A gold eye. You choke, again, but not on laughter. "Not so chipper now," Richard purrs, and twirls your sunglasses between his fingers. "I'm sure it's symbolic."

  The spots in your vision subside as you cease prodding at the eye you have. It's there. Iron. "Symbolic? So you don't really know what it means?"

  "When does it ever matter? It's woo. It's trying to read tea leaves, is what it is."

  "Yeah? And my tea told me I had destiny," you declare. "It had an sword in."

  "It told you your tea bag ripped open. In fact, I believe I told you your tea bag ripped open. Would you step out of the way? There's more here."

  You do, begrudgingly. Richard's face brightens. "Oh," he says. "Yes there is."

  He pulls you back. "I know it's hard for you to stop looking at yourself, but what do you think of the room?"

  You look. And then you turn to look back over your shoulder, then back at the mirror.

  "It's different," you say.

  "Yes. I'm not sure it's a, what, a 'true self' mirror? Or not exactly. I think it's a door."

  You tap skeptically on the surface of the mirror. It clicks. "Nice door you have there."

  "Not now. But it can be— it just has to be opened. Charlie, I need you to say… I need you to say [OPEN]."

  He says it casually, but a little urge to slice yourself clear from navel to neck and peel yourself open still arises and is dismissed. (You don't even have a knife with you. And it would be so messy.)

  "Open? To what— to the mirror?"

  "Only to the mirror. And not like that, please, that's atrocious. [OPEN]. Put muscle behind it."

  "Open," you say nervously. Does the surface of the mirror riffle, as to a gentle breeze? It's gone now.

  "That's…" Richard crosses his arms. The mirror-snake loops and unloops in midair. "I suppose that's closer. But it's still terrible. Should I just do it, or…?"

  >[1] No! No. You're not sure what it is, exactly (when do you ever?), but you felt its potency. You want to do that. [Roll.]

  >[2] Well, it would be easier. And less dangerous. It would prove Richard right, but then he usually is, anyways. Let him.

  >[3] Is this worth the trouble? Really? There's three whole doors and… you don't know, probably a secret exit somewhere. (You hope there's a secret exit. That would be exciting.) All of them seem like less hassle. [Where else?]

  >[4] Write-in.

  >3, 37, 25 vs. DC 60 - Failure!

  "No!" you say brightly. "I'm good! I don't need you!"

  "No assistance at all?"

  "Nope!"

  He returns to the armchair and folds his hands. "All right, then. Show me."

  'Open' ceases to sound like a word around try #10. You've tried every way you can think of to pronounce it ('ahhhh-pEN' 'OP-ennn' 'o-PEN') and what seems like a hundred different volumes and intensities. You are getting more than a little frustrated.

  "Open. Open. Open." The mirror remains still. You turn to Richard, who has switched sunglasses for half-moon reading glasses and is perusing the Corcass Courier. The headline: CHARLIE DOESN'T DO ANYTHING RIGHT. There is a black-and-white picture of you.

  "That's not a real newspaper," you say.

  Richard doesn't look up. "I don't know what you're talking about. Need something?"

  You pause. "No."

  He flips the page.

  "Maybe. A little."

  "I'm sorry for the terrible inconvenience," he says. "But I'm busy at the present. Would you like to take a card and we can work this out later?"

  You don't say anything.

  Maintaining eye contact, with you, Richard folds the newspaper into a square, places it to the side of the armchair, takes a sip from a foul-smelling mug, places the mug onto the ground, rests his reading glasses on his forehead, and finally fishes around in his breast pocket for a good ten seconds. He pulls out a white card and hands it to you.

  "RICHARD," it says, in brassy ink across the top. "Correspondent." is the entirety of the next line. "Your Head." is the last.

  "Turn it over," he says, warmly.

  You turn it over. On the back, in flowing cursive, somebody has written "Know your limits :=)"

  You feel justified in ripping the card into little bits, collecting the bits in your palm, and sprinkling them into the fireplace like confetti.

  "It seems to me," Richard continues, "like you're a little upset about something."

  "Upset?" You compulsively brush stray curls out of your face. "Sure, let's go with that. Will you just tell me—"

  "What's making you upset?"

  "Richard! How do I get the damn mirror [OPEN]?"

  The mirror shatters from the inside out, peppering the wall, floor, and furniture with glass shrapnel. Were you not behind an armchair, you'd be cut to ribbons. As it is, you'll be picking shards out of your hair for weeks. Your ears ring.

