Wilson was growing far too impartial towards the sensation of dying.

He woke up, dazed, in the middle of a barren wasteland. The marble was gone, replaced with the dry, acrid silt of a desert. It coated his palms as he hauled himself to his feet, squinting up at the sky. Even through the overcast sky, he could tell it was nearing nighttime already. Maxwell sure had a funny way of showing his gratitude.

It took him too long to reach any trees, and even longer to find a suitable piece of flint to fashion into an axe. He built a fire by the skin of his teeth that night, knowing that whatever Maxwell had meant by 'a lot more to worry about,' it was going to mean tougher conditions than ever.

Wilson wasn't exactly a stranger to harsh conditions. Quite the contrary, his time out here had taught him how to survive the elements, even if only barely. He'd survived this long - sort of. He'd died an awful lot, recently, but not because of his own mistakes.

And so he trudged on, looking for any kind of familiar landmark. If he could get back to the portal, at least, back to his and Maxwell's camp, there might still be some hope for escaping. The island was large, he knew that much. Even while under Maxwell's orders, he hadn't explored the whole vastness of it. Presumably, Winnie was somewhere here on the Island as well, and he needed a way to find her before they departed once and for all.

That, on the other hand, would prove difficult.

The sun rose on the next day, and before the sun had even peaked in the sky, he was already sweating through his waistcoat. He removed it, slinging it over his shoulder, certain that not even the flat plains had ever gotten so hot before. Sure, the summers could grow warm and humid, especially in the dense forests and the swamps, but never did it feel like being cooked alive before.

His own breath felt suffocating, and as thirsty as he was, he wasn't dumb enough to drink from the ponds that dotted the landscape. The trees offered shade, though, and he was grateful for that, marvelling at the fact that the leaves themselves didn't burst into flames under the heat of the sun.

How dismal; it was becoming increasingly clear that he would be unable to venture too far until evening, when the sun began to set and the cooler weather settled in. It gave him precious little time to do all the things he needed to - not starving to death, among others, he thought as his stomach growled. Being violently resurrected really helped to work up an appetite.

The days were longer, and maddening as he was stuck wandering the dense forest, doing his best to stay in the kindly shade of the birchnut trees. He picked things up along the way: fallen birchnuts - which were technically edible when cooked - flowers, twigs, all bits and pieces that would help him as he went, things that might not have been a necessity at the time, but that offered him some semblance of productivity rather than just aimless wandering.

Darkness fell fast, and he thanked his lucky stars - hidden somewhere behind the ghastly cloud cover, most likely - that by nighttime, he had enough supplies to build a small fire. The threat of darkness was still omnipresent, no matter who he was running from or trying to find - darkness demanded his attention above all else.

The fire crackled and spat more than a few times - burning embers nearly caught the dry grass beneath him, but it was never hot enough, long enough to ignite. Instead, the embers fizzled out, turning from a glowing gold to an orange to red, disappearing in the dim light all together. He didn't think much on it, hoping the sun would rise soon. A handful of berries and birchnut meat was enough to sate his hunger for the evening, but he'd have to search for more soon.

He scooped the nutmeat from the shell, having grown used to the dry, bitter taste. They were food, they didn't spoil too quickly, and they weren't a hassle to eat. In his books, that was pretty good for food out here.

The chunk of birchnut was lifted halfway to his mouth when he paused. Sure, it had been a rough day, with a lot of unexpected stress and also death, but Wilson was sure he'd managed to retain most of his wits through it all. There was no reason for him to be seeing things, and yet there it was.

A pair of eyes in the darkness, staring up at him. They were luminous, and seemed to glow at the edge of his circle of light. They watched him intently, never faltering or blinking, and only occasionally shifting from one side to the other, as if whatever it was was contemplating moving closer.

He rather hoped it decided not to.

The sun could come up any time now, really, he wouldn't mind.

