Leaving Virgil’s room behind, Isabelle found herself wandering the long, firelit halls of the estate, her thoughts a swirling mix of uncertainty and wonder. She needed space, somewhere to untangle the threads of her mind. Without conscious thought, her feet carried her back toward the garden, the one place where the weight of this strange, magical world seemed to lift.
As she pushed open the ornate doors, a cool rush of air greeted her, carrying with it the faint, crystalline scent of frost. Stepping outside, she felt an almost imperceptible shift in the atmosphere. The garden, so still and beautiful before, now seemed to pulse faintly, as though it had been waiting for her return. The sunlight caught on the frost-covered branches and leaves, sending shimmering rainbows across the landscape, their colors dancing in the icy stillness.
Isabelle inhaled deeply, the cold air invigorating. Drawn by a strange pull she couldn’t explain, she left the gravel path, her boots crunching softly on the frozen ground as she ventured deeper into the garden. The quiet around her was profound, broken only by the occasional whisper of a breeze stirring the branches overhead. The stillness didn’t feel empty; it was charged, alive with an unseen magic that seemed to hum just beneath the surface of everything she touched, heard, and saw.
She rounded a tall hedge, the chill on its edges glittering like crushed diamonds, and came to an abrupt halt. Before her stood a towering tree at the center of a secluded glade. Its trunk twisted upward in a mesmerizing spiral of silver and ice, its bare branches stretching toward the sky like the outstretched arms of a frozen dancer. Each branch sparkled as if encrusted with gemstones, but it wasn’t the tree alone that stole her breath.
Nestled among its boughs was a flock of translucent birds, their wings shimmering with colors that seemed to shift and flow like liquid light. They moved with a quiet grace, their fragile forms glowing faintly, as though they were living embodiments of the magic that infused the garden.
Isabelle took a step closer, her breath caught in her throat. One of the smaller birds, its feathers like delicate shards of stained glass, spread its wings and floated silently down to a branch at her eye level. It tilted its head as if studying her, its glittering eyes filled with intelligence and curiosity. She felt an inexplicable connection to it, as though it was trying to tell her something just beyond the reach of words.
Then, a low hum began to resonate from the tree itself, a sound so deep and pure it seemed to echo through her very bones. The birds responded immediately, their calls rising in perfect harmony, forming a melody that was otherworldly and achingly beautiful. Isabelle stood transfixed as the music seemed to awaken the garden around her. Frost spread outward in intricate, lace-like patterns, weaving itself across the ground and hedges. Flowers of ice bloomed at her feet, their fragile petals radiating a soft, ethereal light.
The melody swirled around her, stirring something deep within her chest—a profound sense of belonging, of being seen and welcomed by something far greater than herself. Tears pricked her eyes, unbidden, as she realized the garden wasn’t merely a place; it was alive, responding to her presence in a way that felt intimate and impossibly grand.
The small bird before her hopped closer, its wings catching the light like liquid diamonds. It spread them wide once more and took off, circling her in a graceful arc before rejoining its flock in the tree above. The song began to fade, leaving behind a quiet hum that vibrated faintly in the air, as though the garden was sighing contentedly.
Isabelle stood in the silence, her heart racing. She didn’t need to question her feelings any longer. This world—the magic, the beauty, the infinite mystery—wasn’t something she could walk away from. To leave now would be to turn her back on a part of herself she was only just beginning to discover.
Taking a deep breath, Isabelle smiled softly, her decision made. As she turned back toward the estate, the frost-covered path glittered beneath her feet, reflecting the light of the winter sun. For the first time since she had stumbled into this strange, magical realm, she felt a quiet certainty. She belonged here.
The days following Isabelle’s decision to become a Witness unfolded in a whirlwind of activity and emotion, each moment blurring into the next. The first person she had told was Virgil, and his reaction had been nothing short of explosive.
“You did?!” Virgil exclaimed, his amber eyes wide with unrestrained joy. “Isabelle!” His voice rang through the room.
