I’ve found the seam in Loricel’s illusion and opened it. I clutch my right arm against my body; my fingers ache to reach out, to discover what the thick rough weave feels like. I force myself to keep my hands back away from the breach now. This room, here in the distant tower, where we can call any place in Arras before us, is the only place that feels real. ‘You could waste away there,’ Loricel says behind me. The studio was empty when I arrived, but I knew she’d be back soon. Now that she’s here, I wish I had more time alone to study the rift. If I’d been here much longer, I might have crossed the line and touched the rough, raw material that billows out between Earth and Arras. Loricel moves to stand beside me. ‘It’s hard to fathom, isn’t it?’ ‘I see it,’ I say, ‘but it feels like another illusion . . . I want to touch it.’ ‘Like your hands are physically being drawn to it,’ she says. ‘You too?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Have you?’ ‘No.’ There’s the firmness of resignation to her voice.
