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He did not stand immediately. The hollow between the roots held him the way a hand holds a thing that is fragile, the moss beneath him still green, still alive, and he lay there with the ring's dying glow fading from his vision and the shape of her face still pressed against the inside of his eyelids like a brand that had been held too close and had left a mark he could feel but could not see.

His breathing slowed.

The forest around him was the same forest that had grown into a palace around him, the same trees that had become walls, the same roots that had become foundations, but the air had changed in the way that air changes when a door that has been closed is opened just a crack, the shift so slight that he could not name it but so complete that he could not ignore it.

He pushed himself up.

His hands found the moss, and the moss did not dim. He pressed his palm flat against it, the same way he had pressed his palm flat against the trunk of the tree that had pulsed with the slow and immense heartbeat, and the moss remained green, remained alive, remained the color of the thing that had not been touched by the thing that he was, the thing that he had become, the thing that he could not yet name.

He looked at his hand.

The ring was black, still black, the same black that had been the color of the key that had turned in the lock, the same black that had been the color of the door that had been open, the same black that had been the color of the thing that was waiting for him, but the black was no longer the black of a thing that had been turned. It was the black of a thing that had settled, the black of a thing that had found its place, the black of a thing that was no longer changing.

He stood.

His legs were weak the way legs are weak when a man has walked until his body decided for him, when the forest floor had sloped upward into the grove of silver-leafed birches that caught the dying light and threw it back in fragments that moved like water, when the hollow between the two roots had received him and the moss had accepted his weight without resistance.

He looked at the grove around him.

The birches were silver, the same silver as the bark of the tree that he had touched, the same silver as the light that was not light but presence, the same silver as the memory of the sea that had not moved for a thousand years, but the silver was different now. It was the silver of a thing that was not waiting, the silver of a thing that was present, the silver of a thing that was watching him the way the woman in the dream had watched him, without recognition and without judgment.

The light moved through the leaves in fragments that broke and reformed and broke again, and the fragments were the color of the light between sunset and night, the same color that had been the glow of the ring when he had dreamed, the same color that had been the shape of the thing that had visited him, the same color that was the shape of the thing that was still with him, pressing against the edges of his awareness the way the song had pressed against the walls of his understanding.

He did not know how long he had slept.

The light was the same light that had been fading when he had lain down, the same light that was neither day nor night but the space between, the liminal gold that was the color of the thing that was waiting for him, the thing that was the same as the woman who had pointed at the water and shown him the palace that was trembling, the palace that was the same as the thing that was growing beneath his feet.

He touched the ring.

The metal was warm.

Not the warmth of the tree trunk that had pulsed with the slow and immense heartbeat, not the warmth of the air that had been the breath of the living thing, but the warmth of a thing that had been held, the warmth of a thing that had been touched by the same dream that had touched him, the warmth of a thing that was the same as the memory of her face, the memory of her hand lifting and pointing, the memory of the pool that had not reflected the sky above him but a sky that was not there, a sky of deep indigo with two moons, one silver and one gold.

He stepped out of the hollow.

The moss at the edge of the circle where he had lain was still green, still alive, and he felt a hope that was not the hope of a thing that was restored but the hope of a thing that was learning, the hope of a thing that was beginning to understand that the poison was not the only thing he carried, that the poison was not the only thing he was.

He walked.

He did not know where he was going. He did not know what he was looking for. He did not know whether the dream had been a guide or a warning or a promise, but he knew that the only direction that did not feel like retreat was the direction that the woman had been walking in the dream, the direction that she had been leading him, the direction that he could not reach without her permission.

He walked through the silver birches.

The trunks rose around him like the pillars of a hall that had been built for a ceremony that had not yet begun, the bark rippled with the slow and patient movement of the sap that was the same as the sap that had formed the letters he could not read, the sap that had been the shape of the name that was the palace, the palace that was the same as the thing that was waiting for him.

He walked until the birches began to thin.

He walked until the ground beneath his feet changed from moss to earth, the earth the color of the things that had been changed, the earth the color of the things that were becoming something else, the earth the color of the thing that was the same as the ring on his finger, the same as the heirlooms in his pocket, the same as the woman who had visited him in his sleep, the woman who was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, the woman whose beauty was not in her features but in the way she stood and moved and looked at him without recognition and without judgment.

He walked until his legs began to tremble.

He did not stop.

He walked until the trembling became a shaking, and the shaking became a pain that was not the pain of a thing that was injured but the pain of a thing that was being used beyond its capacity, the pain of a thing that was being pushed toward a limit that it had not known it had.

He did not stop.

