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I sense Rook somewhere in front of me and I blink back the tears blurring my vision and the gloom hanging over the room.

It’s vast and reminds me of the interior of the nineteenth-century church not far from our Kansas farm. The ceiling is so high, it’s hard to make out the details of its borders. But it’s quiet, and somehow cozy.

Sconces set into the emerald green walls flicker with fire, but for the size of the room, there are too few, so the pockets of darkness are more than the pools of light.

I step back, my dagger in hand, the blade pointed forward.

“You finally figured out how to use the charmed slippers,” he says. “Well done.”

My stomach spins with butterflies and I immediately feel like a fool for having such a visceral reaction to Rook.

Am I dreaming? Did I hit my head and I’m unconscious?

I could handle this much better if it was a dream.

“How did I get here?” I ask. “Is this your doing?”

His footfalls echo across the stone and then go jarringly silent once he hits the rug.

The light finally finds him, and I’m annoyed that a little hiccuping breath stutters down my throat.

Now that he’s fully embodying who he is, no longer hiding behind the beaten and bloodied amnesiac facade, he looks better than ever. Handsome, dark, and arrogant. Almost godly.

His hair is combed back away from his face but several rogue strands hang over his forehead. There are no bruises, no cuts or scraps, and while pale, there is a healthier color to him. As if reassuming the mantle of Wizard has made his skin glow.

“I find it annoying how much power you possess and yet you continue to pretend you have no control over any of it,” he says.

“I didn’t choose to come here.”

“Didn’t you? The slippers take you where you want to go.”

My mouth is parched and my tongue rolls around looking for sustenance that isn’t there. Not only am I exhausted from the adrenaline dump of fighting bear-tiger beasts and jarred from whatever magic this is, but standing in front of Rook has me thrown off-kilter.

I glance down at my feet and the silver slippers that gleam beneath the light. “The slippers can teleport the wearer?”

“Amongst other things,” he admits.

“What other things?”

He tsk-tsks at me. “You barge into my room and demand knowledge for free?”

“Rook—”

“Kansas.”

I brandish the knife as he passes in front of the sofa and goes to a long buffet against the wall. There are several books stacked there, a few sheets of paper, some of them rolled and tied with ribbon. On the other end, sitting on a sterling silver tray, is a decanted bottle of bright red liquid.

“Drink?” he asks.

I back up, keeping the knife pointed at him.

“No.”

“You really should try this Southern brandy. It tastes of summer.” He pours himself a half glass and sips it as he leans his back into the buffet, legs crossed at the ankles. “You don’t look well, Kansas.”

“That’s because you stabbed me and then sent half of Oz after me. We were just attacked by archers and kali-somethings. Bears and tigers—”

“Oh my,” he cuts in.