Nothing happened. I hit the door with the heel of my hand, saying, “Open sesame, damn it.”

The key flared, and the door swung open.

I gaped. Then, recovering my senses, I stepped through the door before it could change its mind. It made sense, in a twisted sort of way: most people would assume that Evening had her locks set to the more florid formal patterns. She could keep almost everyone out just by keeping things simple.

The office was almost totally dark. I pulled the door shut behind me, easing it closed, and stayed where I was, giving my eyes a chance to adjust. I hadn’t seen any guards or tripped any alarms that I was aware of, but that didn’t mean turning on the lights would be a good idea—and I, prepared as always, had left my flashlight in the trunk. Finding a path through the office would’ve been a cakewalk for Evening or my mother, but I knew the limits of my changeling’s eyes. If I didn’t take time to adjust, I was going to smash my shins against someone’s desk.

Unfortunately, my eyes weren’t adjusting. My head hurt, and thanks to the expensively tinted windows, there was almost no ambient light in the office. “Next time I bring the flashlight,” I muttered. The key in my hand suddenly blazed a brilliant white. I jerked my face away with a small, incoherent cry.

It took a moment for the afterimages to fade. When I was sure I hadn’t been blinded for life, I turned back toward the key, which was glowing with a rich, rosy light. I stared at it for a moment before shaking my head, muttering, “Lovely,” under my breath. Holding the key in front of me like a strange art nouveau torch, I began picking my way through the maze of desks.

The work spaces were almost all decorated with some small, personal touch—a photograph, a selection of small toys, a child’s drawing. One of the desks was practically a shrine to Tinker Bell, decorated with a half dozen ceramic representations of the world’s most famous pixie. I paused, looking at a figurine of the little blonde bitch posed coyly atop a thimble. Every changeling in the world would love to shove her into a microwave, but Disney, alas, is more powerful than most of us could ever hope to be. Shaking my head, I moved along.

Most of the desks were in cubicles, open to anyone that passed by, but there were a few more enclosed offices along the back wall, their doors closed and locked. The one I wanted was tucked into the far corner, where the view of the city would be at its best. A plain faux brass nameplate was mounted on the front, engraved with the name “Evelyn Winters.” Oh, Evening. We hated each other so well and loved each other so badly . . . and I had no idea what I was going to do without her.

I lifted the key higher, and whispered, “Evening, I’m sorry.” There was a click as the lock came undone, and the door swung open.

Some people live where they work. Others just visit. Third Road Enterprises was just a diversion to Evening, and her office was practically empty, reflecting her lack of true dedication. A mortal lifetime was small change for her: by the standards of faerie time, spending thirty years building a company was just another game. There was nothing on the desk or the walls to indicate who worked there, or whether that person was coming back.

Morbidly, I muttered, “At least they won’t have to do much cleaning.” I had no idea what I was looking for, or what it would look like. Evening’s illusions were some of the strongest I’d ever seen, remarkable even for one of the Daoine Sidhe. If she’d concealed whatever it was, it would probably be under a spell I couldn’t see, much less break.

After a few minutes of scanning the room, I started turning in a slow circle, holding the key in front of me like a dowsing rod. It made a strange sort of sense, really: the key got me in. It was probably connected to whatever I was trying to find. I made two full turns before the key started to vibrate, nearly jerking itself out of my hands as it was pulled toward the filing cabinet by the window. Lowering it, I moved to kneel and continue my search.

Three of the four drawers opened easily. The second from the top was stuck fast, and when I touched the handle, it felt unnaturally cold; a signature sign of Evening’s magic. “It’s okay, Evening,” I said, touching the key against the drawer. “I got here first.”

The binding spell released with a gust of snow-cold air and the smell of roses, and the drawer slid open easily when I tried again. The key’s light went out at the same time, leaving me blinking in the sudden darkness. “Crap.”

I’ve done worse things than navigating my way out of an office building by feel. I tucked the key into the front of my bodice, where it would hopefully recharge—that sort of magic item usually does if you give it enough time—before I reached into the drawer. The thought of booby traps crossed my mind, and I quashed it as firmly as I could. Still, doubt lingered, and it was a relief when my questing fingers hit only hanging files.

I let my hands slide past the folders, guiding myself by feel. There was something hard at the back of the drawer, half buried under a pile of loose papers. Brushing the papers aside, I felt for the edges of the object. It felt like a box, a wooden box, about the size of a thick paperback book. My fingers tingled as they brushed against it, and the tingling became a burn, spreading up my arms as I lifted the box and removed it from the drawer. The burning wasn’t painful. It was almost pleasant in a way, like rubbing hot oil on sore muscles.

My eyes must have adjusted while I was fumbling in the file cabinet, because I could clearly see what I was holding. I stared, the steadily increasing burning in my arms forgotten.

It was a hope chest.

A real, genuine, hope chest, carved by Oberon’s own hand from the four sacred woods of Faerie—oak and ash for bracing and balance, rowan and thorn for pattern and protection. I knew what it was. Any child of Faerie, no matter how thin their blood, would have known what it was. And it couldn’t be what I knew it to be, because it was an impossible thing, a bedtime story. It didn’t exist. And I was holding it, and it was the reason Evening had been killed. There was nothing else that it could be.

The stories say there are twelve hope chests, that Oberon made them when mankind was still nothing but an interesting diversion. Some people say the chests hold secrets, or stars, or nothing at all; that the Heart of Faerie is hidden in one and the others are decoys, or that they hold a map that would lead us to our missing King and Queens. Some say the chests hold the keys to the deeper lands of Faerie, the places on the other side of the Summerlands. And behind closed doors, they say the hope chests hold a different sort of key: the key to immortality. That they can change the balance of a changeling’s blood, making them pureblooded . . . or human.