Things had stopped making logical, empirical sense some time ago, and thus Maribel followed the phooka into an impossible tunnel without qualm or question. Through the portal, she had pulled Isobel into the darkness beyond which gave way to a poorly lit passageway. The bricks that lined the walls were even older than those from the alley, crumbled and crushed, and everything seemed breathless and laden with antiquity. The sourceless light served to emphasize shadow more than anything else, the kind of light one might see honeyed within amber, passing slowly around a trapped insect from ages past. The phooka moved ahead like a dream, drifting down the length of the tunnel, his horns high like a crown and barely brushing the curved ceiling above. Isobel trailed after, a hand outstretched to the rough wall to her left, fingertips almost brushing them but never quite making contact. The gate had fallen behind, consumed by darkness, and they seemed to walk through an interminable stretch of tunnel, with no end or beginning, beguiling and disorienting both.
