“We may come back out again,” said the Sisters of the Lileen, “wherever the dying live.”

—

There was something wrong. This room was not as it should’ve been.

Yehuda Leib had lost track of time in the Hoard, but he didn’t think he could’ve passed entire seasons among the shelves. And yet, right in front of him, with his own two eyes, he could see a window letting in the gray light of an overcast summer evening.

How could this be?

Cautiously, he crept forward.

It was a billiards room with thick velvet drapes and dark woodwork. A fire had been left to dwindle in the grate, and a glass of brandy sat on the edge of the table, which—cues and all—had been abandoned mid-game.

The room felt as if its occupants had just departed and equally as if they had not been here in years.

And both were true. For Lord Mammon trades not only in things but in places, as well, and thoughts, and memories.

And many other things besides.

Yehuda Leib felt himself simultaneously comforted and disquieted as he pushed through the door on the far side of the room. It was a second billiards room—blue, where the first one had been red.

But, more importantly, outside the window of the second room a gentle rain fell through brown autumn leaves.

Yehuda Leib looked back. Still, through the window of the first room, he could see a thicket of sunlit summer leaves.

Yehuda Leib swallowed hard.

The rooms in this place seemed to keep their own time.

He was about to go through into the blue room when a loud cracking made him jump. Spinning around, Yehuda Leib saw that a shot had been taken on the red billiards table—the balls were no longer in the same position—and, what was more, the level of the brandy in the glass had sunk precipitously.

But there was no one here.

“H-hello?” called Yehuda Leib.

No answer.

Yehuda Leib was uneasy. Perhaps he ought to find his way out.

But at precisely this moment, a sound echoed from far within the Treasure House.

A sort of honking caw.

The crow.

His father.

Yehuda Leib pushed forward.

At first they were all billiards rooms—some pristine and unused, some choked in cigar smoke, one even missing half its ceiling—but before long, the theme began to vary:

Here was a room dotted with card tables, the hands dealt out before pushed-back chairs. As Yehuda Leib picked his way through to the far door, he saw all the suits he was familiar with—hearts, spades, diamonds, clubs—but there were new and strange suits as well:

Hats.

Clocks.

Planets.

Ears.

There was a small stone chamber containing nothing but a mid-game chessboard, and at one point, Yehuda Leib pushed through a door to find himself in a long wooden hall with a net slung down the middle: an old wooden tennis court.