The Letter
Meredith Trevelyn sat at her kitchen island, methodically sorting through her mail. She separated the bills from the advertisements, placing personal correspondence (rare as it was) in its own neat pile. The cream-colored envelope with the embossed letterhead of “Harrington, Blackwell & Finch, Solicitors” stood out immediately.
She sliced it open with a letter opener, her expression neutral despite the slight tremor in her hands. It had been three weeks since the brief phone call informing her of Agatha Trevelyn’s passing. She had sent flowers but did not attend the funeral.
The letter was formal and to the point, much like Meredith herself:
“Dear Ms. Trevelyn,
This letter is to inform you that under the Last Will and Testament of Agatha Eleanor Trevelyn, you have been named the sole beneficiary of her estate, including the property known as Trevelyn Cottage, situated at Moorland End, St. Just, Cornwall.
There is, however, a condition to this inheritance. The property will pass to you only if you agree to reside at Trevelyn Cottage for a minimum period of one year from the date of taking possession. Should you decline this condition, the property will be donated to the Cornwall Heritage Trust.
Your grandmother was most insistent on this point, noting that ‘the house must have a Trevelyn in residence.’ She has also left a sealed letter for you, which we have been instructed to deliver only upon your arrival at the property.
Please contact our offices at your earliest convenience to discuss how you wish to proceed.
Yours sincerely,
Raymond Finch Esq., KC
Senior Partner
Harrington, Blackwell & Finch, Solicitors”
Meredith set the letter down, her analytical mind already calculating the costs: a year of her life, a year away from her career in London, a year in a remote cottage filled with memories she had spent fifteen years trying to forget.
Yet something tugged at her—the same inexplicable force that occasionally pulled her from dreams of shifting corridors and doors leading to impossible places. The same force she had devoted her adult life to dismissing as mere childhood imagination.
She glanced at her laptop, where a half-finished risk assessment spreadsheet awaited her attention, then back at the letter. One year in exchange for a valuable coastal property she could eventually sell was, objectively speaking, a sound investment.
What she couldn’t explain was the quickening of her pulse at the thought of returning to Trevelyn Cottage—or the whisper in the back of her mind that had waited fifteen years to say, “Welcome back.”
Arrival
The train from London had been predictably efficient until Exeter, where the line narrowed and the pace slowed to match the gradual transition from urban life to rural tranquility. By the time Meredith stepped onto the platform at Penzance, she felt as if she had traveled back in time as well as across the country.
She had hired a car for the final leg—a sensible compact with good fuel economy. The rental agent raised his eyebrows when she mentioned St. Just.
“Moorland End? That’s quite isolated, miss. Especially this time of year.”
Meredith simply nodded and signed the paperwork. She preferred isolation, as it provided her with the space to work remotely and strategize on how to manage her unexpected sabbatical.
The narrow lanes became increasingly unforgiving as she approached St. Just, with hedgerows pressing in on either side like verdant walls. Her GPS faltered and then completely surrendered as she turned onto an unmarked road that seemed more like a suggestion than an actual thoroughfare.
She navigated the final miles from memory, surprising herself with how easily the turns came back to her. Left at the ancient standing stone. Right where the three pines clustered like conspirators. Straight past the abandoned tin mine, its skeletal frame stark against the sky.
As the road crested a low hill, Trevelyn Cottage appeared below, nestled in a natural hollow where the moorland met the sea cliffs.
It seemed smaller than she remembered. Or perhaps she had simply grown. The whitewashed walls glowed in the late afternoon light, topped by a slate roof weathered to the color of storm clouds. Chimney smoke drifted lazily upward—which made no sense, considering that the house had been empty since her grandmother’s passing.
Meredith pulled into the gravel driveway and turned off the engine. In the sudden silence, she could hear the distant rhythm of waves crashing against the cliffs and the gentle whisper of wind through the gorse. She checked her phone—no signal, as expected.
The brass key felt unusually heavy in her pocket as she approached the blue-painted door. Just as she was about to insert it into the lock, the door swung open on silent hinges.
Meredith froze, one foot on the threshold. The logical explanation was a draft, or perhaps the caretaker Mr. Finch had mentioned was still inside. Yet, the prickling sensation at the back of her neck suggested something else entirely.
“Hello?” she called, her voice sounding more diminutive than she would have preferred.
