Sarah blinked rapidly, her eyes adjusting to the sudden brightness.

Sunlight. Not the polite, filtered afternoon light of English country houses, but the bold, assertive kind that fills meadows in fairy tales—the kind where one fully expects to meet talking animals and handsome princes. It poured down like honey from a sky that seemed a touch too blue to be entirely trustworthy. The air smelled of summer—not the tepid, apologetic summers of Little Thornbury, but the kind of summer that means business.

A massive oak tree spread its branches overhead. Its trunk was wider than Sarah’s bedroom, and its branches reached toward the sky. To her right, a rosebush had taken root that would have made Aunt Margaret’s prized garden look like a collection of weeds. The roses bloomed deep red, the color of secrets and adventures and things that proper young ladies absolutely should not get involved with. These grew with wild abandon, as if they’d never heard of pruning shears and wouldn’t have cared if they had. A butterfly drifted by.

The grass beneath her feet (and when had she stepped out into it?) felt springier than ordinary grass, as if each blade had been individually stuffed with tiny feathers.

A breeze whispered past, carrying with it the distinct impression that it knew several interesting secrets and might be persuaded to share them. It tugged at her dress—which, to Sarah’s surprise, had somehow transformed from its earlier rebellion into something that looked almost presentable.

Sarah stood very still, trying to decide if this was the sort of situation where one ought to pinch oneself. (She had always found that particular advice rather unhelpful—after all, if one were dreaming, wouldn’t one simply dream the pinch?) The sunlight felt real enough on her face, and the grass beneath her feet exhibited the kind of precise, prickly discomfort that imagination typically glossed over, each blade asserting its individual existence with annoying authenticity.

Turning back, she expected—hoped, maybe—to find the door still open, a portal tethering this wonderland to solid reality. Yet there, in the vast trunk of the oak, rested only a hollow. No sign of the door remained, no handle or frame. She reached out to touch the bark, half-expecting her fingers to pass through it. The wood felt solid, warm, and utterly unrepentant in its deception—as innocent as a cat beside a broken vase.

“Well,” she said aloud, because sometimes situations demand verbal acknowledgment, even when one’s audience consists entirely of oneself. “That’s rather inconvenient.”

The hollow seemed to agree, offering neither explanation nor apology for its lack of proper doorness. Sarah ran her hands along its edges, searching for hidden catches or secret mechanisms—the sort of thing any self-respecting magical door ought to have. But the wood remained stubbornly tree-like, refusing to reveal any hints of its recent architectural aspirations.

* * *

The grass stretched out before her, scattered with wildflowers that looked as if they’d been arranged by someone with an excellent eye for color but a complete disregard for traditional garden planning. In the distance, mountains rose in misty peaks, wearing clouds like fancy hats.

Sarah took a few experimental steps away from the tree.

“Hello?” she called out, immediately regretting it. In stories, calling out hello in mysterious magical places tended to attract exactly the sort of attention one might prefer to avoid. But the meadow absorbed her voice without echo or response.

The rosebush beside the tree caught her attention again. Its blooms seemed to have multiplied in the last few minutes. A single petal detached itself and drifted down, landing at her feet with impossible grace. Sarah picked it up—it felt like velvet between her fingers.

She was about to examine it more closely when movement at the edge of the meadow caught her eye. Something white gleamed between the trees that bordered the clearing.

The rose petal in her hand gave a little quiver, as if trying to decide whether to rejoin its fellows on the bush. Sarah released it, watching as it spiraled up instead of down, dancing on air currents that followed rules of their own making.

* * *

A white stag stepped from the treeline. This, in itself, would have been remarkable enough.

His cloak—for he wore a cloak—rippled in the breeze, the silver fabric catching the light. Delicate gold chains draped between his antlers, from which hung tiny crystal pendants that chimed softly with each dignified step.

Now, it should be noted that Sarah had read enough stories to know that magical creatures appearing in enchanted meadows generally marked the beginning of an adventure. What the stories had neglected to mention was exactly how one should compose oneself when said magical creature appeared to be better dressed than most of the British aristocracy.

Sarah found herself automatically straightening her posture. Something about the stag’s bearing suggested that slouching would be considered a serious social faux pas. She wished, rather desperately, that she’d paid more attention during Aunt Margaret’s endless lectures on proper etiquette.

