I had found my way into Hawkes’s room. Or rather, upon looking about, I’d found myself inside a pocket of Hawkes’s soul. The late afternoon light splashed gold over everything, and it took a moment for my eyes to adjust, but when they did, I lifted my right hand—the hand that held the key—and placed it over my heart. I have loved the spaces of my friends—Islington’s library, Pierce’s studio, Saffronia’s Thrush’s Victory, Mary’s haphazard room filled with papers and strewn bits of clothing, and even the atelier of The Hound—but this room, this very small room, made me feel something I’d not
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