No answer came, but as she stepped inside, the scent of woodsmoke and rosemary enveloped her—her grandmother’s eternal perfume. More startling was the vivid sensation of the door gently closing behind her, even though she hadn’t touched it.
From somewhere deep within the house, the soft creak of floorboards echoed as if someone- or something- was moving from room to room, checking each in turn before finally becoming still.
Waiting.
First Exploration
Meredith set her suitcase down in the entryway, studying the interior with a critical eye. The cottage appeared well-maintained, not just tidy but lived-in. Fresh flowers were arranged in a vase on the hall table—sea lavender and gorse, her grandmother’s favorite combination. The floors gleamed from recent polishing.
“Mr. Finch?” she called again, louder this time. “Is someone here?”
Only silence replied, punctuated by the gentle ticking of the grandfather clock that had occupied the same corner for as long as she could remember. The hands pointed to 4:17, the precise time she’d pulled into the drive.
Cautiously, she moved toward the kitchen, half expecting to find her grandmother’s caretaker preparing tea. Instead, she encountered an empty room—though the kettle was warm to the touch, and a single cup and saucer sat waiting on the counter.
A folded note card resting against the sugar bowl caught her attention. She instantly recognized the elegant, spidery handwriting.
Welcome home, Merry. I’ve made sure everything is ready for your return. The blue room is prepared, as always. We have much to discuss when the time is right.
—A
Meredith’s hands trembled as she set the note down. A rational explanation existed—her grandmother must have instructed someone to prepare for her eventual arrival. But the timing was uncanny, and “Merry” was a childhood nickname only Agatha had used.
She abandoned her exploration of the ground floor and headed upstairs, drawn toward the blue bedroom that had been hers during childhood summers. The door was slightly ajar, and as she approached, she could have sworn she heard it creak wider, as if inviting her in.
The room was exactly as she remembered—blue-patterned wallpaper, white lace curtains, and the patchwork quilt on the four-poster bed. But something on the nightstand made her breath catch: a small, leather-bound book with a brass lock. Her childhood diary, which she’d deliberately left behind when she’d stormed out fifteen years ago, swearing never to return.
The key to the diary hung from a ribbon beside it—a key she’d hidden inside a hollow stone in the garden wall.
As Meredith settled onto the edge of the bed, the floorboards creaked sympathetically beneath her. The sound appeared to ripple outward, traveling through the house like a sigh of relief.
“This is ridiculous,” she muttered, reaching for her phone to check the time. The screen remained black—battery drained despite having charged it fully before leaving London.
The unmistakable sound of a door creaking open, then gently closing, drifted upstairs. Footsteps echoed across the entryway and began their ascent up the stairs—unhurried, deliberate steps belonging to someone who knew precisely where they were headed.
Meredith stood up, backing toward the window. The steps reached the landing and then moved closer to her door.
“Who’s there?” she demanded, her voice steadier than she felt.
The footsteps stopped. The brass doorknob turned slowly, and as the door swung wide, Meredith found herself facing not an intruder but a sealed envelope, suspended in mid-air at eye level.
Mr. Finch’s promised delivery—her grandmother’s last message—had seemingly found its own way to her.
The Letter
Meredith stared at the floating envelope, her analytical mind racing for an explanation. A draft from the window, perhaps? A thread she couldn’t see? Anything but the reality before her—an envelope suspended in mid-air, waiting.
After a long moment, she reached out and grasped it. The paper felt warm, as if it had been sitting in sunlight, even though the day was overcast. The seal bore her grandmother’s distinctive wax stamp—a tree with roots that transformed into a labyrinth.
Her hands trembled as she broke the seal and unfolded the letter within, instantly recognizing Agatha’s handwriting:
My dearest Meredith,
If you’re reading this, then I’ve passed beyond and the house has accepted you as its next guardian. Yes, guardian—not owner. One doesn’t own Trevelyn Cottage so much as enter into an arrangement with it.
I know you abandoned what you saw as my superstitions years ago. You chose numbers and probabilities over the family legacy. I never blamed you for this—fear often masquerades as skepticism.
But now you’ve returned, and there’s much to explain. The diary on your nightstand contains the beginning of your education. I suggest you start reading immediately. Time moves differently here, especially during the equinox, which is nearly upon us.
Trust the house, Merry. It knows more than either of us ever will. And be kind to our visitors when they arrive—they’ve been waiting rather a long time.
