Icy chunks sluice through my veins. It’s as bad as I imagined. This man just admitted he’s here to kill me. What am I going to do?

For now, I opt to stall. “Why?”

“Revenge,” he says softly.

I fight to keep my breath even. “You don’t even know me.”

“I know you’re their daughter.” His gaze slides to the chest. “Now, open it. Before I force you to.” His fingers angle toward the knife.

I want to. I really, really do. I want answers. But he just said he’s planning to kill me the second I open it, didn’t he? It’s not like I would even get a chance to look through its contents.

He exhales, then snatches up the knife and rises to his feet. I jump up, too, but almost immediately, he’s at my side. How did he move so quickly? Placing a hand on my shoulder, he pushes me back down. “Hold still. You wouldn’t want me to miss, would you?” He leans down. Lifts the knife.

When his face is right next to mine, I act on instinct and shove the chest against his cheek. With a pained scream, he’s blasted off his feet and crashes into the wall—unconscious, but still breathing. For a second, I’m stunned as I take in the burned red flesh that has replaced smooth pale skin on his face.

Then I run for it.

As I tear down the hall to the stairwell, a plan forms in my mind. Thanks to years spent breaking curfew—usually to steal sweets from the kitchen to use for bribes—I know all the best hiding spots from the times I’ve had to evade the night porters. I charge up three flights of stairs, taking two steps at a time, not stopping until I’ve reached the window of the third-floor bathroom. I push it open.

The fire escape outside is slick from the earlier rainfall. I stuff the chest into my rucksack, thanking the stars I had it on me, and climb the ladder as quickly as I dare.

At the top, I hoist myself over the ledge and onto the roof, its damp surface glistening in the moonlight’s pale glow. I run to the other side, pulling the chest free as I go, then collapse to the ground, trembling and panting for breath, my mind spinning over what just happened. Surely, Clem won’t find me up here, will he?

Will he?

I can’t be certain. Because, impossible as it sounds, I’m not sure he’s entirely human.

I remember the loose nail on the chest and pull it free, then jab its sharp tip against my index finger. A bead of blood bubbles to the surface, and I press it to the silver padlock, doubting all the while that this is going to work.

Click.

Sure enough, the lock releases, and I’m able to lift the lid. An abrasive screech resounds through the night as the chest creaks open. My pulse jumps at the noise. I glance toward the ladder. How long will Clem be out?

Peering inside, I reach first for a thick glass flask that glows an unnaturally bright orange. Rounded at the bottom, with a narrow, tightly stoppered neck, it reminds me of the Florence flasks we use in science class. But the contents inside are unlike anything I’ve ever seen. Tiny orange pearls dance and glint, looking very much alive, like scores of impossibly small fireflies flashing through the night. And though they appear soft and lightweight, almost powderlike, when I shake the flask, the clinking of a thousand tiny beads meets my ears.

My fingers locate a stained label on one side, written in black lettering; I angle my torch so I can make out the words:

Forget-Me Dust

Friend or foe,

If you disappear now,

They may have a row.

So sprinkle me in your hand.

A pinch is plenty enough.

Now take a huff,

And give it a hard blow.

“What?” I whisper to the empty night air around me. Perplexed, I set the flask aside. No time to puzzle over it. Clem could wake up at any moment.

My fingers close next on an ornate ring with a silver band and a large, vivid amethyst stone at its center. The ring is surprisingly heavy in my palm, and smells of rust and time and age. My surname, James, is engraved on the inside. At first, it looks a bit big, but when I slip it onto my index finger, I find that the fit is just right.

Next, I pull out a second, larger piece of jewelry. A metal torque bracelet made of garnet, a rich golden-red in color. I slide it over my wrist.

At once, it ignites with a ring of blazing, pumpkin-orange flames.

“What the—” I yelp, flinging it off my wrist. The flames gutter out. I examine my wrist, shocked by the absence of burn marks. Still, I have no desire to wear something that spontaneously bursts into flames. I pick it up between my thumb and forefinger and toss it in my rucksack.

I dip my hand inside the chest a bit more warily this time and withdraw a long, narrow box. A label scribbled across the top reads In Case of Emergency. Inside, a single black pen with gold markings rests in a red velvet cradle. I scratch my head, thinking about the murderous man downstairs. How is a pen supposed to help in an emergency? Curious, I pop off the cap and scribble on a spare sheet of paper from my rucksack. Black ink runs smooth and fine along the page. I wait, staring, but nothing remarkable happens.

Useless, I can’t help thinking, frustration licking my skin. Along with everything else inside. Sure, these might be nice heirlooms—with the exception of the killer bracelet, perhaps—but what had Clem been hoping to find?

Clem. Ice melts down my spine. He’s probably searching for me by now. There must be something useful inside the chest… an actual weapon, maybe.

But as I peer inside, I see only one more item: a small black journal.

