Ira tore her eyes away from her phone screen and glanced at the computer monitor. A new email had just popped into her inbox, sent by Oleg Ivanovich, the head of the homeowners’ association.
He was a decent guy, a bit high-strung, but for someone in his position, that could almost be considered a job requirement.
A little about Ira.
Iryna Ataman was a fifth-generation accountant. Her mom was an accountant, her grandma was an accountant, her grandpa too, her great-grandmother kept household ledgers, and her great-great-grandfather handled bookkeeping for several wealthy landowners.
Ira worked in consulting at a firm owned by her mother, Nona Igorivna Ataman. ATAMAN CONSULTING was one of the biggest consulting companies in Khmelnytskyi.
Unlike her mother, Ira didn’t share the same ambitions. She avoided big projects and had no desire to become a top-tier professional. That’s why she turned down training in International Financial Reporting Standards and flat-out refused to take on the role of chief accountant.
Nona Igorivna hadn’t given up hope of getting her daughter involved in running the business. After all, Ira was already 32, and her friends had their own businesses, families, and kids. Ira, though—so talented, so beautiful—didn’t want to hear a word about marriage or business.
And Ira? All she wanted was to live her life, make her own decisions, and not have anyone demand anything from her. Especially now, with a war raging in her country, she had no plans to start a family or make any big changes in her life.
Ira skimmed the email:
Iryna, I urgently need you to come to the homeowners’ association office. We’ve got an emergency—some primary documents for the purchase of equipment for the modular cogeneration unit have gone missing. Do you have copies of these documents?
Respectfully, Oleg Bilyi.
What could’ve happened that required her to show up in person? She could just email the copies. Ira tried calling Oleg Ivanovich, but his phone was out of range.
The clock showed 2:35 PM; there were just a couple of hours left in the workday. If Ira called a cab now, she’d be at the association office by 3:00, and then she could head straight home from there. Perfect, that worked for her.
She quickly printed out copies of the documents, tucked them into a folder, grabbed her notebook, shut down her computer, and headed to her mom’s office.
“Mom, I’m heading out to a client. They’ve lost some documents.”
Nona Igorivna looked up from her monitor. “Lost? How? Do I even want to know? I’m going to find out in person. I’ve got not just a copy but an original too. I prepared the paperwork for a loan, but I’m keeping quiet about the original for now.”
“Ira, don’t play with fire. If there’s any trouble, call the lawyer. I don’t want our firm getting dragged into problems over some homeowners’ association.”
“Got it. If I can’t handle it myself, I’ll call.”
At the door, Nona Igorivna stopped her. “Will you be coming by tomorrow?”
Ira rolled her eyes to the ceiling, quickly coming up with an excuse. “Probably not. I’ve got a trip planned with the girls to Kamianets-Podilskyi.”
“You’ve been there a hundred times.”
“Then this’ll be the hundred-and-first. Alright, Mom, see you Monday.”
The cab was already waiting. Ira hopped into the back seat, greeted the driver, and buried herself in her phone.
The “Lakeside” residential complex was one of the most popular in the city. Perfectly located just three miles from downtown and close to the river, it had everything for a comfortable life: shops, cafés, a restaurant, two gyms, playgrounds, running trails, underground parking, and the cherry on top—an artificial lake, complete with fish. All in all, it was a very Instagram-worthy spot.
A lot of tech workers lived in the complex, and they were always looking to improve their living conditions. One of those improvements was supposed to be a modular cogeneration gas unit that would supply the entire complex with electricity during outages.
Oleg Ivanovich, the head of the association, had spent a long time searching for suppliers and researching options since the equipment was to be purchased on credit.
Ira, as an outsourced accountant, had helped prepare the paperwork for the bank. The loan was approved, and the equipment was supposed to be installed by the end of August.
