“I’m not as good as Alex was,” said Thisbe. “But I’m not bad. Let me take a look.”

“The ripped spot is at the top right corner.” Florence gave Thisbe some of the drawing tools that she’d swiped from Claire and Gunnar’s house. Florence knelt and invited Thisbe to stand on her bent leg so she could reach the top of the drawing.

After climbing up, Thisbe peered closely at the knot of wood in the drawing that Florence pointed out. She didn’t see anything amiss at first. “You repaired the tear really well,” she said. “I can’t even see it. But I think maybe some of the ink in one part of this knot must have become too thin in the process of the tear and repair.” She studied it for a long moment, looking at it from multiple angles, then considered the utensils in her hand. She selected the thinnest pen with the softest brush and uncapped it, revealing a narrow, feathery tip. She touched it to her sleeve to test it—she needed to know how much pressure it would take and if it would bleed into the paper. If she added even the slightest bit too much ink to the door, it would be ruined forever.

“I have some scrap paper you can test on,” Fifer said gruffly, digging in her pants pocket for it. “We found it in Claire’s house. It’s the same thickness as the drawing.”

“Thanks,” Thisbe said, taking it. She tested the pen on the scrap, making a few broad strokes, then lightening the pressure until she felt like she had the right amount of ink for the job. Sweat beaded on her nose. She could feel an intense need to get this right, not just to release Simber but to prove to Fifer and Florence and Sky that she was here to help, to rise above her fight with Fifer and defend their land. “Okay,” she said after a while. “Here goes.” She lifted her hand and watched it tremble, then set her lips firmly, mentally telling herself to get through this.

Holding the pen poised, she brushed the air a few times to get the stroke at this angle and height, and then, without stopping the motions, let the pen lightly sweep across the knot of wood. Only once, and then she pulled back, expecting the door to come to life and push out from the wall. But it didn’t. The drawing remained two-dimensional.

Thisbe blew out a breath, then repeated the action while everyone else watched silently. The door still didn’t change.

Had she overdone it? Or did it still need something? Without having memorized the theater doors, Thisbe wasn’t sure. She was only going on instinct—how should this tiny part appear? It didn’t look too heavy, so maybe the knot should be even darker? Thisbe wiped the sweat off her face as the others continued looking on with strained expressions. Then she brushed the paper once more, ever so lightly, and leaned back, whispering, “Come on. Come on.”