As I pick it up, a bizarre sensation emanates from it, like strong, relentless waves of invisible energy. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle. Even stranger is the coil of thin, ghostlike thread that secures it. I tug at it, lightly at first, then forcefully. Despite the thinness of the material, it won’t budge. Instead, the dark outline of a large keyhole materializes in the center of the otherwise blank cover. At first glance, it looks to be nothing more than cover art. But as I run a finger over it, I am stunned to discover that the keyhole is a real indention, traveling deep within the book. Surely, surely, I am not meant to stick a key through the book’s cover?

But as I pull—or rather, yank—at the thread with all the strength and force and desperation of a person wanting nothing more than to learn about her family, to no avail, I know that’s exactly what I’m supposed to do.

Massaging the fresh sores on my hands, I look back inside the chest and—

“Brilliant,” I say, heart sinking. “They forgot the key…” My voice trails off as I think of my pendant. The letter said there’s more to it than meets the eye. Is it locked with a blood seal, too?

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

I stab my finger again with the nail and press it to the pendant’s smooth surface.

At once the pendant shines a bright, luminous gold. My heart gives a great leap. I fumble with the clasp, and the pendant falls open with ease.

And there, concealed within, is a key the length of a bottle cap.

Fashioned from black iron, the tiny key glints like a sword as it drops into my palm. A bloodred crystal gleams in the center of a handle shaped like a skull, and a set of rough, uneven ridges like jagged animal teeth line the blade. Though something tells me it must be very old, it is, quite remarkably, as unmarred by age as if it were forged this morning.

I bring the key to the book, then hesitate. The keyhole on the book is larger than the key is long. Still, it’s worth a shot, right? Perhaps the book doesn’t need a specific key—maybe it just needs a key—or maybe I could use it to pick the lock, or…

But as I stick the key into the lock, something strange happens. Something remarkable and bewildering and a bit scary all at the same time. The key quivers of its own accord, its shape morphing and changing and molding before my eyes until it matches the size of the lock into which it has been inserted.

My jaw goes slack. Did I imagine it? I turn the key. Click! The ghostlike thread recoils, vanishing from sight like a snake sensing imminent danger.

Rousing myself from my daze, I pick up the book, and a letter drops into my lap. It’s penned in the same slanted handwriting as the one from my parents, only this time, it’s written on a thick sheet of yellow-tinged paper, the top of which bears a coat of arms emblazoned in a vivid mix of gold, purple, and black, with James written boldly below the shield. The James family crest. The motto above it says Astra inclinant, sed non obligant.

My gaze moves to the letter, which I drink in earnestly:

Dear Riley,

We so wanted to be the ones to bring you home when it was safe to do so. But if that couldn’t happen, we needed to ensure you have another way, when you’re older and have a choice. A part of us wishes to keep you ignorant of your roots, safe to live a different kind of life where we imagine you could find happiness. But to do so would be selfish and hypocritical on our part. It is our greatest desire that you have the courage to live a bold life, not one of sheltered pretense.

You have a right to know where you come from, and that place is called Aurelia. You will not have heard of it, because it is a country of magic, both in the figurative and literal sense of the word.

A magical country? It’s absurd. At least, it would be, if I hadn’t witnessed a chest scalding Clem’s face and a key morphing shape right before my eyes. What else can explain those things?

We cannot hope to tell you everything in this letter, but the Hooks can help to fill in the gaps. You will come to know all in time, should you choose to return to Aurelia. As you’re a member of the James family, we believe we know what that choice will be.

Whenever you’re ready, use the Forget-Me Dust. It will erase all memory of you from those within a close radius. Do not use this lightly, as it is an irrevocable decision.

Next, open the book, which is a flashport, find the landmark titled “Echo Forest,” and go through it. Once you’re in the forest, follow the path to the outskirts of Skeleton Grove.

I blink. Go through a book? Like, travel? How am I supposed to do that?

Do not leave the path. When you reach the village, your task will be to find James Manor, located at 9 Melody Lane. This is our family estate, to which you are the rightful heir.

I blink again. I own a manor?

Be very careful to whom you reveal your true identity. Keep the key hidden in your pendant at all times, and do not share it with anyone under any circumstances. At the time we wrote this letter, our family was in great danger. We didn’t know who to trust, so we sent you away. We cannot know if the danger will have subsided by the time you read this. We must impress upon you the importance of heeding our instructions and staying vigilant.

With all of our love,

Your parents, Arthur and Wendy James

I stare at the letter, my mind spinning. Mere hours ago, I believed I would never know the names of my parents. Now I know more than I bargained for.

Over the wind I hear the faint clank of metal. I freeze, gaze jumping to ledge. Someone is climbing the ladder.

Oh no. Clem. How did he find me up here?

My mind whispers the answer. Magic.

Heart pounding, I fumble for the Forget-Me Dust. I know what I have to do. But I’m supposed to have time to think it through… to weigh the pros and cons. Decide if the risk is worth it. My parents meant for it to be a choice.