Ira walked into the association’s office, located in the basement of the central building in the complex. Despite being a basement, it was clean, fresh, and honestly, not bad at all. The office consisted of several rooms: the head’s office, a space for administrative staff handling purchases, repairs, and maintenance of the buildings and grounds, a room for maintenance workers, and a storage area.
The administrative area was adjacent to the head’s office. Ira walked in without knocking. The room was surprisingly empty, though it was usually bustling. But from behind the door to Oleg’s office, she could hear noise—even shouting.
“We’re all going to end up in jail! I must’ve been blind when I signed this. And what were the rest of you looking at? My God, this is millions of hryvnias. We’ve bought a pig in a poke!”
“Oleg Ivanovich, we double-checked everything. It definitely said delivery by August 25, 2024, not 2025.” That was Petro, the guy in charge of sourcing suppliers.
Knock-knock—Ira stepped into the office, mimicking a knock as she entered.
“Oh, Iryna! Good, you’re here. We’re in deep trouble. Turns out, the contract lists the delivery date for the cogeneration unit as August 25, 2025, not 2024. But I remember clearly, we agreed on 2024.”
“Oleg Ivanovich, I brought copies of the documents. Let me take a look.”
Ira pulled the folder out of her bag and carefully reread the page of the contract detailing the delivery terms.
“Strange, but it looks like the last digit here is smudged. What does your copy say?”
“We don’t have our copy anymore. It’s gone. And the supplier sent me their version, which shows August 25, 2025.”
“Gone? How?”
“Just gone. From my office, which I lock with my own key and never leave unlocked. And you know, the apartment owners invested in this project expecting the unit to be operational by winter. Plus, part of the funds came from a loan we have to start repaying in September.”
“Have you looked for it? Maybe it’s misplaced on a shelf somewhere?”
“Ira, how long have you worked with me?”
“Two years.”
“Have you ever seen a mess in my office? Everything has its place.”
Ira knew this about Oleg Ivanovich. He was borderline obsessive about order—everything had to be in its spot, whether in his office, the storage room, or anywhere in the association. Sometimes, she even envied his meticulousness.
“The supplier is coming soon with their copy of the contract. Can you stay and take a look at it with me?”
“Sure, if I can help, I’ll wait.”
“Great, thanks. I’m going to grab a coffee. Want anything?”
“Yeah, a cappuccino if you don’t mind. I’ll wait in the admin room.”
“No, stay in my office. Things can’t get any worse anyway.”
Ira sat on the couch and started scanning the room. Standard office furniture: a wall unit with shelves, a wardrobe for coats, a T-shaped desk, a stand for the printer, all the binders labeled in the same font. On the desk sat a family photo and a picture of Oleg’s son in military uniform. His son was fighting in the Sumy region, while his wife and daughters lived with Oleg and his wife in the complex. The desk was impeccably tidy, except for an open folder. Probably where Oleg kept the contract. Ira picked up the folder and sat back down on the couch.
She decided to go through the contents of the folder in detail. It was labeled “CONTRACTS,” and everything inside was neatly organized into individual files. Ira methodically pulled out each file’s contents, checking to see if Oleg might’ve accidentally slipped the contract among other documents. After going through everything, she still couldn’t find it.
Thoughts swirled in her head. Ira felt like she was missing something, something just out of sight. As her grandma would’ve said, “Open your eyes.”
Ira closed the folder, rested her hands on top, and shut her eyes for a moment. She had a strange feeling that with her eyes closed, she’d find the contract. A sudden warmth prickled under her hands. She opened her eyes and looked down—something was glowing from inside the folder. She opened it and saw the contract.
Ira jolted in shock. The contract was right on top in one of the files. She quickly pulled it out and checked the delivery terms section. It clearly stated August 25, 2024.
“What the heck?” she muttered aloud.
At that moment, she heard voices outside the door.
“Oleg Ivanovich said we could wait in his office.” That must be the supplier arriving.