Virgil tried to sit up straighter in bed, his excitement propelling him forward, but the movement sent a sharp grimace across his face. He fell back against the pillows with a muffled groan, clutching his side.
“By the Ald-Fae, this is incredible news!” he said, his grin unrelenting despite the pain. “You’ll see, you’ve made the right choice.”
“Virgil, stop!” Isabelle scolded, rushing to his side. Her hands hovered uncertainly over him, unsure whether to help or to hold him still. “You’ll hurt yourself all over again if you keep moving like that.”
But Virgil waved her off, his hand flopping weakly toward her in dismissal. “What’s a little pain,” he said with a chuckle, “when the Dream gains a Witness and an excellent one, I have no doubt.”
His words, so genuine and full of faith in her, sent a warmth through Isabelle’s chest. She couldn’t help but smile despite the lingering knot of uncertainty that refused to untangle itself. “You’re far too enthusiastic about this,” she teased lightly, though the flush in her cheeks betrayed her.
“Why shouldn’t I be?” Virgil countered, his grin widening. “It’s not every day the Dream gains someone like you. You’re brave, clever, and curious—all the makings of an extraordinary Witness.”
Isabelle crossed her arms, shaking her head but unable to stop smiling. “You sound awfully confident for someone who doesn’t even know what I’ll do next.”
“Ah,” Virgil said, his tone turning teasingly smug, “that’s half the fun you see. This world—our world—it’s already a part of you. You just haven’t realized it yet.”
His words struck a chord, and Isabelle felt her smile falter slightly as her thoughts shifted inward. Was it true? Had she already started to become part of this strange, magical world? The knot in her chest tightened briefly before loosening, as though the idea wasn’t entirely unwelcome.
“Besides,” Virgil added, interrupting her thoughts, “Who else can I turn to when Adalaide sets her next beastie on me”
She laughed at that, shaking her head. “And there’s the real reason for your enthusiasm.”
Virgil’s grin turned mischievous. “Maybe,” he admitted, his voice light with humor.
Despite his jokes, the sincerity in his earlier words lingered, steadying Isabelle in ways she hadn’t expected. His unwavering confidence in her decision felt like an anchor in the midst of the chaos, even if she wasn’t yet sure of herself.
“Thank you, Virgil,” she said softly, her eyes meeting his.
He tilted his head, his grin softening into something gentler. “Don’t thank me yet,” he said, his tone more serious now. “The path ahead won’t be easy. But I have no doubt you’ll find your way.”
______
Olberon had been equally supportive, though his approach was far more measured than Virgil’s unrestrained enthusiasm. The lord of the Winter Court had summoned Isabelle to the main drawing room the following morning, a space she had only seen in passing. It was as grand and pristine as the rest of the estate, with high, frosted windows casting soft light across polished silver furnishings. The room seemed to hum with quiet elegance, every detail deliberate and refined.
Olberon stood by the tall, arched windows when she entered, his hands clasped loosely behind his back. He turned at the sound of her footsteps, his expression composed but welcoming. “Miss Isabelle,” he said, his voice smooth and steady as always. He gestured toward one of the plush chairs across from where he now sat. “Please, join me.”
Isabelle obeyed, settling into the chair with as much poise as she could muster, though her stomach fluttered with nerves. She clasped her hands tightly in her lap, her gaze meeting his as he leaned forward slightly.
“I understand you’ve made your decision,” Olberon said, his tone gentle but probing, as though searching for any hesitation.
“Yes,” Isabelle replied, her voice steady despite her racing heart. “I’ve decided to stay and… become a Witness.”
Olberon nodded, his silver-gray eyes softening with approval. A faint smile touched his lips, though it carried the weight of something unspoken. “A wise choice,” he said simply, though there was a depth to his tone that made Isabelle sit up straighter. “Few mortals possess the courage to step fully into the Dream, and fewer still do so with the clarity you’ve shown.” He paused, his gaze holding hers for a moment before continuing. “The Winter Court will see to your preparation.”
“My preparation?” Isabelle asked, tilting her head slightly, her curiosity overtaking her nerves.