Wilson put down the halved birchnut, the shell of which was really a large ordeal, a little smaller than a coconut, and stood from the ground a bit nervously, watching as the eyes followed his movement.

Uncertain hands reached for his axe. He'd done a lot of work the evening prior, and he wasn't sure how much the old tool had left in it, but it gave him a sense of control over the situation regardless.

The fire crackled, shrinking a bit more as it ate away at the kindling, and Wilson watched as the eyes scooted closer, never losing its place at the edge of the ring of light.

"What are you, then?" he asked, his own voice sounding a bit uncertain. Was this the thing that lurked in the darkness? The beast that could fell a pigman in two hits? It was remarkably small, if that were the case, the eyes low, close to the ground. He'd expected something massive and gruesome.

As if in answer, the eyes blinked once, then twice, as the pair were joined by several more, smaller pairs of eyes that surrounded them. All together, Wilson thought grimly, there were eight.

As the fire grew smaller and smaller, it grew quieter, and Wilson couldn't help but notice that the crackling and clicking remained, now accompanied by a low, steady hissing sound. It seemed the eyes hadn't expected him to notice them, bright as they were out there in the darkness, and they weren't pleased.

Click-click-click went the little beast, scuttling into the light of the campfire, examining Wilson closely. Its mouth gaped, revealing the fangs, shiny with venom. It was a furry little creature, and utterly repulsive. He swung his axe at it, hoping to shoo it away, back to the den it had come from. Wilson had built his fire in such a hurry that evening, he must have chosen an unfortunate spot, too close to a spider nest.

"Go! Go on!" he hissed back, as the little spider drew itself closer to the ground, forelegs up over its head as it cowered for a moment. Wilson pressed, very eager to be rid of the thing, and struck out with a foot, toppling the spider and watching with a mild sense of guilt as it struggled to right itself.

His fire was barely alive, now, just a few smoldering embers in the middle of the pit. Everything was dark as the little spider gave a great hiss, almost loud enough to be considered a squeak. All at once, as it managed to roll off its back and scuttle back into the darkness, there was another, much more terrible sound.

The sun began to peek over the horizon, giving Wilson a glimpse at the monstrosity that was emerging but fifteen feet away, in a clump of trees he'd failed to explore before settling down for the night. Quietly, he gathered his belongings, gripping his axe as he watched the bulbous form of a spider's nest quiver and shake. Long, sharp, silver-tipped legs emerged from the silken nest, lifting it upwards to tear it away from the earth as a massive spider emerged, giving an ear-splitting hiss.

Wilson didn't even bother to see that his fire was extinguished properly, as he usually would. He turned and ran.

The earth shook with every step the spider queen took, scuttling towards Wilson with great strides and terrifying speed. It was as much as he deserved, he supposed, kicking the spider like he did. He just thought, perhaps, this was a bit much as far as karma went. He hadn't killed the little beast, though he was sure it would have made a meal out of him in a heartbeat if it had been a little bigger.

Despite her size, the spider queen was agile. She scaled trees and rocks, clambering across the landscape with ease. Even through the dense woodlands, she pursued him. He needed to lose her - fighting her wasn't an option, and she seemed intent on picking a fight. If he could just get out of her line of sight, hide somewhere until she lost interest and returned to her nest. And it would have to be soon. The sun was still struggling over the horizon, but the moment it was in the sky, the heat would be unbearable. He couldn't run from her in heat like that, he would collapse.

She tore through branches, and foliage, and all manners of wildlife, sending one frog flying a good thirty meters with a single kick of one leg - she plowed through it all, but she was slowing down, having trouble keeping up with him. It was good fortune, too, he was starting to feel a bit winded. Wilson glanced over his shoulder, spying the spider queen having a tussle with a small pack of frogs–

There was a crack, and Wilson pitched down to the floor, hitting the earth hard and swallowing a small mouthful of dirt on his way. He left a neat skidmark in the ground, and bit back a cry as he brought one leg up, clutching at it. Goddamn, that hurt like hell. What had he tripped over? It didn't matter. He heard the deathribbits of the frogs down by the pond, and knew it was only a matter of time before the spider queen continued her chase.