The door opened, and two men walked in. One was younger, about thirty, the other around fifty. Both looked like they’d stepped out of a fashion magazine—sharp business suits, black shirts, expensive watches. Their appearance screamed, “We’re rolling in it.” But they clearly weren’t expecting to see anyone else in the office. The surprise was written all over their faces.
“Good afternoon,” the older man said. “Mind if we sit?”
“Good afternoon, go ahead.”
“And who are you?” the younger one asked.
“Me? I’m Iryna.”
“Nice to meet you. I’m Vitaliy, and this is my father, Roman Andriyovych.”
“Pleasure to meet you.”
And then Ira felt another jolt. Despite their silent demeanor, she heard something in her head:
“Who’s this chick?”
“Probably a lawyer.”
“You kidding? What kind of lawyer is she? A secretary at best. Cute face, nice figure though. Alright, Vitaliy, stick to the plan—play dumb about their missing contract, show ours with the date we want, where their signature is on every page, and say we’ll honor the terms, delivering the unit by August 25, 2025. But if they want to cancel the contract, they’ll owe a penalty of 30 percent of the total amount. Man, this is going so smoothly. We’ve already scammed three suckers this month.”
Ira stared at her phone screen to hide her reaction. She couldn’t wrap her head around not just what she’d heard, but how she’d heard it.
The door opened again, and Oleg Ivanovich walked in. He handed Ira her coffee, greeted the suppliers, and sat down at his desk.
“Oleg Ivanovich, so what’s going on?” Vitaliy asked.
“I’ve lost the contract, and now I can’t understand why the delivery date is August 25, 2025. We agreed on 2024.”
“No, Oleg Ivanovich, the contract clearly states August 25, 2025. We can’t deliver before that date. We order from overseas, and everything is coordinated in our agreements.”
“Can I see your copy of the contract?” Oleg Ivanovich asked.
“Of course, we brought it with us,” Vitaliy said, handing over the document.
Ira watched as Oleg Ivanovich first went pale, then flushed red. He handed the contract back and asked, “Is there any way to deliver this year?”
At this point, Roman Andriyovych chimed in.
“Oleg Ivanovich, with all due respect, that’s impossible. Completely. These contracts are set well in advance. Our foreign partners schedule their production processes based on these agreements, which are planned accordingly.”
“I understand, Roman Andriyovych, but is there a chance to swap places with another client in the queue?”
“Oleg Ivanovich, that’s just not realistic. Every contract is tied to a specific agreement to avoid any disruptions.”
They went on like this for another twenty minutes, talking in circles, though Ira already knew how this conversation would end.
“Roman Andriyovych, can we terminate the contract?”
“Yes, Oleg Ivanovich, but it won’t be advantageous for you. Under this contract, there’s a penalty of 30 percent of the total amount. Are you prepared to pay that?”
Oleg Ivanovich turned practically green at those words. Ira couldn’t hold back any longer—she had to say something.
“Can I take a look at the contract?” All eyes turned to her.
“This is Iryna, our accountant,” Oleg Ivanovich said with a glimmer of hope.
“Oh, sure, go ahead.”
Ira walked over, took the contract, returned to the couch, opened to the relevant page, focused hard, held her finger on the date for a few seconds, then lifted it. She saw the date: August 25, 2024. An idea sparked in her mind.
“May I ask a question?”
“Of course, Iryna, we’ll answer anything within the scope of our contract.”
“So, if I understand correctly, you can’t make any concessions or change the terms of the contract?”
“No, that’s impossible due to the import agreement.”
“And we can’t swap with another buyer either?”
“No, that’s not possible.”
“Just a hypothetical question, if I may?”
“Sure.”
“If it turned out that the contract was signed with a delivery date of August 25, 2024—even if it’s a mistake, but the contract is signed and sealed—what would you do in that case?”
“Oh, Iryna, you’re quite the dreamer,” Roman Andriyovych began, puffing himself up with such arrogance it was almost nauseating. “In that case, we’d have to refund your money within ten days of the missed deadline, plus a 30 percent penalty. We’re a reputable company, well-known, and we always honor our commitments. We proposed these penalties ourselves to ensure our clients trust us.”
