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"I guess I do," I say.

I put my hand in his, and the kitchen disappears around us.

Eleven

VIVIENNE

Idon't throw up this time, though my stomach roils when I open my eyes to find myself in a completely different place than the gothic modern kitchen I made myself at home in this morning. The sound of birds replaces the city noise—no spiraling car sirens or grinding gears. Instead, there is only the smell of damp earth and crushed grass as I blink away the dark spots in my vision.

"Aye, of course," Lachlan says easily. "Are you feeling sick?"

He stares down at me, and I expect a reproachful look, but when I find his eyes, there's nothing there but genuine concern. He's actually worried about me, not just the fact that I might throw up on his shoes. I'm going to call that progress.

"So you expect me to believe that there's a magical market here in the park?"

"Of course not," he tells me, letting out a low laugh as his eyebrows shoot up. "I expect you to believe that the magic market we're going to is right under that tree."

"What?" I look up at him, then down at the base of the trunk. One of the gnarly roots of the old oak sticks up from the turf, framing a small, almost imperceptible shadow beneath its curve. "You expect me to believe that there's an entire market underneath a tree root?"

"I don't care what you believe—it's what it is," he says smoothly. "Of course, it'll be much easier if you accept that I'm telling the truth."

I stare at him, looking for any trace of humor, but his face is entirely serious.

"So what am I supposed to do?" I finally ask, tearing my gaze away from his stormy eyes and back to the strange darkness shrouded beneath the root.

"Just walk through it," he says easily.

"And you've got a doctor coming later, right?" I tap the side of my head meaningfully.

"You don't need a head doctor. I've got a physician coming anyway—thought it best to get a clean bill of health on you before you start the rituals. When's the last time you had a physical?"

"When I was still young enough for a pediatrician," I answer, annoyed.

"Right, that's what I thought. We'll get a proper baseline on your body and take a look at your magic, because that's what doctors do."

"You act like I'm making everything up," I mutter. "You're starting to drive me a bit mad."

"Starting to drive you a bit mad?" he echoes dryly. "Och, don't go getting yourself all angry and fash yourself. Just go on—this will all make sense once you hurry up through there. Then we can get today started and get you checked out by the doctor. But listen here, lass."

He takes my chin in his hand, his fingers warm and firm, forcing me to look up at him before I can take another step toward the root. A sharp shiver runs down my spine.

"There'll be things in there—things the likes of you are not used to seeing. Things maybe no one should be used to seeing. Do you hear me? Not everything is as it appears. Be careful. Don't give your name to anybody. And whatever you do, don't touch anything unless I say you can."

"Got it," I say, holding up a finger. "Don't tell anybody my name, and don't touch anything. Very good. Any other rules? Should I raise a peace sign in the air or hold your hand so I don't wander off?"

"I don't give a shit about a peace sign, but if you want to hold my hand, I think that's a brilliant idea, lassie. Can't ever be too careful in these in-between places. Now go on," he says, gesturing toward the shadow. "Unless you need me to lead the way."

Before I can refuse, his fingers slide easily into mine.

"Oh yes," he murmurs. "I feel much better like this. Far less afraid of losing you in the crowds."

"Oh yeah, all those massive crowds underneath the tree root. Absolutely," I say acidly.

He tugs me forward. All the blood drains from my face as the shadow beneath the root swells, stretching outward like a funhouse mirror, making my stomach pitch as we step directly into the dark.

Then we're through.

The park is gone. In its place stretches a bustling, vibrant street. I look down, expecting dirt or cobblestones, but the ground is polished wood—carved with the same sweeping knots and grain of a living tree trunk.