An open window was like an invitation. Shade slipped her fingers through the narrow crack, feeling for the latch that would allow the old, wooden frame to swing inward. Fortunately, there was no lock. Such a mechanism had surely seemed unnecessary, given that she'd found the window a full hundred feet above the ground, near the top of what appeared to be an old, abandoned tower. She’d scaled the weathered stonework with the vague notion that the tower might prove an ideal place to weather the night—and to hide from the guards that were no doubt still scouring the woods for the young rogue who’d managed to swindle a small pouch of emeralds from the old widow in Orin’s Point.

Shade sighed. The game had gone perfectly until the cursed crone had returned to fetch her forgotten cane. The Jackal’s luck wasn’t with me. It hadn’t been with her for months. Still, she had the emeralds and her skin.

Something to be thankful for.

The window creaked inward with a mournful protest. Shade checked her grip before pulling herself up through the opening and into a dark corridor. It was strangely free of dust, grime or any other sign of habitation. The air was dry and tinged with the aromas of leaves, bark and sweet, sticky sap. It was her first indication that not all was as it seemed.

Step by hushed step, Shade followed the dark corridor as it traced the perimeter of the tower. All too soon, she found herself standing before the same window. Somehow, it had closed. She frowned, turning away to search of a place to bed down for the night. Instead, she found herself looking at a door.

That wasn’t there before. A shiver of apprehension tickled at her nape. She reached for the window again, wondering if she’d do better chancing an encounter with the guards of Orin’s Point. The frame wouldn’t budge.

"Typical," she muttered. She looked back toward the door—and felt almost as though it was gazing back at her. Its wood was dark and rich, carved in intricate patterns that seemed almost Karinth in their geometry. The handle was large and ornate, glimmering faintly in the dim light of the treacherous window. There was something oddly inviting about the door. As her hand inched forward, it occurred to her that doors were meant to be opened, and that the opening would lead from one place to another. Given that she was overcome with the sudden and inexplicable need to be anywhere else, she allowed her fingers to close about the handle. The door, quite unlike the window, swung open without a sound. Curious, she crossed the threshold.

And entered into a cavernous chamber.

It seemed impossibly vast—far too large to rest atop the tower she’d climbed. The ceiling was vaulted, a full thirty feet if it was an inch. The floor was all polished marble, save for a single bed of earth, covered in a thick carpet of emerald-green grass and honey-coloured marigolds. At the very centre of that bed stood a tree. It was tall and broad, with thickly corded roots and branches that stretched upward in symmetrical patterns. Its entire surface was covered in a mercurial bark of silvery white, and the tear-shaped leaves were redder than the freshest blood. Dozens of firebugs flittered through the air, glimmering and shimmering as they danced.

Shade took a step backward, reaching for the door again, only to find that it had vanished.

—Welcome, child. The words seem to bubble up from the depths of her mind. The voice was calm and melodious in the way that Shade might have imagined her mother's voice—if she'd ever stopped to think of such a thing. She didn't. Her mother had died years ago, leaving Shade an orphan girl struggling to survive the hardships of the sprawling slums of the Birches.

She glanced at the tree. The branches rustled expectantly. "Who are you?" she asked.

—I am the Teirwetch. A creature of the Old Magic.

Shade frowned. Something about the name seemed distantly familiar, like a fragment of a dream only half remembered. "I see. And what's a magic tree doing locked up in a tower?"

—Waiting for you.