“You’re the perfect supplier.”
“Yes, we are,” he said, practically bursting with self-importance. Ira wanted to spit in both their faces, but she held herself together, imagining herself at a podium in Congress, and spoke confidently. “I’m so glad, Oleg Ivanovich, that you found such honest suppliers.” Oleg’s eyes widened, and he opened his mouth to say something, but Ira stopped him with a look.
“Now, I’d like everyone to take a close look at their copy of the contract. By the way, Oleg Ivanovich, I found our copy.” You should’ve seen the looks on their faces when Ira handed their contract back. “So, in both copies of the contract, the date is August 25, 2024. Correct?”
“That can’t be,” Roman Andriyovych nearly shouted.
“But it’s a fact. The contract states that date. And now that all doubts are cleared, we expect delivery by August 25, 2024, or a refund plus the penalty by September 5, 2024.”
Oleg Ivanovich looked at Ira like she was a god, while the suppliers stared at her like she was the devil. Now it was Vitaliy and Roman Andriyovych’s turn to turn red. They gawked at the contract, unable to comprehend how some young woman had outsmarted them.
“We need to talk,” they said, bolting out of the office.
Oleg Ivanovich could only manage to ask, “How?”
“That’s not important now, Oleg Ivanovich. I should probably go. Let me know what you decide about this company.”
“Yes, Irochka, go ahead. I’ll owe you for life.”
Ira stepped outside. Nearby, Vitaliy and Roman Andriyovych were discussing something, pointing at the contract and throwing their hands up in frustration.
“Ira,” Roman Andriyovych called out, “can we have a moment?”
“Sure, I’m listening.”
“Who are you?”
“Who am I? I’m Iryna Ataman.”
“No, who are you really? Where did you come from? Tell us the truth.”
“I’m telling you the truth. I’m Iryna Ataman, the accountant for the association.”
“That’s just a facade. Who are you really?” Roman grabbed Ira’s arm, looked into her eyes, and nearly fainted, recoiling as if she were contagious. “Please forgive us, a little mistake on our part.” He quickly let go of her arm, yanked Vitaliy along, and hurried back into the office.
Ira stood there for a couple more minutes waiting for her cab, then headed home.
She walked into her apartment and immediately went to the mirror. She wanted to see her eyes.
“Just eyes, nothing supernatural about them,” she thought. “But what if I close them?”
Ira shut her eyes for a moment, imagining she was looking into herself. When she opened them, she gasped.
Her green eyes were glowing, a fire burning in her irises.
“No way,” she muttered, unable to find more words. She closed and opened her eyes again, and they were back to normal.
She tried a couple more times, and yes, they glowed.
A wave of emotion hit Ira with such force that she felt like she was on fire. Realizing she could do something like this was unimaginable—her world had turned upside down.
It felt like falling into an abyss in a dream.
Ira kicked off her shoes, went to the bathroom, and splashed cold water on her face. It didn’t help. The heat turned into nervous trembling, and she started shaking.
Coffee wouldn’t help. Ira rummaged through her kitchen shelves and found a long-forgotten pack of chamomile and lemon balm tea.
The kettle boiled, and Ira grabbed her largest mug, pouring hot water over the tea bag.
A few minutes later, one sip, then another, and so on.
The hot tea did its job—her body relaxed. Ira lay down on her bed and fell asleep.
In her dream, Ira was falling into some kind of void, like she’d overdone it at a party with friends and had one too many. Her attempts to grab onto something failed. She plummeted into a dark abyss, gasping for air, unable to figure out what was happening to her.
A nightmare or reality?
The fear gripping her felt real, and her desire to wake up wasn’t working. After some time, the falling slowed, and Ira felt the fear release her body. She became light as a feather.