The stag approached with measured steps. A butterfly fluttered past his antlers, paused as if considering whether to land on one of the crystal pendants, then thought better of it. As he drew nearer, Sarah could see that his eyes were the deep blue of twilight, holding within them the kind of wisdom that comes from reading every book ever written and then deciding to write a few more, just to be thorough.

He paused exactly three paces away—the proper distance, Sarah somehow knew, though she couldn’t have said how she knew it. The crystal pendants in his antlers chimed a delicate harmony, like wind chimes announcing the arrival of an important visitor.

The stag regarded her with an air of polite expectation, as if waiting to see whether she would remember the correct protocol for such an encounter. Sarah remained rooted to the spot, caught between the competing instincts to curtsy (which seemed appropriate but potentially embarrassing if this turned out to be an ordinary stag with unusual fashion sense) or to pinch herself again (which seemed increasingly pointless given the circumstances.)

The butterfly flew off, apparently recognizing when it had been socially outclassed.

* * *

The stag executed a bow of such perfect grace that it would have made Aunt Margaret’s deportment teacher weep with joy. His front leg extended with balletic precision, the crystal pendants in his antlers performing a synchronized tinkling that somehow suggested both welcome and we’ve been expecting you without a single word being spoken.

“My dear young lady,” said the stag in a voice that contained precise measurements of warmth and formality, like a perfectly brewed cup of tea. “I trust your journey through the White Door was satisfactory?”

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Sarah opened her mouth, closed it, then opened it again. The situation seemed to demand a response of equal sophistication, but her mind offered only, “Er, yes, thank you,” which felt rather inadequate.

From somewhere behind him—and Sarah would have sworn there was nothing there a moment ago—appeared a silver tray. It floated at exactly the height one would expect a properly trained butler to hold it, if properly trained butlers were invisible. Upon the tray rested a business card.

“I trust,” continued the stag, as the tray drifted closer, “that you will forgive the informality of our meeting. Had we known to expect such an esteemed guest, we would naturally have arranged a proper reception.”

“I... thank you?” Sarah managed, wondering if there was a chapter in Aunt Margaret’s etiquette books covering how to address magical stags. She rather doubted it, though knowing her aunt, there might well be a footnote somewhere about the proper fork to use when dining with enchanted creatures.

“Not at all, not at all,” the stag replied, gesturing to the floating tray with a slight incline of his head that set the crystal pendants chiming again. “Please, do me the honor of accepting my credentials. One must observe the proper formalities, even in these... shall we say, unprecedented circumstances.”

The tray hovered patiently at Sarah’s elbow. The crystal pendants swayed expectantly.

“I’m afraid,” Sarah said, falling back on the sort of polite phrases her mother had drilled into her, “that I don’t have a card to offer in return.” She patted her pockets reflexively, as if one might have materialized there purely out of social necessity.

“My dear young lady,” the stag replied, his eyes twinkling with the sort of merriment that suggested he knew several excellent jokes but was far too well-bred to share them without proper introduction, “in circumstances such as these, one’s presence is quite credential enough.”

The butterfly that had rejected his antlers earlier fluttered past again, managing somehow to look embarrassed about its previous social gaffe.

* * *

The card rested on the silver tray like a small work of art. It should be noted that magical business cards, unlike their mundane cousins, consider themselves far too important to simply state facts. They prefer to make an entrance. The text appeared to have been written in liquid gold that somehow remained perfectly wet without smudging:

Lord Alphonse Stagworthy III

Royal Keeper of the Western Woods

Master of Ceremonial Moonlight

Guardian of the Sacred Grove

Purveyor of Fine Riddles & Distinguished Dreams (Alternate Thursdays)

Below these impressive titles, in slightly smaller script that seemed to wink conspiratorially at the reader, was a postscript:

Available for Garden Parties and Select Enchantments

No Hunting Parties, Thank You

Sarah turned the card over. The back bore an intricate design of intertwined leaves and branches that appeared to be growing even as she watched, like a time-lapse film of spring condensed into seconds. A tiny golden acorn in one corner definitely winked at her—though when she looked again, it pretended to be perfectly ordinary.

The longer Sarah studied the card, the more details revealed themselves. Tiny creatures scurried through the illustrated branches—here a miniature fox adjusting its emerald cravat, there a dormouse consulting a pocket watch. In one corner, a minuscule owl appeared to be grading papers. The ink shifted and swirled, occasionally rearranging itself to display different credentials and accomplishments, each more fantastical than the last. One moment it proclaimed Champion of Twilight Croquet, the next Honorary Professor of Improbable Mathematics.