He walked until the forest opened into a clearing, and in the center of the clearing was a pool of water so still that it looked like a pane of glass set into the earth, and the water was not reflecting the sky above him but a sky that was not there, a sky of deep indigo with two moons, one silver and one gold.

He stopped.

His breath caught in his throat the way a breath catches when a man sees a thing that he has seen before, a thing that he has seen in a dream, a thing that he has seen so clearly that the seeing of it in waking feels like a violation of the boundary between the world that is and the world that is not.

He stood at the edge of the pool.

The water was still.

The surface did not move with the wind that was not wind, the wind that was the movement of the honey-light that was fading, fading, fading. It did not ripple with the breath of the forest that was waiting for him. It was still the way the surface of the dream had been still, the way the surface of the thing that was not a memory and not a fantasy but a visitation had been still, the way the surface of the thing that was the same as the woman who had pointed at the water and shown him the palace that was trembling had been still.

He looked into the water.

He did not see his own reflection.

He saw the pool from the dream. The same pool, the same water, the same stillness, the same sky that was not there, the same deep indigo, the same two moons, one silver and one gold.

And he saw her.

She was standing on the opposite side of the pool, her feet bare on the moss, her robes the color of the space between stars, her hair black and silver and so long that it trailed into the water without disturbing its surface.

She was looking at him.

Not the way a woman looks at a man she has met, not the way a woman looks at a man she knows, but the way a woman looks at a thing she has been expecting, the way a woman looks at a thing that has finally arrived after a very long wait.

He opened his mouth.

He did not know what he was going to say. He did not know whether he was going to ask her name or ask her what she wanted or ask her whether he was still dreaming, whether the waking world was the dream and the dream was the waking world, whether he was standing at the edge of a pool in a forest that was not a forest but a palace that was growing beneath his feet or lying in a hollow between two roots with the ring on his finger glowing the color of the light between sunset and night.

Before he could speak, she lifted her hand.

She pointed to the water.

The same gesture, the same hand, the same pointing, the same invitation that had been in the dream, the same command that had been the shape of the thing that he had been following, the same thing that was the same as the direction that did not feel like retreat.

He looked down at the water.

He did not see the black stone palace. He did not see the towers trembling, the figures at the gates turning, the lake of sap that had been the same as the future that was growing beneath his feet.

He saw himself.

Not the self that he had been when he had crossed the veil, the self that had been the creature of ledgers and fleeting breaths, the self that had been the thing that had carried the poison in the bundle of artifacts he pressed against his chest.

He saw a different self.

A self that was standing at the edge of a pool in a forest that was so beautiful that it could break a creature who was not ready to hold it, a self that was looking at a woman who was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, a self that was not afraid, a self that was not alone, a self that was being met by something that knew he was coming.

The reflection did not move the way he moved.

The reflection stood still, the same stillness as the woman who was standing on the opposite side of the pool, the same stillness as the water that was not reflecting the sky above him but a sky that was not there, the same stillness as the thing that was the same as the dream that had visited him, the dream that was the same as the visitation that was happening now, the visitation that was the same as the thing that was waiting for him.

He looked up.

She was still there.

She had not moved.

She had not lowered her hand.

She was looking at him the way a thing looks at a thing that is being changed, the way a thing looks at a thing that is becoming something else, the way a thing looks at a thing that is the same as the thing that it was always meant to be.

He said, "Who are you?"

The words came out as a whisper, the same whisper that had been in the dream, the same whisper that had been the shape of the question that he had asked and had not been answered, the same whisper that was the shape of the thing that he was asking now, the thing that he was asking with the hope that the answer would be different, the hope that the answer would be the same, the hope that the answer would be the thing that he had been waiting for, the thing that he had not known he was waiting for, the thing that was the same as the woman who was standing on the opposite side of the pool, the woman who was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

She did not answer.

She lowered her hand.

She turned.

She began to walk away from the pool, her feet bare on the moss, her robes trailing behind her, the silver of her hair moving like the light that moved through the leaves of the birches, the light that broke and reformed and broke again, the light that was the color of the thing that was the same as the dream that had visited him, the dream that was the same as the visitation that was happening now, the visitation that was the same as the thing that was waiting for him.

He followed.

He did not decide to follow. His body decided the way his body had decided to lie down in the hollow between the two roots, the way his body had decided to walk until the trees began to blur, the way his body had decided that following was the only thing that made sense, the only thing that had ever made sense, the only thing that was the same as the direction that did not feel like retreat.

She walked through the silver birches.