Ira floated in the dark void, as if lying on a soft mattress.
In an instant, her position shifted from lying to standing.
She felt a surface under her feet.
Yes, it was solid beneath her, but all around was pitch black. Ira tried feeling around with her hands—nothing. So, she decided to move in any direction. She took a few steps forward and bumped into something. She felt it with her hands—it seemed like a table or a stand. She tried to go around it and bumped into something else. Feeling it again, it was a chair.
“Where the heck am I? Did I die and end up in hell? If this is hell, it’s not bad, just a bit too dark.”
Ira kept moving in an unknown direction and bumped into something again. This time, it felt like a wardrobe.
“If this is a wardrobe, there should be a wall behind it. And if there’s a wall, there should be a door somewhere.”
Ira slowly moved to the left. Why left? Because she’s left-handed and always follows her heart. Quietly, without making noise, because it was still terrifying to search for a door in a dark room that might not even exist.
Step by step, Ira covered about thirty feet. “Not a small room,” she thought, when the wardrobe suddenly ended. Behind it, she felt something soft but pleasant to the touch. Like warm seawater, but not wet, more like thick air. Ira liked this material she couldn’t see. The sensation was familiar, something long forgotten but very comforting. She stroked it again, wanting to press herself against it. Suddenly, a burning sensation stung the back of her hand, just above her palm, as if thousands of tiny needles pierced her skin.
Ira yanked her hand back with a scream. “Ouch! What the hell?” At that moment, the spot where she felt the burning pain lit up in a circle, like a golden coin. Ira stared at the glow. On her left wrist, a symbol shone—a circle with an open eye inside.
Suddenly, light flooded the room, and Ira squinted. She heard footsteps, and the door behind her swung open.
“Lady Accountant?” Ira turned and saw a young woman, about twenty, dressed in a strange sundress over pants. Short chestnut hair, blue eyes, a delicate blush on her cheeks—she looked like she’d stepped out of a painting.
“Who?” Ira asked, confused.
“Lady Accountant,” the girl repeated, confirming her words.
“Accountant?” For some reason, Ira pictured an old wooden abacus her grandma used to use, and she laughed. “No one’s ever called me that before.”
“Lady, I’m not insulting you. You are the Accountant of the Between-Worlds. It’s a title.”
“A title? What kind of title? What Accountant of the Between-Worlds? What Between-Worlds?” Ira felt like someone was playing a prank on her.
“Wait just a moment. Master Romeo will be here soon, and he’ll explain everything. I don’t know it all yet—I’ve only been here a week.”
“Here? Where’s here?”
“In your ancestral estate, Ataman.”
“Hold on, what ancestral estate?”
“Lyra! Where are you? Did you go into the Lady’s chambers again? I told you not to enter without a reason!” A stern male voice boomed from beyond the door. Lyra—that must be the girl’s name—paled. “I’m here! The Lady is here…”
“What?” A burly man, about sixty, stepped through the door. Nearly six-and-a-half feet tall, broad-shouldered, with long gray hair tied back in a ponytail, a neat short gray beard, and dressed in a similar strange sundress over pants. “Why so early?”
“I don’t understand,” Ira replied with a question of her own.
“Lady, you’ve arrived too soon. We weren’t expecting you for another twenty years. We need to check.” He quickly approached Ira, grabbed her left hand, turned it over, and looked at her wrist. “Strange, it is you.”
“Can someone tell me where I am and why I’m suddenly a ‘Lady’?”
“Well, let’s sit down. There’s no truth in standing. Lyra, get us some coffee.”
Ira glanced around for a place to sit. The room was quite spacious, about six hundred square feet. Along one wall were floor-to-ceiling windows, though it was dark outside—probably still night. At the far end of the room, near the windows, stood a large, intricately carved desk, and behind it was an equally ornate chair, upholstered in fabric, looking almost like a small throne. Behind the chair was the wardrobe Ira had felt in the dark earlier. It was massive, with glass doors, and its shelves were packed with books, scrolls, and various boxes. On the opposite side of the room from the desk was a large couch, a small coffee table, and several armchairs arranged around it. Ira headed for the couch, settled in, and said:
“I’m all ears.”