Gritting his teeth and taking deep, slow breaths, he pulled himself forward, trying to keep the weight off of his broken ankle, hunkering down, hunched over in a misshapen rocky den. It looked as though something might have lived in there once upon a time, but now all it was good for was hiding from murderous spider queens.

A pretty good use, in Wilson's opinion.

He clapped a hand over his mouth, trying to stifle the sound of his breathing as he swallowed the flaring pain in his ankle.

He heard the clicking of the queen, the rumbling in the earth as she neared, the angered hissing that echoed back through his little hiding spot. How long would he have to stay here before she gave up, before the sun went down and allowed him to safely leave the shade? The den stunk terribly like the old living quarters of some animal, but it kept him safe for the time being, and that was all that mattered. He cradled his injury carefully, knowing that even once she left and the heat dissipated into evening, he wouldn't be able to move very well. Perhaps he could fashion a crude crutch from twigs and moss.

Perhaps he'd just stay here.

He was bound to come back anyway, and then his ankle would be healed.

Wilson rested his forehead against the cool rock, and closed his eyes for a moment.

Such thoughts should have concerned him more than they currently did, he thought.

Winnie woke up with a headache.

The world seemed stiff and unreal for a long time, things too bright; she feared her sanity was slipping. Things were all sort of a blur since she'd been throned, but she remembered very clearly having Wilson in front of her, and now she was free. She hoped against hope that he wasn't down there. She didn't want him down there, she wanted him off this blasted island and back home.

She wandered, heading south, gathering carrots and seeds and berries in her apron and weaving flowers together as she plucked them from the grass. It was already evening when she'd woken up, and she feared it would be nighttime soon. She knew something lurked out in the darkness, something this world couldn't prevent with any kind of magic. The only thing that would keep it at bay was light, and Winnie didn't have the materials necessary for a fire. She fashioned a quick little torch from twigs and grass - just something that would give her light during the short nights here on the island - and continued her wandering.

The island was familiar, in her mind. Despite knowing she'd never seen this path, she knew it well, and knew that it would eventually lead into a swamp. On the other side of the swamp there would be a rockland. It all came naturally to her, and she was glad for the strange intuition; it helped her steer clear of more dangerous areas. She had precious little to her name. Even her book was gone, now, leaving her with next to nothing to work with.

But despite her uncanny internal compass, that still didn't help her find anything useful. Wilson, for one. She so desperately wanted to know if he was here, on the island with her. If he was, if she could just find him, that was half the battle right there. No matter what this island had to throw at them, they could parse out a plan against it so long as he wasn't tethered to the throne. She hoped he was smarter than that; she knew he was smarter than that.

Without so much as a word, Winnie drew her pendulum from her blouse, looking at it carefully. She was silent for a long time, luminous eyes focused on the little crystal point at the end of the chain. If anyone were to stumble upon her, they might have thought she was trying to stare a hole through the crystal. "Help me remember. Did Wilson take the throne?" she whispered. The pendulum was still for a moment. She repeated her question.

There was no breeze, no tremors, not even the slight shake of her hand; the pendulum remained still.

"Come on, blast it, I need to know! Did Wilson take the throne!? Where is he?"

The pendulum began to swing slowly, back and forth. Winnie took a mental step back; in all her years of reading the pendulum, since she was a teenager, she'd never seen anything quite like this. It looked like it had found a new center of gravity, tilted forward ever so slightly as it struggled against its chain.