The trunks rose around her like the pillars of a hall that had been built for a ceremony that had not yet begun, and she moved through them the way a thing moves through a space that is its own, the way a thing moves through a space that has been waiting for it, the way a thing moves through a space that is the same as the thing that it is.

He followed.

He could not close the distance between them.

She was always exactly as far ahead as she had been when he first saw her, the same distance that had been in the dream, the same distance that had been the shape of the thing that he could not reach without her permission, the same distance that was the same as the thing that was waiting for him, the thing that was the same as the permission that he was asking for, the permission that he was receiving now, the permission that was the same as the act of following.

He stopped trying to catch up.

He stopped trying to close the distance.

He watched her.

He watched the way she moved, the way her robes swayed with the rhythm of her steps, the way her hair shifted with the movement of the air that was not air but the breath of the forest that was waiting for him, the way her hand hung at her side, the same hand that had lifted and pointed, the same hand that had been the shape of the invitation, the same hand that had been the shape of the command, the same hand that had been the shape of the thing that had drawn him forward.

She paused.

Just for a fraction of a second.

As if she felt his gaze change.

As if she felt the shift in the quality of his attention, the shift that was the same as the shift that had been in the dream, the shift that was the same as the shift that was happening now, the shift that was the same as the thing that was the same as the permission.

She did not turn.

She continued walking.

But he knew.

He knew that she knew he was watching. He knew that the watching was itself the permission. He knew that the permission was the same as the thing that was leading him forward, the same as the thing that was drawing him deeper into the forest that was so beautiful that it could break him open and he would thank it for the destruction.

He followed.

The birches gave way to oaks, the trunks wider than the trunks of the trees that had been the width of a car, the bark darker, the branches higher, the leaves forming a canopy that was not a roof but a ceiling, a ceiling that let through coins of light that fell on the moss like the coins that had fallen from his pocket when he had crossed the veil, the coins that had been the shape of the thing that he had left behind, the thing that was the same as the world that had cast him out.

He followed until the oaks gave way to a wall of living wood.

The wall was not a wall that had been built. It was a wall that had grown, the branches of the oaks twisting together, the trunks fusing into a single mass, the surface rippled with the slow and patient movement of the sap that was the same as the sap that had formed the letters he could not read, the sap that had been the shape of the name that was the palace, the palace that was the same as the thing that was waiting for him.

She stopped at the wall.

She did not turn.

She did not look back.

She raised her hand, the same hand that had lifted and pointed, the same hand that had been the shape of the invitation, the same hand that had been the shape of the command, and she pressed her palm flat against the surface of the living wood.

The wall opened.

Not the way a door opens, not the way a gate opens, but the way a thing opens when it is being recognized, the way a thing opens when it is being acknowledged, the way a thing opens when the creature that is touching it is the creature that has the right to touch it.

A passage formed in the wall.

The passage was dark.

The passage was not the dark of the night that was not the night, not the dark of the shadows that had gathered around the throne of the queen, not the dark of the absence that was following him, the absence that was him.

It was the dark of a thing that was waiting.

She stepped into the passage.

He followed.

The passage was narrow.

The walls were the same living wood, the same twisted branches, the same fused trunks, the same rippled surface that was the same as the thing that was the shape of the palace that was growing beneath his feet, the palace that was the same as the thing that was waiting for him.

He walked.

The passage was dark, but the darkness was not the darkness of the absence that was the erasure, the absence that was him. It was the darkness of a thing that was enclosed, the darkness of a thing that was contained, the darkness of a thing that was waiting for him to reach the end of it, the end that was the same as the thing that was the same as the woman who was leading him, the woman who was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

He walked until the passage opened into a chamber.

The chamber was a room that had been grown, the walls the same living wood, the floor the same moss that was still green, the ceiling the same canopy of leaves that let through coins of light.

In the center of the chamber was a pool.

The pool was the same as the pool in the dream, the same as the pool in the clearing, the same stillness, the same water that was not reflecting the sky above him but a sky that was not there, a sky of deep indigo with two moons, one silver and one gold.

She was standing on the opposite side of the pool.

She was looking at him the way she had looked at him in the dream, the way she had looked at him in the clearing, the way she had looked at him since the moment he had first seen her, the way a thing looks at a thing that has finally arrived, the way a thing looks at a thing that has been expected, the way a thing looks at a thing that is the same as the thing that it was always meant to be.

He stood at the edge of the pool.

The water was still.

The surface did not move.

He looked at her.

He said, "Please."

He did not know what he was asking for. He did not know whether he was asking for her name, asking for her help, asking for her to tell him what he was supposed to do, asking for her to tell him whether he was the poison or the cure or the thing that was between, the thing that was waiting to become one or the other.