  "Like that," he says. The sunglasses have returned. "Very nice job. It's wide open."

  "Oh God," you say. "Did Ellery hear—"

  "Don't you know, I don't believe he's actually getting water."

  "Oh," you say, and kick some glass dust off your boot. "Well. Now what?"

  "I'd imagine we leave through a door. Unless you have a better idea."

  >[A1] Make an attempt to hide the damage.

  >[A2] It's far too obvious. Just leave as-is.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  >[B1] Try to bust down the left door.

  >[B2] Try to bust down the right door.

  >[B3] Search for a different way out. (Where?)

  "I don't suppose you have any method of cleaning all this up, do you?" You kick a pathway through the glass to the left door, whose structural integrity you busy yourself assessing.

  There's a withering stare on your back. "Do I look like a maid, Charlie?"

  "No, but you can, I don't know, woosh stuff. It's not a stretch." The left door: sturdy. Maybe if you employed something as a battering ram?

  "Yes, but I can't 'woosh'— I refuse to use that term. I can't arbitrarily vanish anything I want, no matter how convenient that might be."

  Nothing in here is battering ram-shaped. You're not strong enough to lift an entire armchair by yourself. "So... we're just going to leave this?"

  "It does seem that way, doesn't it."

  You squat in place, square your shoulders, and kick sharply up at the door handle with the heel of your boot. The metallic thock it produces is satisfying. You jog in place to get your heart revved up, then go in for another kick.

  Richard stands from the armchair to hover behind you. "Open a lot of locked doors?" he asks.

  "It happens in all the books! And I did in real life, too... when I had to... you know."

  "I don't, actually… oh my." He lurches backwards as you kick a third time. "I'm sure it's a charming neglect anecdote, but there's faster methods of opening doors."

  "This is fast!" you say. "It takes ten kicks, tops."

  "And breaks the door. Move, please."

  He brushes past you crunchily, having ignored the path you cleared, and puts his hands on his hips. He stares at the door. He cocks his head at the door. He jiggles the handle.

  There's a click. "That should do it," he announces, and pushes the door open.

  You duck past him in an effort to not be upstaged. Would you have gotten it open if he'd let you? Absolutely! There was no reason for it not to work. Maybe the deadbolt. But it would've been fine.

  The new room is much sparser than the last, though the different wallpaper makes every effort to distract from that fact: splashy gold damask on rich crimson lines all four walls and even, bizarrely, the ceiling. The only thing breaking it up is the velvet curtains that hide most of the right wall. An unvarnished wooden dining table takes most of the floor space; a pack of playing cards and a ceramic cup rests at the seat closest to the door. A rug softens the hardwood floor.

  Ellery is nowhere to be seen.

  "There's no water in here," Richard says behind you. "Or a door out. I don't think he expected us to get in here."

  You're already checking the cup. "No, here's the water." You taste it. "Eugh, that's filtered. He thought I wouldn't notice the difference!"

  "There certainly is a lot of underestimation going on." Richard walks past you, towards the curtains, and flings them open. A mirror hangs underneath. "And a lot of patterns. Look at that."

  "Is he vain?" You idly deal yourself a hand: blue shell, blue kite, black claw, black knife. You don't actually know how to play card games, but you like the cards. "I wouldn't see why."

  "I suppose that's possible. This one's a door, too, by the way."

  You're fairly certain this is a bad set of cards. You deal yourself a better one. Shell, shell, shell, king. "So that's where he went? And what's with you and doors, anyways? Speaking of patterns."

  "I don't 'have' anything with doors," he huffs. "And maybe, maybe not. I doubt he's bound to the geography like you are."

  Do knives beat shells? You're not sure. Maybe knives beat kites, and kites beat claws. Does that even make sense? "You do too have something. Were you a locksmith in a past life and got turned into a lowly snake for your sins? Of— of being a jerk?"

  "I'm not dignifying that with a response. Are we going to explode this mirror, too, or try the other way?"

  >[1] Explode this mirror. (But not really. You'll let Richard do it.)

  >[2] This room, excepting the wallpaper, is uninteresting. You're not entirely sure why it exists, nor do you entirely care. Try the other door in the entrance room.

  >[3] Satiate your deep-seated urge to look for hidden passageways where they may or may not exist. (Behind the wallpaper. Under the table. Etc.)

  >[4] Write-in.

  "Uh…" you say. "Neither. How do you do the 'woosh' thing?"

  Richard turns. "Pardon?"

