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The house was built in 1927, a simple craftsman style with square wood and metal pillars flanking the front porch and a small, etched, stained glass window at the top of the green front door. Soren painted the door last spring when Zia’s hints finally turned to reality. Iris always loved the scent of fresh paint. It smelled like a beginning, like a new start—Iris wished she could start over sometimes—like the time she sleepwalked to the grocery store and woke standing in the dairy aisle wearing only a t-shirt and underwear, or the time—the only time—her sophomore year in high school, she went to a party because Logan Riley was there. Logan, with his mane of dark hair and smoldering gaze… and the vomit she heaved on his shoes during their first, and only, slow dance.  She never heard from him again, and rightfully so. Vomit is unforgivable. Iris stopped drinking alcohol after that, not that she ever drank much of it, anyway.

Iris moaned and turned over, burrowing deeper into the silky, lavender scented sheets. Those were all issues for old Iris. Old Iris was too afraid to raise her hand in class, so eager to please, she would drink four shots of vodka just to impress a boy. Old Iris was lonely… Iris twitched and rubbed her nose with her fingers. She didn’t want to get up yet. She wanted to remember the smell of fresh paint and the way Zia and Soren would tease each other. She wanted to remember their family—She wanted to start over.

Light seeped under her closed eyes and she turned her face into the pillow. Dagmar’s image burned against the back of her lids. Moaning, Iris extracted herself from the cocoon of blankets she had wrapped herself in. The Unseelies took Dagmar. Iris couldn’t remember anthing more than that. Had she passed out? Where was she? She took a deep breath and focused on the room around her.

The room was circular—was she in a tower? Its tall windows stretched all the way to the floor and spread between stone walls. Each window was covered in a gauzy ivory film that ruffled slightly against a breeze. Iris looked around, past the mahogany chest of drawers, writing desk, and overstuffed green velvet armchair in front of the river stone tiled fireplace—the room was lovely, decorated in rich jewel tones with Persian accents. Her gaze moved over the electric bronze sconces and thickly woven tapestries that lined the walls, searching for the source of the air. Maybe there was a secret passageway, like in a mystery novel?

She shuffled to the edge of the bed and stood, her legs felt weak. How long was she asleep? Where was she? Suddenly memories tumbled through her mind; the public house in Midvale, the vile tasting ale, the mysterious man standing at the edge of their table and then light—bright and unyielding light… She pulled the thick wool cardigan, resting at the edge of the bed, on over her long green tunic—the fabric brushed against the back of her knees. Where were her boots and leg armor? Where were the rest of her things? Despite the glow of sunlight, cascading through the room, she felt a chill creep up her spine. Iris moved slowly to the imposing windows, brushing the sheer curtain aside, her eyes on the landscape beyond the casement.

There was nothing but rocks and ocean below her. Iris gasped, leaning forward until her forehead bumped against the glass. Waves crashed against the craggy cliffs, spraying a fine mist up into the air around her. The water was crystalline blue, beneath the cresting waves she could see the gossamer scales of a school of fish weaving their way around the jagged stone slabs. She looked past the rocks, hoping to see, well, anything but ocean—there was nothing but a thick fog embracing the water around her. Iris sighed and backed away from the window. She had to find a way out of here.

The door was made of solid aged oak with a thick iron handle. Iris walked to it and pressed her ear up against its smooth surface. She didn’t know what she was expecting to hear but was pleased when everything was silent. She took a deep breath and turned the handle. It opened easily. Iris leaned out into the hallway. The thick stone walls ran down a seemingly endless hall. It was decorated with vibrant landscape paintings between a staggering of wooden doors. The floor was covered with thick wool runners, patterned in knotwork, combining green, blue, orange, brown, red, black, and purple—the colors of the Seven, Iris guessed—into an interlocking pattern, each runner had the same colors and pattern: moon, eye sun. Iris had no idea how a it tied into the Seven. She would worry about that later. Iris stepped out into the hall and padded quietly past the closed doors until she came to a staircase that opened up to, what Iris assumed was a Great Hall.

A grand fireplace sat beyond a stone archway to the left of the staircase, its mantle was covered in vibrantly colored candlesticks cluttered with melted wax that had seeped down the side and pooled onto at its base. Above the candles hung a wide gilded mirror that didn’t seem to hold any reflection. Iris walked through the archway and past the collection of velvet tufted sofas and chairs until she stood below it. It should mirror the stone walls and bright paintings on the opposite wall, but it sat there—nothing but an empty room reflected back at her. How odd. Iris moved back a little and waved her hand in front of her. The reflection didn’t change. Iris looked around at the plush furniture and thick carpets, colored in gold, blue and purple—It must be a trick mirror. She turned back towards the archway and looked beyond. Past the staircase was a massive wooden door, it’s surface carved with the same knotwork pattern as the wool runners in the upstairs hall.