All my love, Agatha
P.S. The doors change after sunset. Best to stay in the blue room until morning.
Meredith lowered the letter, a chill spreading through her despite the warmth of the room. As if in response to her discomfort, the blue curtains suddenly stirred, even though the windows remained closed.
“This is absurd,” she muttered, folding the letter and shoving it into her pocket. “Post-traumatic stress, likely. Grief manifesting as—”
Her rationalization was interrupted by the sound of her childhood diary’s lock clicking open by itself. The cover lifted, and the pages turned automatically until they settled halfway through the book.
Against her better judgment, Meredith glanced down at the page. Her own childish handwriting stared back at her, a passage dated exactly fifteen years ago to the day:
I saw it again today: the door that shouldn’t be there. Grandma says I’ll understand when I’m older, that all Trevelyn women see it eventually. She says it’s waiting for me to be ready. I’m scared but also curious. What’s on the other side?
The grandfather clock downstairs suddenly chimed five times, though it had shown 4:17 just minutes before. Through the bedroom window, Meredith watched in disbelief as the afternoon light rapidly faded, twilight descending like a curtain being drawn.
Sunset was coming hours too early. Then, she suddenly recalled her grandmother’s warning about the doors.
A metallic groan echoed through the house—the sound of hinges that had not moved for years suddenly coming to life. From somewhere downstairs came the unmistakable sound of a door swinging open.
And footsteps—not the familiar creaking of the house settling, but purposeful steps—began to ascend the stairs.
The First Door
Unable to sleep, Meredith paced the blue bedroom, her grandmother’s letter clutched in one hand. The warning about doors changing after sunset echoed in her mind, but the rational part of her—the part that had built a successful career analyzing statistical probabilities—refused to accept such absurdity.
“This is ridiculous,” she muttered, finally reaching for the brass doorknob. “I’m a grown woman afraid of my own childhood home.”
The hallway outside was different—subtly at first, then unmistakably so. The familiar corridor seemed longer, the wallpaper pattern shifting from faded roses to intricate vines that almost appeared to undulate in the candlelight. Doors she remembered were now missing, while new ones had appeared.
One door, in particular, caught her attention. Tall and narrow, it stood where a linen closet should have been. Its wood was unlike any she had seen before—dark as midnight, yet with whorls that gleamed like embedded stars. Symbols were carved along its frame, characters that seemed to rearrange themselves whenever she tried to focus on them.
“Not real,” she whispered, even as her fingers reached toward the ornate iron handle. “Just stress and poor lighting.”
The handle turned easily, as if anticipating her touch. The door swung inward, but instead of revealing a closet or another room of the cottage, Meredith found herself staring into a moonlit forest. Silver trees with luminescent bark stretched toward a sky filled with two moons—one blue and one golden. Strange fruits hung from the branches, emitting soft, bell-like tones when a gentle breeze stirred them.
The scent wafting through the doorway was intoxicating—like cinnamon, sea salt, and something entirely foreign yet oddly familiar. Meredith felt drawn forward, her skepticism momentarily suspended in the face of undeniable wonder.
Without a conscious decision, she stepped through the doorway. The moment her foot touched the silver-grassed forest floor, a sensation swept through her—a feeling of rightness, a sense of belonging that she’d never experienced before. The trees appeared to bend slightly toward her, their glowing bark brightening in what almost felt like recognition.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” came a voice beside her.
Meredith startled turning to find a small figure standing nearby. The creature—certainly not human—had features that blended fox and man, with bright amber eyes and a coat of russet fur. He wore clothes that seemed woven from moonlight itself.
“The Silvershade Forest,” the creature continued casually. “Your grandmother visited frequently. The fruits have properties that alleviated her arthritis.”
“Who—wha are you?” Meredith managed, backing toward the door that still stood open behind her. A rectangular portal showed the cottage hallway beyond.
“Thorne,” the creature said with a slight bow. “Caretaker of Trevelyn Cottage between guardians. I’ve been waiting for your return, though I must admit I expected you much sooner.”
“This isn’t real,” Meredith insisted, though her scientific mind struggled to explain the impossible scene before her.
“First journeys should be brief,” Thorne said, disregarding her denial. “The forest is friendly enough, but even welcoming dimensions can overwhelm newcomers.” He gestured back toward the door. “We should return before it closes for the night.”
