When she speaks, her voice holds no surprise, the questions not really questions at all.

“Would he not have succumbed to the call of seeing her face, to the possibility of hearing her voice? Especially if he were worried about his daughter, about her role in the prophecy of which few men have heard and even fewer believe?”

I see the door of the Dark Room the day of my father’s death, cold air leaking from the abandoned chambers in the thin light of morning.

The Dark Room. My mother’s room.

I remember my effortless travels, how easily I slipped into them, unaware that they were something more than simple dreams.

“He didn’t know.” I murmur. “He didn’t know he was traveling. He didn’t know that he would be vulnerable to the spirits in the Otherworlds.”

She nods. “It is easy enough to answer the call of the spirits under guise of a pleasant dream, and the Souls had every reason to detain your Father’s soul, to set him adrift in the Otherworlds.”

The tide of anguish that rises on my next thought threatens to push me under. “Are you… are you saying his soul is in the Void?”

She lifts her chin, studying the ceiling as if the words she needs can be found on the plaster overhead. “Miss Sorrensen mentioned receiving a message from your father at one of her sittings.”

The memory of that first mystifying altercation with Sonia makes me shift uncomfortably in the settee. “Yes. That is, I think so,” I tell her. “I didn’t hear it, actually. It was passed to me by Sonia.”

Madame Berrier smiles her encouragement. “Miss Sorrensen has a formidable gift. If she says the message was from him, it likely was. And if it was, it means that he somehow managed to escape the Void.” She shrugs. “It is possible. There are those in the Otherworlds with power enough to aid one in escaping the Void, though they would put themselves in danger to do so. Your mother perhaps?”

Something Aunt Virginia said drifts like smoke into my mind. “My aunt said my mother was a… a Spellcaster?”

Madame Berrier nods. “Ah. Then she may well have intervened on his behalf. There are very few true Spellcasters. A Spellcaster would almost certainly be powerful enough to stage an intervention. His soul would still be stranded in the Otherworlds, but he would be free to wander there or cross if he chose.”

As painful as it is to imagine my father’s soul adrift in the Otherworlds, I am grateful for any intervention that allowed him to escape the Void, especially if it reunited him with my mother.

It is Sonia, looking at Madame Berrier with a small measure of hope, who asks the question I should have been asking all along. “You said there is a choice, Madame, that Lia has a choice.”

“But of course. Miss Milthorpe has choices to make just as the rest of us do, though they are undoubtedly quite a bit more complicated and dangerous. She may choose to open the Gate to the Beast or she may choose to close it forever, as is her right as the Angel.” She leans closer, her smile hidden behind a trace of irony. “I, for one, sincerely hope she chooses the latter.”

I shake my head. It is difficult to imagine that anyone would choose to allow entry to the Beast. “Well, there is no question at all! I choose to close it, of course! But I know nothing of the prophecy save what we have read.”

Sonia clears her throat. “It is for this reason we have come, Madame. We have heard there is a way to end the prophecy. A way to close the Gate forever. There is a reference to keys, you see. We think they may be the way to an end, but we aren’t sure where to find them or even where to begin looking.”

Madame Berrier considers Sonia’s words. “Well, there is rumor of a way for the Angel to close the Gate forever, but I’ve never been privy to the prophecy itself. Very few have ever laid eyes on the ancient text, and those that have are most assuredly connected to it in some way.”

Sonia raises her eyebrows. “Well, we have, Madame. And in it is the mention of keys, together with something else, something that rings familiar but which I cannot place. Something called Samhain.”

Madame Berrier purses her lips. I can see the wheels turning in her mind, and when she speaks it is not with an answer but a question. “In what context is Samhain mentioned in relation to the keys?”

Sonia licks her lips, trying to remember. “Something about the first breath… the—”

“‘Formed in the first breath of Samhain.’” I meet Madame Berrier’s gaze. “That is what it says. ‘Four marks, Four keys, Circle of Fire, Formed in the first breath of Samhain.’”

She taps her fingers on the table, considering her words. “Let us take a stroll, hmm? I believe I know where to find some of the answer you seek.”

