Now that he’d finished lashing the frame together, Nett coaxed moss over the wooden rails, explaining that moss was a guiding plant, usually growing on the north side of trees, which helped Tiller journeymen locate themselves. Then, he and Sena had used the top of Nadia’s wooden desk to create the actual door. It hung on the doorframe with two copper hinges forged, with Gryphin’s permission, from two of the chimera’s molted feathers. Sena had heated a third copper piece and shaped it into a tiny bell that was now strung on top of the door.

With a small flick, Sena set the bell chiming, a gentle, high note that made the hair on the back of Claire’s neck stand up in a good way. She could imagine the sound soaring through the door, seeking out Mathieu and Sylvia. Calling them home. Then, Sena tugged on the handle—a loop of ribbons Sophie had braided together. As she was the one who would be opening the seams, Nett and Sena had thought the handle should be made of the material Sophie was most comfortable with.

Still, the overall effect was … haphazard.

“Sena,” Claire said cautiously, not wanting to hurt the Forger’s feelings and knowing they were short on time, “are you sure we don’t need to make a well?”

Sena nodded, her red braid swinging as she pulled on the ribbon handle to make sure its knots were tight. “In all their notes, my parents keep underlining that there is never just one way to do something. I think we need to play to our strengths. And I’ve never made a well before, have you?”

“No,” Claire admitted. “But that’s another thing. According to Anvil, the well was made by a Gemmer, Forger, and unicorn. There were no Spinners or Tillers, so maybe we’re wrong.”

“Is that so?” Nett crossed his arm and cocked a black eyebrow at her. “And what, exactly, was that ladder made of that got you safely through? Wood! Of course there was a Tiller who helped. And I bet there’s some unknown, unnamed Spinner who helped pull it all together. If there’s anything we’ve learned with the Royalists and Queen Estelle, it’s that sometimes, the history that’s passed down is wrong.”

Peering around the doorframe, Sena stared at her foster brother in disbelief. “Nett, are you sure you’re feeling all right? You love your historians!”

“Timor the Verbose is a great read, it’s true,” Nett protested as he gave his marimo a little pat. They still needed its light, but the dark outside was lifting. The sun would rise soon. Sena seemed to have noticed the same thing.

“Claire,” she beckoned, “it’s your turn.”