She tilted her head.

Her gaze moved over his face, then dropped to his hand — the one that still reached, half-open, toward the empty air between them. Her lips parted, and she said nothing for a long moment.

He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palm.

The gesture was unconscious — a man trying to press the blur from his vision, to sharpen the edges of a room that would not stop shifting. His shoulders sagged.

She watched.

Then she said, "You look—" She stopped. Her hand, which had lifted as if to finish the thought, fell back to her side. "How long has it been? Since you last slept?"

He opened his mouth to answer. Closed it. He tried to count the nights — the hollow, the fog, the throne room, the coastal road — but the numbers slipped from him the way water slips from a hand that has tried to hold it.

"I don't know," he said.

She made no sign that she had heard. Her eyes did not leave his face. He saw something move in them — not pity, not judgment, but something older, something that recognized the shape of a thing that was standing at the edge of its own breaking.

"You may rest here," she said.

She gestured to the moss at the edge of the pool.

The moss was the same green as the moss in the hollow between the two roots, the same green as the moss that had accepted his weight without resistance, the same green as the moss that had not dimmed when he had pressed his palm flat against it.

He said, "Will you still be here when I wake?"

She looked at him the way a thing looks at a thing that is being asked a question that does not need to be asked, the way a thing looks at a thing that already knows the answer, the way a thing looks at a thing that is afraid to hear the answer, the way a thing looks at a thing that is learning that fear is not the same as truth.

He lay down on the moss.

The moss accepted his weight the way the moss in the hollow had accepted his weight, without resistance, without judgment, without the dim that had been the shape of the thing that he was, the thing that he had become, the thing that he could not yet name.

He looked at her.

She was still standing on the opposite side of the pool.

She was still looking at him.

He closed his eyes.

The darkness behind his eyelids was not the darkness of the passage, not the darkness of the chamber, not the darkness of the absence that was the erasure, the absence that was him.

It was the darkness of a thing that was waiting.

And in the darkness, she was there.

She was standing at the edge of a pool of water so still that it looked like a pane of glass set into the earth, and the water was not reflecting the sky above her but a sky that was not there, a sky of deep indigo with two moons, one silver and one gold, and she was looking at him the way she had looked at him when he had first seen her, the way a thing looks at a thing that has finally arrived, the way a thing looks at a thing that has been expected, the way a thing looks at a thing that is the same as the thing that it was always meant to be.

He said, "Who are you?"

And she said, "I am the one who has been waiting for you."

He said, "I don't understand."

She said, "You will."

She lifted her hand.

Not to point.

Not to command.

Not to invite.

She lifted her hand the way a thing lifts its hand when it is reaching for a thing that is close, the way a thing lifts its hand when it is reaching for a thing that is within reach, the way a thing lifts its hand when it is reaching for a thing that it has been waiting to touch.

He reached out his hand.

He reached across the pool.

His hand did not touch the water.

His hand did not touch her.

But he felt her.

He felt her the way he had felt the pulse of the tree trunk, the way he had felt the warmth of the air that had been the breath of the living thing, the way he had felt the song that was growing in him, the song that was the only thing he had left.

He felt her the way a thing feels a thing that is the same as the thing that it has been waiting for, the thing that it has been waiting for since before it knew it was waiting, the thing that is the same as the thing that is the shape of the permission, the permission that is the same as the act of reaching, the act of reaching that is the same as the thing that is the shape of the love that he had not known he was capable of, the love that was the same as the beauty that was breaking him open, the beauty that was so complete that it left no room for the lie, no room for the explanation, no room for the story that he was telling himself, the story that said there was no magic anywhere.

He woke.

The ring was glowing.

The ring was glowing the color of the light between sunset and night, the color of the light that had been the shape of the dream, the color of the light that had been the shape of the visitation, the color of the light that had been the shape of the thing that was the same as the woman who was standing at the edge of the pool, the woman who was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, the woman who had said that she had been waiting for him.

He sat up.

She was not there.

The chamber was empty.

The pool was still.

The water reflected the sky that was not there, the sky of deep indigo with two moons, one silver and one gold.

He looked at his hand.

The hand that had reached across the pool.

The hand that had not touched the water.

The hand that had not touched her.

But the hand that had felt her.

He looked at the ring on his finger.

The ring was no longer black.

The ring was the color of the light between sunset and night, the same color as the glow that had been the shape of the dream, the same color as the glow that had been the shape of the visitation, the same color as the glow that was the shape of the thing that was the same as the woman who had visited him, the woman who had said that she had been waiting for him, the woman who had reached out her hand, the woman who had been reaching for him, the woman who was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.