Iris tip-toed over to the door and rested her ear against it. She could hear murmurings of conversation. She rested her hand on the smooth wood as she strained to make out words. It didn’t sound like any language she knew. The voice was deep and gentle, Iris sighed and leaned in until her head rested in the grooves of the carving.

Iris yelped as the door opened and would have fallen into the room if not for a pair of arms steading her. She looked up and met the bright sea-green eyes of the woman from the public house. Iris gasped and straightened herself. “Oh! Sorry! I was— this house is so big, I thought I’d look, I mean I wasn’t snooping or anything.” Iris stumbled over her words and stepped away from her.

Priya smiled, her hand still resting on Iris’s shoulder. “It’s ok, Iris.” She nodded to the hall and the fireplace beyond, “This is your home now.”

Iris frowned and shrugged off her hands. Her smile broadened as Iris shifted away. “My home? I already have a home.” She pointed out, thinking of Soren and Zia—and Dagmar.

“That was temporary.” Priya moved away from her and turned to the desk in the center of the room.

Iris stepped over the threshold. Her eyes widened as she took in the library surrounding her. Three stories of bookshelves linked by ladders and ornately carved spiral staircases met her gaze. She turned in a slow circle, trying to absorb everything she was seeing. It was magnificent. On the first floor, bulky shelves overflowing with books lined the walls surrounding another fireplace and seating area, behind which, sat the dark mahogany desk Priya now leaned against. “What is this place?”

“Lunafell, my home. Do you like it?” Priya smiled at her warmly. “It took a millennia to gather it all.”

Iris inhaled deeply and closed her eyes. The musty smell of parchment and burnt wax combined with the warmth of leather and that oh, so, wonderful, smell of a fresh book, assaulted her senses. Was this what heaven was like? Iris moved to the bookcase nearest to her, her fingertips grazing book spines until one particularly aged and creased manuscript caught her eye, “Shakespeare?”

Priya nodded, “Twelfth Night.” She smiled at her, and Iris felt her chest tighten. “I’ve always been partial to Orsino, the poor sap. Love can devastate so easily if we let it.”

Iris wrinkled her nose, “Lovelorn and frivolous? No thank you, although I do love Viola.” She paused and pulled the folio from the shelf, “I wish I had her wit and courage.” She muttered, running her hand over the wrinkled pages, her eyes alighting on an ink-stained signature. “He signed this?” she gasped.

Priya laughed and moved to her. “Will was always very free with his signatures.”

“You knew him?” Iris felt her voice raise and fought to control it. How was this possible?

“That’s a story for another time, I think.” She pulled the manuscript from Iris’s grasp and re-shelved it. “tell me, what do you think of this place?”

Iris shook her head and moved away from warmth that seemed to radiate in the air around Priya.  “What does it matter what I think?”

“It matters to me, I want you to be happy.”

“Then return me to my sister.”

Priya shook her head, her expression cooled, “That, I cannot do.”

“Why not?”

She smiled thinly and moved back to the desk.

Iris stared, “Why am I here?” she asked slowly.

“It is your destiny to be here, Iris.” She said quietly, taking a seat behind the massive desk.

“What does that mean?”

Priya considered her. “You have tremendous talent—talent we must harness.”

“Harness?” Iris sputtered, “Look, lady, I don’t know who you think I am, but you’ve got the wrong girl.” She began backing slowly out of the room.

“We will see, won’t we?” Priya nodded to her, “there’s food in the kitchen if you are hungry, otherwise, dinner is at eight. Please be on time. I hate waiting.” Her voice was stern.

“Where are my things?” Iris asked as she gripped the door handle.

“In your room, of course.” Priya dismissed her, turning her head back to the papers and books open on the desk. “You’re not a prisoner, Iris.”

“When why can’t I leave?”

“You can leave when we are finished… if you still want to.” She replied casually, “Now, I have things to attend to. Please explore, this is your home now.” Priya’s smile was thin and empty compared to earlier. “Close the door behind you.”

Iris backed out of the room, pulling the door closed. What did she mean, IF she still wanted to? Of course, she wanted to. She needed to find Dagmar—they had to find their father. Iris felt tears stinging at the back of her eyes. Her father—a man she had never met. Would he like her? Iris wiped the back of her hand over her eyes and cleared her throat. She had other things to do than worry about that now, she thought as she climbed the staircase back to her bedroom. First things first—she needed to find her pants.