“Well then, Lady Accountant,” Master Romeo began, sitting in an armchair across from Ira, “I am Master Romeo, your personal assistant. Lyra here is our new household assistant. There are a few other staff members in the estate, and you’ll have the chance to meet them later. As you can see, it’s nighttime, and they’re asleep. This is your ancestral estate, Ataman, located in the capital of the Between-Worlds, Ozaris. Yes, this is your estate, founded by your great-great-grandfather, Oleksandr Ataman. He was gifted this land by the Sovereign and built this remarkable home in the finest district of the capital. Surrounding the estate is a garden, and beyond that, a majestic forest. Over the past two hundred years, this place has become an architectural landmark. Tours are often held here for children, and adults are just as eager to experience the awe-inspiring nature they can touch with their own hands. The estate spans two hundred hectares—a highly coveted piece of land in the capital, considering nearly every inch here is built up. Only the Sovereign’s estate is larger. No one, except me and the Sovereign, knows why such a vast amount of land was granted to your ancestor or for what merits. As for you, we truly weren’t expecting you so soon. You were supposed to arrive here in about twenty years. The mark of the Accountant typically awakens after fifty earthly years. You’re still far too young. How old are you, twenty-five?”
“Thirty-two.”
“Still very young for this role. Now I’m not sure how you’ll balance your earthly life with life in the Between-Worlds. If you were a retiree back home, you could rest during the day, visit spas, and no one would notice your absences or that you sleep more during the day.”
Ira listened, and a creeping thought took hold—she must’ve lost her mind. This had to be a hallucination. Great-great-grandfather, an estate, a Sovereign? Utter nonsense.
“I can see you don’t trust me. Would you like to see the capital?”
“Is that possible?”
“It’s necessary.” He abruptly stood up, and Ira followed behind.
Ira hurried after the Master, counting about ten doors as they passed through a corridor. Paintings hung on the walls, and live flowers stood in vases on several pedestals along the way. They entered a spacious hall, then exited through doors leading outside. It was dark out, but as soon as they stepped onto the terrace, lanterns lit up, illuminating their path as the Master moved forward. He shrugged off his sundress, and Ira noticed his clothing wasn’t much different from ordinary attire. Perhaps the fabric looked a bit more vibrant, not in color but in quality or texture. Gray pants resembled jeans but seemed softer to the touch, paired with sneakers and a black T-shirt. Nothing unusual. On his left wrist was something like a watch, only bulkier and square-shaped. On his right wrist, he wore bracelets made of white metal.
The Master stopped, tapped something on his watch-like device, and a strange apparatus materialized out of thin air, resembling a cabin from a Ferris wheel. A moment later, an entrance appeared in the middle of it.
“Step inside, don’t be afraid.”
Ira entered with curiosity. It felt like being inside an airplane from a sci-fi movie. Four leather seats were positioned in the corners, each with a small table or stand beside it. Ira sat in one, and it instantly adjusted to her body, making it incredibly comfortable.
“Lyra, can we hurry this up?” the Master said with a hint of irritation as Lyra stepped inside.
“I’m here. You wanted coffee, and now it’s suddenly time to fly.”
“We’ll have coffee in the capital. Lady Accountant, I’m going to take you on a short tour of the night capital. You’ll visit it many times, but the first impression will stay with you forever. So, Ozaris is the capital of the Between-Worlds, founded three thousand years ago by the grandfather of our current Sovereign. Over a million residents live here. The capital is divided into several districts. One is administrative, housing government offices and banks. Another is reserved for embassies of friendly nations and their residents. The third is for the city’s general population, and the fourth is dedicated to entertainment. You can get around the capital using shuttles like this one or by train. You’ll see that later. Everything you’re about to see is created through a blend of technology and magic. Yes, magic—I didn’t misspeak. But there’s a catch: using magic comes with a tax paid to the Sovereign, while the Sovereign funds technological advancements. The magic we possess is blood magic, which can only be used for oneself or one’s family.”