“Closes?”
“Doors have schedules, Miss Trevelyn. Surely, your grandmother mentioned that? This one opens only at moonrise and closes when the blue moon reaches its zenith—which will occur in approximately three minutes.”
To emphasize his point, the doorway flickered slightly, causing the view of the cottage hallway to waver like a mirage.
Thorne gently took her elbow. “I believe questions are better answered on the other side.”
Reluctantly, Meredith allowed herself to be led back through the door, turning for one last glance at the impossible forest before stepping back into the cottage hallway. The moment both she and Thorne were through, the door swung shut with a decisive click.
And then, right before her eyes, the door shimmered and changed back into an ordinary linen closet.
“The first crossing is always the most disorienting,” Thorne said sympathetically. “Tea helps; I’ve prepared some downstairs.”
As he padded toward the staircase, Meredith stood frozen, her fingertips pressed against the now-ordinary closet door, her world irrevocably changed.
The Journal
Morning light filtered through the lace curtains, casting delicate patterns across Meredith’s face as she woke. For a moment, she lay still, trying to convince herself that the night’s events had been nothing more than a stress-induced dream. The silvery forest, the fox-like creature named Thorne, and the impossible doorway—all mere figments of an overactive imagination.
Then her gaze fell on her bedside table, where her childhood diary rested beside a leather-bound journal she didn’t recognize. A note was tucked between them in unfamiliar handwriting: “Begin with memory, proceed to knowledge. —T”
With hesitant curiosity, Meredith reached for her grandmother’s journal. The cover was smooth from years of handling, and the pages were filled with Agatha’s distinctive script. She began to read, her skepticism wavering with each turn of the page.
March 13, 1982 – Meredith saw her first door today, Earlier than any Trevelyn before her. She described the Crystal Archives perfectly, though she’s never been there. This one shows strong potential, perhaps the strongest in generations.
October 31, 1987 – The Autumn Court has requested another meeting. Their emissary arrived through the fireplace door, startling poor Meredith. I explained that dimensional etiquette requires advance notice, especially when children are present.
June 21, 1990 – Tested Meredith’s sensitivity today. She accurately identified all seven active thresholds without guidance. Extraordinary. I am concerned about what this may mean for her future.
Meredith flipped forward several years, landing on an entry that made her breath catch.
September 4, 2008 – Meredith has left, vowing never to return. I pushed too hard and revealed too much. Her fear manifested as anger, as it often does in the young. I’ve sealed the most volatile doorways, but they cannot remain closed indefinitely. The balance must be maintained. I can only hope she returns before it’s too late.
The subsequent entries detailed her grandmother’s declining health and increasing concern about the dimensional boundaries. Agatha frequently mentioned a “shadow” that had begun to test the thresholds, especially during celestial events like equinoxes and solstices.
February 12, 2024 – I sense it watching, waiting for my strength to fail completely. The house does what it can to reinforce the barriers, but without a blood guardian, its power diminishes. Thorne reports fluctuations in the stable pathways. I’ve left instructions with Raymond regarding the inheritance. Meredith must return. The barriers weaken daily.
The final entry, dated just a week before her grandmother’s death, was written in a shaky hand:
April 3, 2024 – It has discovered a way to cast shadows. Not full manifestation, but troubling nonetheless. Today, it took the form of a raven, watching from the garden wall. When I approached, it spoke my name. The equinox approaches, when the veils naturally thin. If Meredith doesn’t accept her role by then, I fear what might cross over. The Trevelyn blood carries power, but also obligation. We don’t choose this life; it chooses us.
Meredith closed the journal, her analytical mind racing to grasp its implications. If even half of what her grandmother wrote was true, then the house was not merely a house, and her inheritance was far more intricate than just property.
A gentle knock at the bedroom door interrupted her thoughts. When she opened it, she found a breakfast tray suspended in mid-air, a steaming pot of tea and fresh scones arranged neatly beside another note:
Questions after breakfast. The library. —T
As Meredith took the tray, the implications of her grandmother’s journal settled over her like a heavy weight. Dimensional doorways. Guardianship. A mysterious shadow testing boundaries. And at the center of it all was the Trevelyn bloodline—her bloodline—bound to this cottage for generations.
The equinox her grandmother mentioned was only days away.