The streets are crowded, bustling with people. Horses clop past, the carriages they pull rattling on the dusty road. Edmund, ever vigilant, follows us without a word.

We walk for some time, and I wonder at Madame Berrier’s strange authority that we follow her so willingly, without a single question about our destination. She is so sure-footed, so purposeful in her stride that it seems almost insulting to inquire, and so we follow along, trotting to keep up with her swift pace.

It is only after we have passed the tailor, the milliner, the sweet shop, and a number of taverns that Madame Berrier turns a corner, leading us down a quieter back lane. Narrow houses stand on either side of the street like somber watchmen. They are not as grand as the homes on Main Street but simple and well-kept, much like Madame Berrier herself. We approach a house that looks like all the others, but I see from a plaque on its front that it is the town library.

“The word you mentioned rings familiar, my dear,” Madame Berrier says, looking over at Sonia. “But with so many translations and pronunciations, it is best to be sure, especially with something so important, is it not?” She doesn’t wait for an answer, but continues her steady march up the front steps, opening the door with a flourish.

Stepping into the cavernous main hall, I find the library is more than quiet, it is deserted. Indeed, I don’t see a single person as we make our way across the scuffed marble floor. Its emptiness is more than the lack of living, breathing beings. It is the unread pages of the many books that reside on the shelves throughout the room. I should not have thought one could tell when books have gone unread, but after the company of Birchwood’s well-loved library it is as if I can hear these books whispering, their pages grasping and reaching for an audience.

Madame Berrier stops at a large desk in the center of the main room, casting a meaningful glance at Edmund before turning to me, eyebrows raised in question.

I breathe deeply. “Edmund, would you mind looking around or waiting here, or… something?”

I feel badly asking him to occupy himself yet again, but it is clear from Madame Berrier’s demeanor that she means our visit to the library to be a private one. Edmund does not seem to mind. He nods, wandering to one of the many tall shelves and disappearing around its corner.

We scan the library for any sign of life. There are smaller rooms visible on both sides of the main hall and a narrow staircase that winds to the floor above.

“Perhaps we should—” I am interrupted by the heavy click of shoes approaching from one of the rooms at the back.

The woman who approaches carries a smile of welcome. But only for a moment. The minute her eyes light on Madame Berrier, her round face tightens, her mouth setting into a grim line.

Madame Berrier’s smile is dazzling. “Bonjour, Mrs. Harding! And how are you this fine afternoon?”

Surely Madame Berrier can see the distaste with which the town librarian views her, but there is nothing in her manner to acknowledge such a truth. Instead, she greets the other woman as if they are long-lost friends.

The woman called Mrs. Harding nods her head in a minute gesture of acknowledgment. “How may I help you?” She asks as if she has never seen Madame Berrier before this day, though it is clear they have had some dealings in the past.

“Now, Mrs. Harding,” Madame Berrier teases, leaning her head to one side, a playful smile touching her painted lips as she holds out an open palm, “I’m quite certain you know why I have come.”

Mrs. Harding’s face sets even further. She reaches into her pocket, withdrawing something from it and dropping it into Madame Berrier’s hand. The Madame’s fingers close quickly around it, but not before I see a glint of silver and realize it is a key.

“Merci, Mrs. Harding. I shall return it when I am finished, as always!” Madame Berrier calls over her shoulder, already making her way to the back of the library.

Sonia and I are spurred from our reverie by a scowl from the librarian directed, this time, at us. We rush forward to catch up to Madame Berrier, already halfway down the hall leading toward the back of the building. When we finally reach her, she has opened the back door of the library and is standing outside on a small porch.

Sonia shakes her head in confusion. “Where are we going?”

Madame Berrier waves to the well-groomed garden behind the library. “The answer you seek, my dear, lies not in the carefully catalogued books within the library but in those cast aside, hidden in shame behind it.”

There is no time for further questions. Madame Berrier steps off the porch, and we scramble to follow as she leads us through the manicured garden, beautiful even with the approaching winter. I think we have come to the end of the property when we step around a potting shed that, for all its diminutive size, is still better kept than the decrepit building to which Madame Berrier crosses.