“Of course,” Olberon said, sitting back with the calm demeanor of a practiced orator. “As a Witness, you will be presented formally to the courts—your debut, as it’s called Courting the Courts. It is an important tradition, one that marks your transition into this world and solidifies your place among us. Until then,” he added, his tone turning practical, “you will remain within the Winter Court’s lands. Florence will ensure your transition is seamless, and arrangements will be made for your belongings.”
He spoke as if these arrangements were mere formalities, but Isabelle couldn’t ignore the gravity of what he was saying. This was no small matter. Her choice had set things in motion, and now she was bound to a path that felt both thrilling and daunting.
“What does the debut entail?” she asked cautiously, her voice steady but laced with curiosity.
Olberon tilted his head slightly, considering his answer. “It is… a rite of passage, in a sense,” he explained. “You will be introduced to the courts, where the nobility will offer their acknowledgment, their offers to join or, in some rare cases, their challenges. The process is both a celebration and a test of character. But do not worry,” he added, his gaze softening again, “you will not face it unprepared.”
Isabelle hesitated, her thoughts swirling as she tried to process everything. “And after the debut?” she asked, her voice quieter now.
Olberon leaned forward slightly, resting his hands on the arms of his chair. “Afterward, you will have the freedom to make your choice. Whether to align yourself with the Winter Court or explore what the others might offer. Until then, consider yourself our guest—though one held in high regard.”
There was something about the way he said it, the deliberate care in his words, that made Isabelle’s cheeks warm. She glanced down, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Thank you, Lord Olberon,” she said softly, lifting her gaze to meet his again.
He inclined his head slightly, his expression unreadable yet kind. “It is no more than you deserve, Miss Isabelle,” he said, his voice dropping to a gentler tone. “Few who witness the truth of this world choose to remain and even fewer have done so rescuing a dear friend. You’ve shown remarkable resolve.”
His words, so genuine and measured, settled over her like a soothing balm. She hadn’t realized how much she needed to hear them until now.
As the conversation drew to a close, Olberon rose gracefully from his chair. “I will leave you to settle in further,” he said, his tone returning to its usual composed warmth. “Should you require anything, do not hesitate to ask.”
He moved toward the door, pausing just before stepping out. “And Miss Isabelle,” he added, glancing back over his shoulder, “welcome to the Winter Court properly.”
The faintest smile touched his lips before he disappeared into the hall, leaving Isabelle to sit alone in the quiet elegance of the main drawing room. She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, her thoughts a blend of anticipation and uncertainty.
For the first time since she’d made her decision, she felt the weight of what lay ahead.
_____
Later that afternoon, Isabelle stood in the grand foyer of the Winter Court, staring at the intricately carved door Olberon had called the London Gate. Its frosted frame shimmered faintly, catching the light like trapped starlight. The wood itself was untouched by wear or time, its surface adorned with intertwining vines and runes that pulsed softly, as though alive. Their meaning felt just out of reach, brushing against the edges of her understanding.
Florence stood beside her, brisk and composed, a small satchel of Isabelle’s belongings slung over her shoulder. “Well,” she said, her voice calm but with a hint of impatience.
Isabelle glanced at her, then back at the door. “It looks… different than before,” she said, frowning slightly. “Last time it just looked like a door.”
Florence gave a knowing smile, already moving forward. “That’s the Gate coming back to the Winter Court. Can’t very well have a glowing, rune-covered archway just hanging out by the river, now, can we?” She gestured for Isabelle to follow. “Come along, dear. No time to dawdle.”
The door opened with a low creak, revealing not the familiar riverbank Isabelle expected but an inky void streaked with faint beams of light, like distant stars struggling through a thick fog. The air beyond was cold and still, carrying a faint hum that made her skin tingle.
Florence stepped through without hesitation, her silhouette vanishing into the darkness. Isabelle swallowed hard, her pulse quickening. The void seemed to beckon her forward and repel her all at once. Taking a deep breath, she stepped through.