The Choice
The library was different from what Meredith remembered. Bookshelves now reached impossibly high, curving slightly at the top as if the room itself bent toward an unseen focal point. Volumes in unfamiliar languages were interspersed with titles she recognized. Some books appeared to shift positions when she wasn’t looking directly at them.
Thorne sat in a wingback chair that was far too large for his small frame, sipping tea from a china cup that appeared comically oversized in his paws.
“You have questions,” he said, not looking up from the tome resting on his lap. “Most guardians do, at first.”
“I’m not a guardian,” Meredith replied instinctively, though the word resonated within her in a way she couldn’t explain. “I’m a risk analyst from London who inherited a cottage.”
“Hmm,” Thorne said, turning a page. “And yet, you’ve walked between worlds, read your grandmother’s journal, and are now conversing with me, a being your statistical models would consider impossible.”
Meredith paced the room, her organized mind struggling to categorize what was happening. “Let’s assume, for the sake of argument, that what I’ve seen is real. You’re saying this house contains doorways to other dimensions, and my family has been… what? Maintaining them?”
“Guarding them,” Thorne corrected. “Ensuring that passage remains possible for those with permission while preventing incursions from less benevolent entities.” He sipped his tea. “The Trevelyn bloodline possesses certain properties—a resonance with dimensional thresholds that enables you to perceive and eventually manipulate them.”
“And if I refuse this… legacy?”
Thorne’s amber eyes locked onto hers for the first time. “The barriers weaken. Eventually, they fail. The consequences would be… significant.”
Before Meredith could press further, her phone chirped—the first sign of reception since her arrival. A text message appeared: Finalizing paperwork for the cottage transfer. I will arrive at 11am tomorrow to complete it. —Raymond Finch
‘ I need to think,” she said abruptly, turning toward the door. ‘ This is too much.”
“The equinox approaches,” Thorne reminded her gently. “In three days. Your grandmother upheld the boundaries for as long as she could.”
Meredith fled to her room, tossing essential items into her suitcase. Part of her recognized that she was running from the truth instead of confronting it, but the logical, analytical part of her brain—the part that had shaped her career and identity—couldn’t reconcile the idea of talking foxes and dimensional doorways.
By morning, she had made her decision. She would meet with Finch, sign whatever was needed to take ownership, and then immediately put the cottage on the market. Someone else could handle its peculiarities.
As she descended the stairs with her suitcase, the cottage seemed to creak in protest, drafts trailing behind her from room to room like plaintive whispers. She ignored them, placing her luggage by the front door just as a sharp knock echoed.
Eleven o’clock exactly. At least Finch was punctual.
When she opened the door, the solicitor stood on the threshold, immaculate in a charcoal suit. “Miss Trevelyn,” he greeted her with a smile that failed to reach his eyes. “I see you’re packed. Leaving so soon?”
“I have made my decision,” she stated firmly. “Let’s finish the paperwork so I can return to London.”
As Finch stepped forward, something caused Meredith to hesitate. His smile was too perfect, his movements too graceful. The shadows surrounding him appeared unnaturally deep, pooling at his feet like oil.
“Is something wrong, Miss Trevelyn?” he asked, his voice suddenly carrying an echo that shouldn’t have been possible in the open air.
Throughout the cottage, doors violently swung open and shut, and windows rattled in their frames. The house was reacting to something—warning her.
When Finch smiled once more, his teeth appeared too sharp and too numerous. This wasn’t the Raymond Finch of Harrington, Blackwell & Finch.
This was the shadow her grandmother had feared.
As the creature lunged forward, it collided with an invisible barrier at the threshold. The house was safeguarding her, but she sensed the resistance weakening—like a muscle beginning to falter under strain.
“The house requires a Trevelyn,” the false Finch hissed, its voice now entirely inhuman. “And soon it will have none.”
In that moment, Meredith understood. Without her conscious acceptance of guardianship, the cottage’s protections were weakening. She had a choice to make: flee and leave the dimensions unprotected, or accept her inheritance along with all the responsibilities that came with it.
Behind her, a door emerged where none had been before—a door she instinctively knew led back to her London flat. Escape was within reach.
As she observed the creature masquerading as Finch, probing the threshold with elongated fingers that emitted wisps of smoke upon contact with the barrier, she understood what her grandmother had meant about obligation.
The Trevelyn blood held power, but also purpose.