She takes the key given her by Mrs. Harding and inserts it into the lock hanging from the door. It catches with a click, and Madame Berrier pulls open the doors with a great heave and creak. We follow her in, our eyes drawn upward.

“Oh! It is… it is unbelievable!” I cannot keep the amazement from my voice, but there is sadness, too. Father would have wept to see the books piled high in every direction with so little thought to their care. “What is this place?”

The ceiling soars three stories above us. Even from the ground, I see small holes in the roof. It is clear from the damp smell permeating the building that no one minds the rain leaking onto the books within these walls.

Madame Berrier’s neck is stretched, taut and white as a swan, as she surveys the room with equal awe, as if, even knowing what it holds, she cannot help but be impressed. “It is an old carriage house. It was used when the library was still a home.”

“Yes, but… all these books! Why aren’t they catalogued and kept with the others?” It is a question my father would have asked, though with a good deal more anger, I’m sure.

She smiles sadly at us. “These are the books the town does not want sitting in full view beside the more… traditional offerings. They cannot destroy them altogether, you see. That would not be good for appearances. But they can, and as you see, do, keep them separate from the others.”

Sonia’s eyes shine in the dim light of the carriage house. “But why?”

Madame Berrier sighs. “Because these are the books about things people do not understand, things you and I know are as real as the world in which we stand this very minute. Books on the spirit world, on witchcraft and the history of it, sorcery… anything that does not fit into a neat and tidy box, I should say.” She walks farther into the room, startling a bird that rises toward the ceiling, disappearing in a flutter of wings somewhere above us.

The sudden movement shakes loose my awe. “I don’t understand what this place has to do with the keys, Madame, though I must confess to being quite astonished at the sight. My father would have had a conniption!”

She meets my eyes, smiling. “Then I’m quite sure I would have been very fond of your father, dear girl.” She gestures for us to follow. “As to your question, I think there may be a reference to Samhain in an old Druid text I have seen lying about. As far as I know, I am the only one who comes here. I’m quite sure it will be just where I remember it.”

Sonia and I follow her farther into the building, past stacks of books streaked with bird droppings and mildew. We step carefully over anything we cannot identify and almost bump into Madame Berrier when she stops at one of the warped and leaning bookcases.

“Let me see… I think it was near here. This may be it….No. Not that one. Perhaps it was over here.” She mutters to herself as if we are not present, crossing to different shelves several times as we look helplessly on. “Ah! Here it is. Let me have a look.”

Balancing the book in one hand, she turns the pages with the other. It is an incongruous site—the elegant Madame looking entirely at home surrounded by such filth and disrepair. I flash Sonia a nervous smile, afraid to interrupt whatever thought process seems to go along with the Madame’s muttering.

“Ah! Yes, yes! I knew it! Here it is! Come closer, girls, and we shall see if this might be of help.” We shuffle closer, stopping as she begins to read. “Since twenty-three hundred B.C. the Beltain Fires have signified the beginning of Light, that joyful season when the days shall be full of plenty and the nights full of passion and new life. The Season of Light, or Beltain, begins on May first and lasts for six months until Samhain, the Season of Darkness. Following the harvest and Celebration of Light comes a time of Darkness, that sorrowful season when night reigns and darkness rules the land, and when the veil between the physical world and the Otherworld is thinnest and most transparent. Samhain and the time of Darkness begin each November first.” Her words echo through the carriage house. They inspire a kind of reverence, and we stand silently for a moment, side by side, before Madame Berrier lifts her eyes from the book and speaks. “Does it mean anything to you? Could it be a clue to the keys you seek?”

I shake my head. “I don’t think so. It means nothing to me. Nothing at all. I—”

“It’s my birthday.” Sonia’s voice is a whisper. “At least, that is what Mrs. Millburn tells me.”

Her words do nothing to clarify my thinking. “What do you mean? Your birthday is November first?”

She nods. “November first, eighteen seventy-four.”

Madame Berrier looks as puzzled as I feel. “Might it be a coincidence?”

Chewing my lip, I wonder if she is right. I drop onto a bedraggled stool, ignoring the plume of dust that rises from its seat as I try to push down a tide of anguish. All of this and we have found next to nothing.