A certain sort of person might have found all this rather overwhelming. Sarah, however, had spent enough time hiding adventure novels inside her geography textbooks to recognize an invitation to something interesting when she saw one. Besides, any card that went to such lengths to be impressive probably had something worth being impressive about.

The card gave one final flourish, adding a line in particularly elegant script: Specialist in Guiding Lost Children, Confused Travelers, and Those Who Have Accidentally Stumbled Into Adventure. Then, as if embarrassed by its own showmanship, it settled into a dignified stillness, though the tiny acorn in the corner continued to wink whenever it thought Sarah wasn’t looking.

Sarah carefully tucked the card into her pocket, where it nestled with the kind of satisfied rustle that suggested it had been waiting all day to be properly appreciated. The silver tray gave a polite cough (if trays could cough) and gracefully retreated to wherever invisible trays go when their services are no longer required.

“I wonder if you might be so kind,” she ventured, “as to tell me where I am?”

“Why, you are precisely where you are meant to be,” Lord Stagworthy replied, with the sort of certainty that made it impossible to argue, even if the answer made no sense whatsoever. “And now, if you would do me the honor of accepting my guidance, I believe we have an appointment to keep.”

“An appointment?”

“Indeed. One cannot simply arrive in an enchanted realm without having appointments. It simply isn’t done.” He gestured with one elegant hoof toward a path that Sarah was quite certain hadn’t been there a moment ago. “Shall we?”

Sarah glanced back at the oak tree, which was now doing its best impression of an ordinary tree that had never harbored magical doorways in its life. The roses beside it had definitely multiplied again, and she rather suspected they were eavesdropping.

* * *

“To the right, if you please, Miss Sarah,” Lord Stagworthy suggested, as Sarah veered left toward a cluster of mushrooms holding a town meeting. “The Owl’s residence lies in the easterly direction.”

“Oh, yes, sorry.” Sarah corrected her course, only to be immediately distracted by a passing parade of dragonflies carrying tiny Japanese lanterns. She drifted left again.

“Ahem. The right path, my dear.” The crystal pendants in his antlers chimed with gentle emphasis.

“Right. I mean, yes. Right.” Sarah turned, then stopped abruptly as a family of mice dressed in elaborate Victorian clothing hurried past. “Was that mouse wearing—”

“Miss Sarah.” Lord Stagworthy’s voice carried the patient suffering of one who had guided many distracted travelers. “While the local inhabitants are indeed fascinating, we really must—ah, turn right here.”

“Is that the right that’s opposite to left, or the right that’s left over after you’ve taken the left?” Sarah asked, genuinely puzzled. The mice paused their journey to watch with interest.

“The former,” replied the Stag, with the sort of dignity that suggested he was trying very hard not to sigh.

“Right at the weeping willow,” the Stag directed, adding hopefully, “The one that’s actually weeping.”

Indeed, the willow in question was sobbing quite dramatically, though whether from genuine distress or theatrical ambition remained unclear. Sarah, thoroughly impressed by its performance, promptly turned left again.

“Perhaps,” suggested Lord Stagworthy, with the patience of one who had guided many directionally challenged visitors, “it would help to remember that right is the hand with which you hold your teacup?”

“I switch hands,” Sarah admitted. “It depends on where the biscuits are.” A nearby oak tree rustled its leaves in what sounded suspiciously like a snicker.

They proceeded in this fashion through the forest, Sarah oscillating between paths like a pendulum. Lord Stagworthy maintained his dignified pace, despite having to circle back several times. Finally, after Sarah had been gently redirected from examining a chess match between two badgers (one of whom was clearly cheating), a peculiar tree came into view. Unlike its more conventional neighbors, this one had windows. Actual windows, complete with lace curtains and window boxes full of flowers that changed colors every few seconds.

“Ah,” said Lord Stagworthy, with evident relief. “The Owl’s residence. And only,” he consulted his pocketwatch, “forty-seven delightful diversions later than anticipated.”

The tree-house (for that was clearly what it was, even if it had grown rather than been built) had a round purple door with a brass knocker shaped like an open book. Smoke curled from a chimney that sprouted from a branch, forming wispy question marks in the air.