Along the walls there are five other doors. Each one is marked with a different symbol. Simon closes his door behind him and finds an identical heart on its opposite side. The other doors have a key, a crown, a sword, a bee, and a feather.
Between the doors there are columns, and thin bookshelves suspended from the ceiling like swings, the books stacked flat on their sides. Simon cannot fathom how one might reach the highest shelves until he realizes they are strung on pulleys, able to be raised or lowered.
There are lamps over each door, burning brightly save for the door with the key, which is completely extinguished, and the door with the feather, which has been dimmed.
A piece of paper slides out from under the door with the feather.
Simon picks it up. There is soot on the outside, which blackens his fingers. The words on the paper are written in wobbling, childlike penmanship.
Hello.
Is there someone behind this door
or are you a cat?
There is a drawing of a rabbit beneath.
Simon turns the doorknob. It sticks. He inspects the lock and finds a latch which he turns and then tries again. This time the door submits.
It opens into a dark room with bare walls. No one is there. He looks around the back of the door but sees only darkness.
Confused, Simon closes the door again.
He turns the note over.
He takes a quill from the table, dips it in an inkwell, and writes a response.
I am not a cat.
He folds the paper and slides it under the door. He waits. He opens the door again.
The note is gone.
Simon closes the door.
He turns his attention to a bookcase.
Behind him, the door swings open. Simon cries out in surprise.
In the doorway there is a young woman with brown hair piled in curls and braids around silver filigree bunny ears. She wears a strange knit shirt and a scandalously short skirt over blue trousers and tall boots. Her eyes are bright and wild.
“Who are you?” this girl who has materialized out of nothingness asks. The note is clutched in her hand.
“Simon,” he says. “Who are you?”
The girl considers this question longer, tilting her head, the bunny ears lilting toward the door with the sword.
“Lenore,” Eleanor answers, which is a touch of a lie. She read it in a poem once and thought it prettier than Eleanor, despite the similarity. Besides, no one ever asks h
er name so this seems a good opportunity to try out a new one.
“Where did you come from?” Simon asks.
“The burned place,” she says, as though that is sufficient explanation. “Did you write this?” She holds out the note.
Simon nods.
“When?”