"No," she echoes, "there oughtn't be." She thinks, again, of Anterwold, and the doorway in Lytten's cellar; somewhere else where the room it took up was unexplainably larger than it should have been. "You don't think it goes somewhere else, do you? Somewhere not in the city?"

Rosie watches him stick his hand through the opening, his finger brushing against the honeycomb as the bee, one cell over, buzzes warningly at the intrusion.