The transition was instantaneous and jarring. One moment, she was enveloped in the ethereal hush of the Winter Court; the next, the cold, damp air of London struck her like a slap. The faint magical hum of the Gate disappeared, replaced by the rumble of traffic, the sharp cry of a gull overhead, and the pungent smell of exhaust mingled with river water.
The door closed behind them with a definitive clunk. Isabelle stumbled slightly, the sudden shift disorienting, but Florence caught her arm.
“It’s a bit rougher going this way,” Florence said with a reassuring smile. “The way back will be just as easy as before—a few knocks, step through, and you’re home again.”
Isabelle nodded but said nothing, taking in her surroundings. The river stretched out before them, gray and sluggish beneath a heavy sky. The sharp contrast to the Winter Court’s crisp beauty left her reeling. The colors of London seemed muted, the air heavier, pressing down on her like an invisible weight.
“Strange, isn’t it?” Florence said, her voice softer now. “Once you’ve stepped into the Dream, the mortal world never feels quite the same. Like trying to wear a dress that you once loved but now just a little too small—familiar, but uncomfortable.”
“Everything feels… off,” Isabelle murmured, her arms wrapped around herself. “The colors are duller. The sounds are sharper. Even the air feels wrong.”
Florence gave a brisk nod. “Quite right. You’ll adjust again, should you visit often enough. Though, I must admit, this part of London has always felt heavy to me. Too many shadows.” Leaning out, Florence hailed a black cab.
Their journey took them to Camden and back towards Isabelle’s flat as they passed the Black Hart pub Isabelle’s gaze was drawn to its ominous sign once more: a black stag with gnarled antlers that twisted like skeletal hands, its red eyes seemed to glow faintly against the gloom. The sight sent a shiver down her spine.
Florence stopped, her sharp eyes narrowing at the sign. “Ald-Fae Dark Omen,” she muttered, her tone edged with distaste.
“What?” Isabelle asked, glancing between Florence and the sign.
“That stag,” Florence said, lowering her voice. “It’s tied to the Ald-Fae—the ancient ones, part of the hunt. Not a symbol you see often in mortal lands, and certainly not a friendly one. If I were you, dear, I wouldn’t step foot in that place.”
“I never cared for that pub anyway,” Isabelle muttered, her unease growing as they moved on.
The oppressive presence of the Black Hart lingered in Isabelle’s mind as they reached her flat. It felt strange to step inside, the familiar space now carrying a weight she hadn’t noticed before. It was home but at the same time it felt oddly out of place.
Florence wasted no time, moving efficiently through the flat. Most of Isabelle’s belongings—clothes, books, and keepsakes—would have to be left behind. The realization hit harder than Isabelle expected, each item she parted with feeling like a piece of herself slipping away.
“This stays?” Florence asked, holding up a framed photograph.
Isabelle reached for it, her expression softening. “That’s my parents,” she said quietly.
Florence’s demeanor softened, and she gave Isabelle a warm smile. “Then it goes with you,” she said firmly, placing it carefully in the bag.
“I assume we’ll be wanting to return this to Virgil,” Florence said, holding up the tartan blanket.
Isabelle nodded, a sheepish smile tugging at her lips. “Of course. It’s very nice, though.”
“And what about…” Florence’s gaze flicked to the corner of the room, her voice turning amused. “The cat?”
Isabelle followed her gaze to see her fluffy calico cat lounging lazily on the arm of a chair, his tail flicking in quiet satisfaction.
“Oh Mr Darcy? he’s coming,” Isabelle said firmly, crossing her arms. “I wouldn’t leave him behind.”
Florence chuckled. “Good. Lord Olberon’s estate has housed stranger creatures than cats, I assure you. He’ll fit in just fine.”
As they finished packing the few possessions she could take, Isabelle took one last look around her flat. The space felt smaller somehow, as though she had outgrown it. It was familiar but no longer home.
“Ready?” Florence asked, sensing her hesitation.
Isabelle took a deep breath, tightening her grip on the strap of her bag. “Yes. Let’s go.”
With a final glance at her flat—and at Mr. Darcy, who followed lazily at her heels—she stepped out the door, leaving her old life behind.