“Do not despair, Lia. We shall figure this out, you’ll see.” Sonia’s voice is calm and reassuring, and I wonder how she can always be optimistic when I should like to throw something at the walls and scream.

I look up at her. “But we still don’t know where to find the keys. The date… Well, that November first is your birthday is interesting, but it doesn’t tell us a single thing about the keys. I had hoped…”

“What, dear girl?” Madame Berrier is still holding the book, looking down at me with sympathy.

“I don’t know. I suppose I had hoped Samhain was a landmark of some kind, a city or town or something. I hoped it would lead us clearly to the keys.”

I am ashamed to feel tears burn the backs of my eyelids. They are not tears of sadness, but of frustration, and I blink rapidly, inhaling the dusty air and trying to compose myself.

“All right,” Sonia says, “we shall simply file this bit away for now, that’s all. The reference to Samhain clearly refers to a date. Perhaps that will be important later. There’s still the next bit, is there not?”

I nod, pulling James’s notes from my bag and peering at them in the dim light of the old building. “Yes. All right, then. Let me see… here it is: ‘Birthed in the first breath of Samhain, In the shadow of the Mystic Stone Serpent of Aubur.’” I look up at Madame Berrier.

She holds out a hand. “May I?”

I hesitate. My shock at realizing first I was the Gate and now the Angel has made me feel that no one is what they seem. Certainly not Alice or I. And not Father, either, working all those years to protect me while I remained ignorant. Even still, Madame Berrier has tried to help us, and it is obvious we must widen our circle if we are to have a chance of finding the keys.

I hand over the notes. “Perhaps it will make sense to you.”

She lowers her head, the proximity with which she holds the paper to her face making me wonder if she is nearsighted. She reads for a moment, eyebrows knitted together in concentration, before handing the notes back to me across the darkness.

“I am most sorry, but… I’m not sure. That is, it sounds rather familiar, but only in the sound of the word itself, not with any sort of recognition.”

Sonia shakes her head. “What do you mean?”

Madame Berrier sighs. “‘Aubur’ sounds English, or… perhaps Celtic. But I don’t recognize it as the name of a town or place.” She brings her other hand to her mouth, tapping there as if this will bring to mind the answers we seek. “Let me ponder it a bit.” She moves past us toward the door. “And let us leave this place. We have been thinking too long and hard on the prophecy. I should like to get back into the sunlight, away from the shadows of the past and the things yet to come.”

We stop in front of Madame Berrier’s building before leaving. A biting wind lifts her hat, and she places a hand on top of it to keep it in place, glancing at Edmund a few feet away before speaking.

“There is one thing I feel I should say….”

I swallow the apprehension that rises in my throat. “What is it?”

“If what I have heard is true, the simplest thing you can do to protect yourself from the Souls is to guard against wearing the amulet.” Her words are said with such nonchalance that they take me off guard.

“The amulet?”

Madame Berrier gestures with one hand, as if it is obvious to what she is referring. “The amulet. The bracelet. The medallion. The one with the mark.”

My gaze slides to Sonia. I have not made a point of telling her about the medallion because I knew not its place in the prophecy.

“The medallion?” I try not to betray any emotion. “What of it?”

“What of it indeed!” Madame Berrier is aghast. “My dear, it is said that every Gate comes into possession of a medallion, a medallion that matches perfectly the mark on her wrist. The Souls can make their way back only when the mark on the medallion is aligned with the mark on the Gate. But for you… well, for you the medallion is even more dangerous. You are the conduit for Samael himself. The small protection you have is to shun the medallion, avoid wearing it, though even this may not be enough.”

Her words are not the surprise they should be. I knew instinctively that the medallion was in some way connected to the pathway back for Samael. Still, this new proof brings forth a question that has teased the darkest parts of my mind. One I have not dared speak aloud until now.

“There is something I don’t understand, Madame. Even if I were to wear the medallion, how might Samael pass into our world? He is but a spirit thing, is he not? An empty soul. How would he move in our world without a body?”

“That, my dear girl, is rather simple.” Madame Berrier presses her lips into a grim line before continuing. “He will use yours.”