“I don’t really get all this. Magic, technology—it’s all jumbled together, and I don’t see where I fit in,” Ira admitted, feeling utterly confused.
“Through magic, we extend our lives. How old do you think I am?” the Master asked Ira.
“I’d guess around sixty.”
“And Lyra?”
“About twenty.”
“Lady Accountant, I’m seven hundred and ten years old, and Lyra is two hundred and twenty-four.”
“What?! But you look like…” Ira couldn’t even find the words to express her shock.
“Yes, Lady Accountant, we all look like this. Everyone who uses blood magic. And with that comes certain obligations we must fulfill. Everything has a price, especially the chance to live for a millennium. To pay less for magic, we must develop various technologies, no matter the field. The key is that these technologies bring prosperity and success to the Between-Worlds.”
“Okay, but what does this have to do with me? You’ve got magic and technology. What can I do here? What use am I to you? I don’t have any magic, and I don’t know anything about technology.” Ira clenched her fingers until they cracked, genuinely baffled about what they wanted from her.
“And that, Lady, is the most fascinating part of our existence. Three thousand years ago, our ancestors used magic so frequently that a catastrophe occurred—one of our worlds vanished forever. No search efforts yielded results. That world was known for its powerful mages who used magic at every turn. It entertained and delighted everyone. Everything was built on magic. Want snow? It snows. Want trees to bloom in winter? They bloom. Then, they started using magic to destroy each other. The last record from that world came from a young boy whose parents were killed by mages who took everything from him and left him in an orphanage. Turns out, he was the strongest mage in their world. In the recording, he said only one thing: that they were all to blame for his parents’ death, and he wished they’d never existed, that they’d never been. That desire to have everything, by any means, led to the destruction of an entire world. So, the Sovereign issued a law forbidding the use of magic on anyone outside one’s bloodline—only for family. A tax was imposed, proportional to the amount of magic used, and it’s very expensive. If we want to save on taxes, we must create new technologies beneficial to the Between-Worlds, for which the Sovereign pays. And only a chosen Accountant, selected by the Sovereign’s magic, can determine whether something was created with magic or technology. This is an ordinary human with no trace of magic but with an innate ability to see where magic has been applied. Does that make a little sense?”
“Sort of. I need to think this over.”
“Yes, it’s a lot to digest. But for now, let’s tour the night capital. Onward!”
The shuttle lifted off silently, and Ira felt it, like a car suddenly accelerating.
In the distance, the lights of the night city appeared. A fantastical landscape of millions of colorful lights unfolded—first below them, then the shuttle began weaving between buildings. It was breathtaking. Towering structures stretched into the sky, and the city looked like a scene from a sci-fi movie. Other shuttles and strange apparatuses zipped by, while below, streets glowed, and people walked. Still, Ira couldn’t believe this was real. It had to be a dream; she was asleep. And if she was dreaming, why not enjoy this unreal, incredible journey? She delighted in it like a child, genuinely amazed by what she saw, asking the Master and Lyra questions whenever something puzzled her. After an hour of touring, the shuttle landed on a terrace near a restaurant. The Master invited Ira and Lyra to dine at one of the capital’s eateries.
The restaurant was on the thirtieth floor of a shopping center. Glass walls replaced windows, and the space was filled with greenery—trees grew indoors, surrounded by flowers. Each table was set apart, as if on its own private clearing. No one disturbed anyone else. Though the restaurant was crowded, Ira heard no noise, only soothing background music.
“I’ll take the liberty of ordering dinner for you,” the Master said, touching the table. A menu illuminated above it. “I think a warm salad with tender veal, a glass of juice, and a freshly baked piece of bread will suffice.” Ira nodded in agreement.
