in impossible geometry.

Etched into the stone above the arch was an inscription:

"Always speak the truth, Think before you speak, and write it down afterwards."

It was the kind of quote Peter would have loved. He was always bent on speaking the truth, no matter how raw. I was the one obsessed with finding it, looking for it behind what was obvious. But then—were we missing the one who listened for it? Someone attuned to hearing truth, not just hunting or declaring it?

The thought made me smirk. That would make us almost like the three monkeys, except we traded "see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil" for a single obsession: truth.

I waited in the tunnel until Thomas stumbled through. He caught my eye, then doubled over, clutching his stomach and bracing against the wall.

"That's fucking raw," he groaned.

"It might hit harder for you. You've got no Authority of your own to buffer it."

"That sounded even rougher. Thanks?"

"Arcane sense, Thomas. You know I think you're the best—everyone should have a Thomas in their lives."

"If only," he muttered, spitting bile onto the floor. At least he'd managed to keep the rest down. Good for him, even better for me—I hated the smell of vomit.

"We've ended up in the rabbit hole after all," I said, looking down the corridor of brick and steel. "Lead the way. It'll look strange if you hide behind me."

"I'm a feminist."

"Don't advertise it. You've got too much macho energy."

I moved forward. The tunnel curved upward, as though we had passed underground during the crossing.

"Maybe despite looking like a typical Opening, this one actually shifted us somewhere entirely—away from Harvard's grounds altogether?" I wondered aloud.

"I have no idea how any of this works," Thomas admitted. His voice bounced around the metal ribs of the tunnel, each step echoing like a drumbeat. If anyone was listening, they'd heard us coming a mile away.

It was only when we finally emerged from the hollow in the ground into the cool night air, the guardians finally stopped us. They were stationed at the tunnel's end, right where the darkness gave way to the open expanse of the campus. Ten of them, all clad in guild-issued Hexblade armor, their hands resting on those short, Japanese-like blades—wakizashi—two of which were already leveled in our direction. The campus itself stretched beyond them, a place where buildings had long since turned into monuments.

Words like grand or vast felt flimsy.

I glanced at Thomas, silently asking if he saw it too. His jaw hung open, eyes wide, answering for him.

Before us stretched a grassy expanse, cut by a path of layered brick that led to a tower—no, a cathedral of academia—rising impossibly high into the heavens. I'd seen skyscrapers before: steel and glass, their height expected, explained. This thing? This was fairy-tale ambition wrought in red brick and white stone, Harvard's style stretched to absurdity. The base itself was massive, and yet it climbed so high we couldn't see the tip, hidden in the clouds.

And it wasn't alone. More towers rose from the other campus buildings, each connected by a dizzying web of brick bridges arcing overhead like a spider's trap for the sky itself.

As if that wasn't enough, books filled the air. They flew spine-up, pages flapping like wings, moving in tight formations as if trained. They perched briefly on bridge-edges and crannies, scanning like birds of prey, then launched off again in pursuit.

What they hunted weren't animals but words. Phrases and pictograms darted through the grass like living things—one bold noun sprinting toward the path, a scattering of symbols scattering like insects. The books swooped, snatching them mid-run, stuffing them between their pages.

"Welcome to Harvard. Do you know why you are here?" One of the guardians broke the spell of our shared admiration, his voice sharp as shadowlight spilled over his blade in a faint orange hue.

I almost smirked, wondering what they'd say if we pretended to be lost—but Thomas was the professional.

"I carry a proposal for Guild Master Roderick van Gruff, on behalf of my employer, Mr. Phillip Penrose," he said.

Roderick? Seriously? That couldn't be his real name.

"Please state your name." The guardian's reply was clipped, almost ritualistic.

"My name is Thomas Torque," he said, pointing to himself before gesturing at me. "And this is Jess Hare."

The guardian studied us for a long moment before answering. "We've been notified to expect you, Mr. Torque… but only you."

As his words sank in, my attention drifted, drawn helplessly to the images that loomed behind them.

There were people here all around us, talking in clusters—dozens of them—dressed in everything from sharp suits and flowing dresses to plain streetwear. Some looked like students, others a little older, but all were relaxed and deeply engaged in debate.

I noticed one with an oddly enlarged head, the mark of an Ideworld change. A shadow, most likely. Maybe they all were—pupils of this world's alma mater, so consumed by knowledge that studying in the middle of the night didn't deter them. But then again, why should it? If they were shadows, human measures of time meant nothing. They didn't need sleep—they drifted.

"I've brought Ms. Hare here because of a common interest we share in reaching your Guild," Thomas explained. "Jessica had been appointed to meet with your New York branch about cooperation, but when I mentioned I was headed here, she decided to come along."

The guardian turned to me. His mask made it impossible to read his expression.

"You are a mage, Ms. Hare?"

"Yes. A sourceress. I believe my Domain could be of use to the Guild, and I'd like to work with you."

"What Domain is that?"

"Artistic Creation."

"We will notify our representatives of your arrival. Please wait with us until then," one of the other guardians said, turning to gesture toward something farther back.

"I didn't expect this to be an actual university," Thomas muttered as he glanced around.

"Yes. The Guild only occupies a fraction of what Harvard created here. Many people and shadows study here alike. We make sure Guild business doesn't disturb them."

Not out of kindness, I thought. If the Guild was catering to someone—or something—here, it wasn't because of goodwill. It meant leverage, or debts unpaid.

Soon after our little exchange more guardians made their approach.

They were as tall as Thomas, though thinner, their bodies not of flesh but of paper. Each fold sharpened into angles, their limbs tapering into spears that moved with the precision of spider's legs and the swiftness of a cat.

They closed the distance in seconds. Painted faces, crude and simple, stared out from the blank sheets of their heads.

They fell in beside their human comrades, forming a half-circle around us. Not hostile, but absolute. The path forward was closed, leaving only retreat behind.

"Notify the Guild Master that his guest has arrived," the human guardian instructed one of the paper creatures.

"Consider it done Warden Cedric." Paper creature responded. When they spoke, the sound was not human—only the whisper and shuffle of pages turning in a vast, invisible tome.

It bowed its head, body creasing inward. Then, with a sharp crack of folding parchment, its torso split into wings. A paper plane shot free from its back and whistled into the night, arcing toward the distant tower.

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