Giles was dizzy, dehydrated and as exhausted as if he’d been up all night with a fascinating book. For an instant the tiredness was sweet: he’d done well, his task was complete for now. He could rest.

But thousands of eyes watched him with intense, focused silence. He couldn’t rest yet: he was in that dazzling place that all performers dream of: the audience was in the palm of his hand.

Doree last thought blazed: she fell feet first into a sky filled with stars, saw what she fell into and screamed! But just like when you wake up from a fascinating dream, he couldn’t get back into it.

The story was over for now. People waited and he had to release them gently.

What had Killington and the other Planners heard? Had he really managed to say different things to them than to everyone else?

But he couldn’t think about that. The audience was with him, waiting with indrawn breath, their eyes tiny gleams in the dark. One more second of silence or any sign of unsureness and they’d dissolve into Chaos.

“That’s all for today, dear ones,” he said, his voice resonant in the expectant silence. “Join me night after tomorrow at the festival’s grand finale for the conclusion that brings all those pieces together. Blessings to you all, dear hearts. Be good to each other.” He was talking, he realized, just like Tiffany.

He bowed deeply. That seemed to release them from a spell. They applauded with wild abandon, stomping their feet, crying “Woo hoo!” and even “Bravo!” Some shouted, “Tell more now!”

Giles spread his arms and took in their cheers. In a moment he would walk off the stage; these might be his last seconds. He’d coveted this applause all his life; he let himself savor it. A few seconds, and a few seconds more. He faced the crowd and soaked in their respect and didn’t look right or left.

Then it was time to leave. He was no master at managing applause (how could he be, he’d never had much practice!) but even he could tell that it had reached its crescendo and was starting to die. He bowed once more and turned.

Dazzled by the lights which had been on him, he couldn’t see what waited for him just offstage. He reached the edge of the stage, walked like a careful zombie down the four steps. His feet clumped onto the dirt.

Soft, powerful gloved hands lifted his face and electric lips kissed his. For a magic instant, he was dazzled by witchy black shining eyes. Everything was alright, she was here. He would have melted into her kiss but she was already murmuring against his lips, “Well done, love.”

Then something was pressed into his hand, something rough and bumpy. “Don’t look at this until later,” Tiffany whispered. “And remember my name, love.”

Then she was gone, like a treasured dream. And before him stood a picture from his worst nightmare: Killington, with armed guards on either side. “Mr. Hammond,” he said very quietly, “You’ll need to come with us.”

They didn’t see him slip whatever Tiffany had given him into his jacket pocket. He followed with only token protest, confident that Tiffany would get him out again.

Even Jasmine had said so.

Jasmine Miyazuki Rainbow Bear was six years old when she first saw the other world.

She’d wandered the secret passages of her wonderful home ever since she could walk. Popster never stopped her in the sad time after Mama died and neither did Yako when she showed up in Jasmine’s life.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

Jasmine had seen the very first night that Hiyako would love her. Popster had taken her to see Hiyako play, sure that Jasmine would be fascinated by the extremely grown-up music, and Jasmine hadn’t let him down. She’d listened intently for a while, then gotten up to dance. Some people had glared but Hiyako had nodded graciously and smiled at her.

After the performance, Jasmine had walked right up to Hiyako as she talked with audience members. “Hello, Little Spirit,” Hiyako had said, her warm brown eyes showing respectful attention.

“You and Popster should fall in love,” Jasmine had told Hiyako with solemn firmness. People nearby laughed pleasantly but Hiyako had said gently, “How would we go about doing that, Little Spirit?”

Jasmine tilted her head as RJ walked up and put a hand on her shoulder. “Mama got losted in his eyes. You oughtta look in his eyes, that’s what.”

Hiyako laughed affectionately, looked up at RJ and got lost in his eyes.

Six months later, she had moved in and she understood that Jasmine wandered the corridors, just as Mama had understood.

The corridors behind the little doors went on and on, a safe, cozy, quiet world where a serious child could hide small treasures and tell herself stories. Jasmine was comfortable being alone, although when RJ and Hiyako visited friends who had kids she played with them cordially enough.

The day Jasmine discovered the other world, about half a year before the Chaos began, she was in a rare snarky mood. She wanted to learn how to make something new on the potter’s wheel but RJ was working on a big job, humming softly, papers everywhere. He grinned at her, the distant grin he had when something beautiful in his head needed to move through his fingers onto drawing paper, and said, “The wheel is yours, Small Bear.”

In the living room, Hiyako was deep in silent meditation. She had something pretty in her head too and she was just as gone as Popster. She opened her eyes once and smiled at Jasmine, but picked up her instrument and, holding it, sank back into thought again. Jasmine sighed.

She tried to enjoy making something she knew, slicing off with a wire a small chunk of the rich red clay, wrapping the rest tightly back up, and working it with her small brown hands until it was soft and she’d popped every air bubble. She put it on the center of the potter’s wheel, sat on the floor and pushed at the big bottom wheel until it was as fast as she could get it. She got her hands just the right amount wet and as always, loved the feel of the solid stuff sliding smoothly under her palms. She started to shape a cup.

But she didn’t want to make a cup. She wanted to learn something new and nobody had time to teach her.

Even when she was grumpy, she was neat. She pushed the piece of clay back onto the big piece and smoothed the ends down until you could barely see where she’d cut it off. She sponged off the wheel, washed her hands, sighed, and headed for the little door in the bedroom.

Other kids would have gone outside and kicked a rock or glued themselves to an X-Box console. Jasmine went wandering.

The door was painted brown and set in a white wall. It was just kid height and had a little button knob that you pulled on to open it. Jasmine opened it right up and stepped into the dark corridor.

There was a trick to wandering the dark corridors. You didn’t set a goal. You didn’t say to yourself, go so far down, turn right, then walk fifteen paces. You just stepped out, full of interest, not sure what you’d find. Jasmine picked up the little headlamp that she’d stashed right beside the door, strapped it to her small forehead, and turned it on. The dark receded, full of swirling dust motes that caught the light.

With no end in mind, trailing a hand along the rough walls, the little girl dawdled along. She’d closed the door behind her and had no mark on it but she knew she’d find her way back. She always did.

She’d been wandering these corridors since she was four and she’d seen many things. Nobody had ever told her she shouldn’t go into other people’s apartments, so when she came to little doors, she opened them and walked with huge eyes into different lives.

There was Marci and Joani, who baked cookies and breads and gave her little tastes when she showed up. There was Rosemary and Solomon who had a big iron grey cat which purred at the drop of a hat. There were the two old people who she had found in bed, who had told her gently that she should come back another time, that what they were doing wasn’t for children to watch. Jasmine guessed they were doing the thing that Popster and Yako did in their bed, making little noises like happy birds.

The people drawn to live in this old building were the kind of people who simply accepted a little girl with skin like caramel glaze and an ethereal mass of ringlets stepping out of the walls like a good spirit. When she showed up, she was welcomed, people talked to her or gave her things to play with or told her stories.

Today she was drawn to her left and down until she came to a door she was sure she hadn’t seen before. She pushed it open, knowing she was just going to love whoever lived here.