  "Remember? The 'woosh' thing." You mime it with your hands. "'Woosh', uh, here's a— here's a playing card. Voila." You slip a card off the table for emphasis. "But it didn't exist before."

  "Ah." Richard smiles mirthlessly. "Legerdemain."

  "Leger… yeah, same thing. How do you do it?"

  He sits wearily near you at the table and takes his sunglasses off. He massages the bridge of his nose. "It's not the same thing, because I'll be forced to do things I'll regret if you continue to use the word 'woosh'. Why does it matter?"

  "Because…" You show him the card: two of knives. "I need a knife. But I want to do it myself."

  He leans back in the chair. "Good. We needed more explosions."

  You wave the card at him. "Nobody got hurt! It was fine. And what am I going to do, explode a knife?"

  "It's very much possible, Charlie, with your track record. Anyway, you can't do it. Too complicated."

  "It won't hurt if you just tell me," you press. "I can decide that for myself. I'm a grown woman!"

  "Uh-huh," he says, and reaches across the table. You shiver at the expectation of his hand being cold: it is not. He brushes some stray hairs behind your ear and withdraws.

  He drops an envelope onto the table. "This was behind your ear."

  Is he making a joke? Is he making fun of you? You look from the envelope, to him, back to the envelope. Neither hold any clues. Finally, you open it ("A wax seal? Was that necessary?") and unfold the letter inside— it's written on extremely nice stationary, as you expected, in the same loopy script as before.

  

  "Dear Charlotte,

  Now is neither the time nor the place. Do not waste your breath. Do not attempt it unassisted. (I know how much you enjoy that.) Absolutely do not begin with something sharp.

  We may discuss this later.

  Your faithful Correspondent,

  Richard

  P.S. Shake the envelope."

  The envelope lies flat and empty on the tabletop. Richard arches his eyebrows. You arch yours back.

  He wins. You shake the envelope. A tortoiseshell-handled knife falls out.

  "Here's the plan," you say. You point exuberantly, knife in fist. "We cut the wallpaper off."

  "Ah." Richard drums the tabletop. "I thought it would be more elaborate than that. What do you expect to find, other than wall?"

  "Secrets! That's the only reason for wallpaper to exist, really. Anyone with taste paints."

  "It's possible Ellery simply doesn't…"

  His words are lost amidst your furious slicing. It looks like a crime scene. Red swathes of paper curl, like dead skin, away from bone-white wall underneath. Also, there's a thin spatter of blood everywhere (you nicked yourself at a difficult juncture).

  The only place unpeeled is the ceiling, which you can't reach, and Richard refuses to let you stand on his shoulders. You are certain something must be on the ceiling. Firstly: why would someone wallpaper the ceiling? Secondly: where's all the secret doors? You haven't found a single one, which is not how it's supposed to work.

  At least there's something to show for all your effort. Strip by strip, you've uncovered messages: by two people, judging by the handwriting, writing back and forth for… months? Years? They circle this room, you know that much: they might extend out into the other.

  You just wish they weren't quite so boring.

  "What'd you hear?"

  "We're moving, I think. Somewhere less isolated. Less chance of going stir crazy. Speaking of which, how are you?"

  "Could be better, could be worse. Started on a second floor. Might stop at three or four. How's the weather?"

  "Chilly. Lots of sharp currents. Is it right to call it weather, with no air? Is there a better word for it?"

  "Probably, but you don't know it. I think ‘weather’'s fine…"

  And on, and on. You can't make heads or tails of the significance. Are one of these Ellery? But you've seen Ellery's handwriting— far too much of it, really— and while both of these resemble it, neither are exactly the same. But who else? And why?

  >[1] Clearly, the solution to this riddle lies on the ceiling. Figure out a way of getting up there and cut the rest of the wallpaper off.

  >[2] Clearly, the solution to this riddle lies… behind the mirror, or something. You're not sure how it works. But it won't be boring.

  >[3] Clearly, the solution to this riddle lies behind the other door. That's what you pick to win the game show, or something.

  >[4] Write-in.

  THE CHARACTERS OF DROWNED QUEST, AS DRAWN BY LOTS OF OTHER PEOPLE #1

  

  @goblinodds, longtime fan and supporter of the quest. This is older art of theirs, but I love it to this day: look at the cute little detailing on Charlotte's shoes! Look how appropriately yucky Ellery's coat looks! Look how shiny and sinister Richard is! Beautiful stuff.