“Well, that’s an easy enough problem,” she muttered, pulling a hairpin loose. When she got back to 1913, she would have to find her old hairdresser and tell her how dead useful these pins had been over the last year. She inserted it into the lock and, biting her teeth, twisted until she felt something catch. The door creaked open. Grinning, Dorothy stepped through the door and into a dimly lit hall, the words East Wing written in faded, peeling paint in front of her.

She turned, pushing the hair out of her eyes—

And saw the corner of a dark jacket whip around the corner.

“Professor?” She frowned, hurrying after him. Her heart was beating in her throat, and blood was rushing in her ears. It seemed to whisper to her, At last, at last.

She followed the dark jacket through the door and found herself in a stairwell. She could go up, or she could go down.

“Professor?” she shouted. Her voice echoed, and she thought she heard the sound of footsteps, someone running toward the roof. Heart pounding, she ran, holding her breath as she plowed up the stairs.

Each step she took shuddered through her, rattling her bones and making her knees ache. Eventually, she reached a heavy door. She pushed it open and stumbled outside.

Sunlight hit her full in the face. She shielded her eyes, squinting into the glow.

A man stood before her. He had dark brown skin and hair, and a black beard speckled with gray. He looked different from what Dorothy had been expecting, in his jacket and loose black T-shirt. Dorothy’s throat closed up. He looked just like Zora.

He was humming to himself, fumbling with something that appeared to be a small gun. Dorothy eyed the gun, wondering whether she should be worried. He didn’t seem dangerous, but . . . well, it occurred to her that he might be a little crazy. She’d read his journal. He might be more than a little crazy.

Then again, she’d come all this way. She cleared her throat.

The Professor looked up.

“Ah!” he said, brightening at the sight of her. Dorothy didn’t know whether it was her modern clothes or her white hair, but he seemed to know, instantly, that she wasn’t from this time period. “Have you come to fetch me, then?”

For some reason, his casual demeanor made Dorothy uneasy. It occurred to her that he didn’t have a clue what was happening in his own time. She didn’t particularly want to be the person to break it to him.

“Professor,” she said, taking a step forward. “Do you know who I am?”

He narrowed his eyes, taking in her tattered clothes, her white hair, and scarred face. “Are you a friend of my daughter’s?”