Only there is no choice now. In order to make Clem forget me, I have to make everyone at the community home forget me.

If I go to Aurelia, I might be in danger. I might die. But if I stay, I know I’ll die.

I unstopper the vial and sprinkle the contents frantically into my palm. The dust particles feel icy cold against my skin, as though I removed the flask from a bucket of dry ice. I watch, mesmerized, as the miniscule beads buzz around each other in speedy flashes of orange, almost like lightning.

As Clem steps onto the ledge, his gaze finds me immediately. Half his face is burned. Even still, he smiles. “Perhaps I should have mentioned that I’m a vampire. I can smell your fresh blood.” His gaze moves to the beads swirling in my hand. “What’s that?”

“Forget-Me Dust,” I say, raising an eyebrow. His smile falters. Without another thought, I blow hard on the dust.

In a blinding haze of bright orange, the tiny beads spring into action, rising together like a swarm of bees preparing to attack and then charging across the roof as though pulled by an invisible strand.

The chain of dust hits Clem as it swoops below the roof. Clem stumbles back, a dazzled look crossing his face for the briefest of moments. Then he tumbles backward over the ledge.

I swallow. Is he dead? Surely, he couldn’t have survived a four-story fall.

I run to the ledge and look over. Thanks to the floodlight below, I’m able to see Clem. My gut churns, and I swallow sour spit. He lies on the ground, his neck twisted at an unnatural angle. He certainly looks dead.

Either way, I have no choice now. I return to my things. As I replace the key inside the pendant, it transforms itself into a suitable size. I pack the other items back in the chest and then stuff the chest itself into my rucksack.

Slowly, I turn to the book, feeling very nervous over what I’m about to do. I flip it open.

As I expected to find a keyhole-shaped crater inside, I’m surprised to see that the pages are whole, though crisp and rigid, like a delicate fabric stiffened with starch. Each page displays a uniquely detailed and vivid picture—so vivid, in fact, that it doesn’t take me long to realize that they aren’t pictures at all. It’s as though I am seeing another world through a frame in real time, like a miniature television screen, each page tuned to a different channel. Or in this case, location.

I land first on Foggy Bottom, where a thick cloud of mist drifts across the page. Through it, I can just barely make out the indistinct profile of a shadowy hunched figure crossing a desolate street, eventually becoming one with the heavy fog. I shudder, relieved that this isn’t the place I’m going.

I leaf through the pages. As I do so, a knot forms in my belly, pulling itself tighter with each flip when I realize that the other landmarks—Wickenden Woods, the Ghouls’ Nest, Howling Harbor, Phantom Island, the Shrine of Sorrows, the River of Fire, the Cave of Lost Souls—really aren’t much better.

“What is this place?” I say, feeling slightly ill as I reach the Mountains of Misery, where something dark and winged and large as an airplane streaks through the sky.

I’m nauseated by the time I arrive at Echo Forest, where gnarled trees are silhouetted against the silver moonlight above and thick patches of ghoulish green below, though I cannot tell what these are. Vines and spidery tendrils sway from low branches, casting long shadows on the forest floor, where a gray-white fog the color of human bone shifts along the ground.

I set the book on the ground, dimly wondering why my parents didn’t think to mention in their letter that Aurelia is some sort of nightmarish shadow realm. But seeing that no one in the community home has a clue who I am anymore, there is no backing out now.

“All right,” I say, steeling myself. “Now… I just need to figure out how to go, um… through a book…”

I frown at the open page. It’s barely larger than my hand. So how exactly am I meant to go through it? It doesn’t make sense.

Then again, nothing else that has happened to me in the last hour makes much sense either.

Feeling ridiculous, I reach out a trembling hand and tentatively place it on the page. Only, there’s nothing there. The page, the book, the ground…though I can see them clearly, they’re somehow not there. My eyes widen. It’s hard to know whether I should feel amazed or horrified as my hand sinks into the book.

Upon contact, the book glows blindingly bright. I register a cool dampness against the skin of my vanished hand, as though I’ve plunged it into the core of a dense cloud. As I edge forward, forearm dipping into the void, the glowing light begins to spin. Slowly at first, then gathering speed, forming a vortex within the pages. The forest falls away in the distance, nothing more than a speck of color in a black abyss.

And then, as my shoulder vanishes from sight, I know I’ve hit the point of no return, for my entire body follows it into pitch blackness. Everything halts. A deafening silence descends around me, and all sensation leaves my body. I am drifting weightlessly through a void, pulled along by some invisible force. Deep in the distance, pockets of silver dot the blackness, like faraway stars. I attempt to turn my head for a better look.

I can’t.

Horror floods through me.

Panicked, I try and fail to move my limbs. To open my mouth. To scream. It is then that I realize I’m not breathing. I’m not even sure I have lungs. My heart, which would surely be thundering right about now, harder than it ever has, isn’t beating. Isn’t there. I have been separated from my body.

I’m dead now, nothing more than a ghost… who has somehow been murdered by a book.