When the lock felt the teeth of the key, an overwhelming, carnal pleasure made the second pin of the mechanism give way, and the first could no longer resist when the third and the fourth—every pin in the cylinder—turned obediently, letting themselves go. The lock, which was still young, despite years of being untouched, extended its hands in joy, with promises and lively conversation for all three keys, because the other two felt the caress of the third through the key chain, and when the lock groaned with pleasure, they responded as if three were one, electrified. The effort, despite exhausting them, was extremely pleasurable—a vertiginous delight.

Lying in bed next to the Forest Girl, as they prepare to sleep, the keys admit to one another how satisfying it is to perform their function.

“How fortunate we are!”

“We can’t complain!”

And this confession leaves them in peace, satisfied, sleeping the sleep of the blessed.

The Forest Girl awakens after midnight. The rest of the palace’s inhabitants are still fast asleep, dreaming their first dreams of the night. She gets out of bed, holding the key chain in her right hand. She puts on her slippers, throws a shawl over her shoulders, and, with her left hand, grabs the little candle and matches she uses to read at night. When she leaves her room, she shuts the door and hides the candle as planned, to prevent anyone from seeing a light in her window. She heads toward the rooms of the Lady of Light.

The girl has never left her room at night. The palace looks completely different in the dark. The shadows, the sound of her footsteps, the arrangement of the objects as she passes them, everything terrifies her, but she masters her fear and forges ahead.

The first key easily opens the door to the other side of the palace, where night seems like day. The room is blazing with various points of white light, intense but not harsh or severe, a warm, steady light. The room seems larger. The light is coming from the objects inside it—the paintings, the chairs, the carpet—not from candles or lamps. The brightest light comes from the bottle next to the book with Genie in its title. Every spine, every title is legible: The Broken Skull, The Animal Who Slept Like a Log, Onionskins, Heartless Poems, The Unfeeling Heart. The books are arranged by color and size; there is neither rhyme nor reason to the jumble of titles. Each object is next to its corresponding book, so that the size of the globe determines where the book (Treatise on Geography) sits on the shelf.