They ate in silence, and everything was delicious. Her taste buds reveled in the flavors of the dish, and the piece of bread was a surprise—its aroma was so enticing that even before tasting it, Ira could already imagine the flavor.
“Lyra, please take Lady Accountant on a tour of the shopping center,” the Master said. Lyra nodded. “I need to step away for half an hour.” He stood, bowed politely to Ira, turned, and left.
“Lady, what would you like to see?”
“Lyra, I’ve seen plenty for today, but if it’s okay, let’s just walk around.”
“Sure, let’s head up to the forty-third floor. There’s a dance floor there, lots of young people.”
Ira agreed, though she and Lyra clearly had different ideas of what “young” meant. The forty-third floor greeted them with loud music, dim lighting, and a huge crowd.
Some people sat on couches with drinks in hand, others danced, and some hung out at the bar. Nothing Ira hadn’t seen before—just a typical nightclub. They approached the bar and sat on stools similar to those at her favorite bar, Versailles.
“Two ‘Sun in a Glass,’” Lyra ordered a drink. “Do you want to dance?”
“No, I think I’ll pass, but feel free to go ahead.”
“Lyra! Lyra, come join us!” A group of girls waved at Lyra from the dance floor.
Lyra looked at Ira questioningly, and Ira nodded. Lyra joined the dancing crowd, while Ira turned back to the bar and reached for her glass. But at that moment, someone accidentally bumped her shoulder, and instead of grabbing the glass, she knocked it over onto the person sitting next to her. The drink spilled and soaked their shirt.
“What kind of clumsy idiot comes here?” the guy growled, glaring at Ira with a look that made her feel like he wanted to incinerate her. “Are you already drunk?”
Ira tried to apologize, grabbing a napkin with the intention of dabbing at the stain on his shirt. But before she could, the guy hissed like a snake, his eyes filling with blood-red rage. Flames shot from his fingers toward Ira. Realizing he intended to at least burn her, she shielded her face with her hands, palms outward. A loud crash echoed, as if something heavy had slammed into a wall.
Ira opened her eyes and peeked from behind her hands. The scene was surreal—the guy was pinned against the nearest wall, looking terrified. The other patrons had backed away from Ira, fear evident in their eyes. She glanced at her hand; the mark on her wrist glowed red.
The music stopped, and everyone froze, staring at her the way Roman Andriyovych had outside the homeowners’ association office—like she was the devil.
“It’s her. It’s really her. So soon. It’s too early,” whispers rippled through the crowd.
“Yes, this is Lady Accountant,” Ira heard Master Romeo’s voice. “Now, everyone calm down and disperse.”
“Lady, it’s time to head home,” he said, bowing to Ira and offering his arm.
Ira clung to his arm like a lifeline, afraid to look at the crowd. She left the hall with her eyes nearly shut.
“Lady, open your eyes. It’s over now.”
“What did I do to him?”
“You reflected his magic back at him. It won’t harm him, but the effect is that he feels the reverse of what he intended to do to you. That’s your gift, as I explained. You mirror magic. Not only does it not affect you, but you can redirect it back to its caster. This ability makes you special to us—a test of honesty, an auditor of magic.”
“I want to go home.”
“We’ll fly back now.”
“No, you don’t understand. I want to go to my home. How can I get back?”
“You’re rushing to conclusions.”
“I want to go home. Tell me how to return.”
“Alright, you do need time to process this. The mark on your hand allows you to travel within the Between-Worlds to wherever you wish. Cover the mark with your other hand, think of the place you want to go, squeeze your hand, and in a moment, you’ll be there. Lady, until we meet again,” the Master bowed.
“I don’t think so. I’m going home.” Ira pressed her right hand over the mark and pictured herself on her bed in her bedroom.
Ira opened her eyes. She was lying on her bed in her apartment. Outside the window, it was already daytime...