In Birchwood on the Lake, the mist hung low, like thin tissue paper over the drowsy light of a lighthouse. Mira, a twenty-two-year-old apprentice cartographer, sketched the shores, measuring the breath of the waves with the rhythm of her own steps. Carrying a brass compass after her Aunt Laura, she always felt the map wanted to be bigger. The compass had its quirks: sometimes it pointed to midnight, which was not in any clock. As a child, she learned to listen to the crackle of ice and read directions from the flicker of dragonflies. Twilight erased the colours, leaving the lake as smooth as glass and as silent as a closed book. To the Whispering Bridge today she brought a new map, on which a thin line appeared through the water. In the margin was Laura's note: "The passage opens when the lake forgets to breathe". In the glare of the sky she could see constellations that no atlas knew, as if someone had rearranged the ceiling. Today, the dash did not lead to the shore, but straight into the reflected sky, as if it ignored the water. - 'Don't feed the reflection with words,' muttered Mr Kos, the old carrier, gliding the boat along the reeds. - If it answers, it will want more than you can really give tonight. Mira nodded, but unrolled the parchment, fixing the corners with drops of needle-scented resin. She prepared a vial of twilight-dusted ink and set down her compass, which ticked quietly like a beetle. In her pocket she also carried a letter, Laura's only words for a year: "Write down what no one sees". Suddenly the water held its breath and the needle turned three times, stopping between midnights. The planks of the platform lengthened by a non-existent step, creaking where the wood had never been before. In the reflection she saw a second lantern beside her and her own hand clutching an unfamiliar key. Instead of a coin, she dropped a pine needle; it fell into the mirrored depths and emerged as a feather. The heron squatted on the piling, crooked its head and nailed it with eyes as yellow as flared copper. The bell from the sunken belfry sounded backwards, and a line guiding the map flashed across the black glass. From the reflection an oval of darker radiance slid out, like a gate pretending to be an ordinary patch of light. Then she saw in the mirror someone's face beside her own, a younger Laura, who raised a finger to her lips. The air trembled, the compass grew hot, and something from below touched the edge of the platform. A whisper from the mist came from Mr Kos, but the words came inverted, as if someone was speaking through the water. Mira knelt down to look deeper, feeling the chill pass through her knees and gather in her fingers. In the reflection, Laura moved her lips silently, forming the words 'Don't be late', though the night was only just ripening. A drop of dew fell on the parchment and soaked into the line, which bubbled with light as if she had drunk the memory. The board under her hand twitched a second time, heavier, as if someone on the other side had already found a handle.