Mira steps across the threshold and the cold closes around her at once, sharp with pine and something older — cedar, perhaps, or the smell of books left too long in a damp place. The crow drops from the sill and glides ahead, a black shape just visible at the edge of the dim light spilling from her room. The hallway stretches longer than it should. She counts her steps: seven, twelve, twenty, and still the walls continue — the wallpaper giving way to bare wood, then to something rough and bark-like, as though the house is slowly becoming a forest. At twenty-six steps the hallway opens into a round room she has never seen. A single lantern hangs from a hook at the centre, and beneath it sits a low writing desk. On the desk, folded open, lies a book — and on its cover, in careful ink, is Mira's name.