And perhaps that purpose had been beckoning to her all along.
Acceptance
Meredith stared at the false Finch, watching as his form rippled and distorted against the invisible barrier. The creature had abandoned all pretense of humanity; its fingers elongated into shadowy talons that probed the threshold’s weakening defenses.
“You aren’t welcome here,” she said, surprised by the steadiness of her voice.
The entity tilted its head at an impossible angle. “I don’t require welcome, only entrance. The barriers weaken with each passing moment. Your grandmother is gone. You reject your birthright. Soon, nothing will prevent me from claiming this nexus.”
Throughout the cottage, sounds of distress intensified—floorboards creaking, windows shaking, the very foundation appearing to tremble. Meredith could feel it as if it were a physical pain, a desperate plea reaching out to her.
“What do you want?” she asked, buying time while she considered her options.
“What all beings desire,” the shadow replied. “Expansion. Your realm is… enticing. So many lives, so many minds, and so little comprehension of what surrounds them.”
Without conscious thought, Meredith found her hand pressing against the cottage wall. The contact sent a jolt through her entire body—a surge of connection that felt ancient and familiar at the same time. The house responded to her touch, the walls seeming to warm under her fingers.
The shadow entity immediately noticed the change, its form rippling with agitation. “What are you doing, little guardian?” it hissed.
Guardian. The word resonated within her, awakening something that had remained dormant for fifteen years. Meredith closed her eyes, feeling the essence of the cottage flowing into her, revealing what needed to be done.
With sudden clarity, she understood—the house was not merely a structure with doors to other dimensions. It was a living threshold, and the Trevelyn bloodline was its voice, its will made manifest.
Opening her eyes, Meredith squared her shoulders and faced the shadow directly. “In the name of the Trevelyn lineage, by the authority vested in me as guardian of this threshold, I deny you entry and command you to depart.”
Power surged through her words, rippling visibly in the air. The cottage responded with a deafening groan as its very foundations shifted. The shadow creature shrieked, its form compressing as an invisible force thrust it backward from the door.
“This isn’t over,” it spat as its form dissipated. “The equinox is coming. Prepare yourself, guardian.”
With one last surge of determination, Meredith slammed the door shut. Every door and window in the cottage closed in unison with a resounding boom that echoed between worlds.
Trembling from the aftermath of power, Meredith sank to the floor of the entryway. Moments later, Thorne appeared beside her, offering a steaming cup of tea as if conjuring beverages during dimensional confrontations were perfectly ordinary.
“Well done,” he said, simply, “for a first attempt.”
“It will return,” Meredith stated, certain of it.
Thorne nodded. “And others like it. They sense when the barriers are weakened.”
She accepted the tea, her analytical mind finally surrendering to what her heart had always known. “The doors… do they lead to different dimensions?”
“Not just doors,” Thorne corrected, gesturing broadly. “Windows, mirrors, and even the gaps between the floorboards in certain rooms. This house stands at a convergence of worlds. It has been this way since it was built by your ancestor Eliza Trevelyn in 1723.”
Meredith approached the window, observing the subtle changes in the garden outside—flowers shifting colors, the stone wall appearing to grow taller then shorter, as if the reality beyond was unsure of its form.
“Why me?” she asked. “I turned my back on all of this. I didn’t believe in it.”
“Belief was never required,” Thorne said with a slight smile. “Only bloodline and readiness.”
As if in response, a new door appeared on the far wall of the sitting room—this one small and round, made of a wood Meredith had never encountered before. It pulsed gently, like a heartbeat.
“Your grandmother’s favorite,” Thorne explained. “It leads to a world of floating islands and crystal birds. She often visited when her arthritis troubled her. The air there has healing properties.”
Meredith approached the door cautiously, something awakening within her that had been dormant for fifteen years. When she touched the handle, the door hummed in recognition.
She turned to Thorne. “I need to learn quickly. Can you teach me?”
The creature bowed slightly. “That is why I stay, Guardian.”
As Meredith opened the door, revealing a sky of impossible colors beyond, she felt the cottage settle around her—not merely a building but a living entity, acknowledging its new keeper. Whatever awaited on the other side of this door and all the others to come, she would confront it not as the practical risk analyst she had been yesterday but as what she had always been: a Trevelyn, walker between worlds, guardian of the thresholds.
And for the first time in fifteen years, it felt exactly right.