Winnie blinked, dumbstruck for a moment or two more before she gasped, the sound chasing several crows from the nearby trees as she gave a great jump, and raced off in the direction her pendulum was leaning. She didn't care about the darkness or the torch, though she tried her best not to let it get whipped by the wind. She wouldn't be any use to anyone if she were laid dead by the darkness after her first day out here. But even as the night wore on, she followed her pendulum, watching it carefully for every minute movement of the crystal, following its directions exactly. The divining rod that Maxwell had crafted was only one method of divination. His method was loud and obtuse, cobbled together to blend magic and machine, much like his clockwork monsters. But Winnie knew that magic could come in many different forms, in all grades of subtlety.

And hers had just smacked her square across the face.

She rushed, hurrying through meadows and around beehives as she followed the pendulum, abandoning her torch as it burned out, just as the sun rose over the horizon again. Despite her torch laying uselessly somewhere in the middle of the woods some half mile back by the time the sun had struggled free of the treetops, there was still smoke billowing into the dimly lit sky. Her heart leaped hopefully in her chest and she tucked her pendulum away, making a beeline for the plume of smoke.

She crashed through the dense woods, ducking beneath the branches that she could and weaving between the trees as she came upon a small fire. She stood in the middle of the woods, chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath, gaze scanning the great expanse of woodlands for any sign of life.

Her breath came in little huffs, distracted as she searched. The forest was still.

There was the sizzle at her feet, the sound of a fire dying, catching her attention long enough to pull her from her trance. The ash was still warm, and Winnie knelt down to scoop it into her apron pockets. All of her supplies - her flowers, her charcoal, her mushrooms, all gone, rotting away in the throne room most likely.

There was a scuffle from within a pile of rocks that nearly knocked her clean off her feet, her heart jumping out of her chest as she let out a yelp, grabbing the nearest charred stick to fend off whatever animal was emerging from its home.

There was a hand, then a shock of black hair that stuck up in every direction, followed by a pair of tired eyes and a spear that jabbed at her blindly.

She scuttled away from the point, the sharp stone just barely missing her shoulder as she crumpled down to the grass. "It's me! It's me!" she chirped, her voice two octaves too high, trying to stress how important it was that he not impale her.

He blinked, squinting into the light of the morning. "Winnie? Miss Winnie!" he did his best to clamber out from beneath the little den. He reeked of something akin to wet hay and sweat, and seemed to have difficulty moving on his feet. She helped him up, shouldering his weight as he hobbled up to find his balance. "How in Science did you find me here?" He sounded disbelieving.

She gave a disbelieving laugh of her own, looking almost as bewildered and wild as he did. She shook her head, her free hand pressed against her forehead to push her bangs back. "Higgsbury, it's got nothing to do with Science!" she laughed, trying not to disturb his balance.

He hadn't expected for her vehement refusal of science to ever be so refreshing. Things had taken a nightmarish turn, but to hear her prattle on about magic felt familiar, something he could grasp onto for lack of anything else, in a much more figurative sense than the way he was literally clinging to her for support. He hissed through his teeth, wincing as another pain shot through his ankle. "Miss Winnie, if I might be so bold… I'm afraid I did a number on my ankle trying to escape a spider–"

"–a spider did this to you?"

"–it was a very big spider. Now, I seem to recall you knowing the recipe for a restorative miles better than anything I'd managed. Stars and atoms, that feels like a lifetime ago…"

Winnie was quiet for a moment, helping to ease him back to the ground to examine his ankle. It was swollen and discolored, and even as gentle as he could tell she was trying to be, it hurt like the dickens. He grimaced and bit back a cry as she examined him.

"Well… the good news is," she said quietly, "I don't think it's broken. You just turned it."

He hummed deeply, a displeased sound. "And the bad news?"

She pursed her lips, brow knit. "I… I don't have my book. It's somewhere in the throne room, I think. And without it… I don't know if I can."

"What do you mean, 'you don't know if you can?'" he asked. "Blimey, Winnie, you cooked up a concoction that healed an open wound of mine within hours! Don't you remember that?"

"Well yes, but that was because I had my book, all the magic I've ever known was in that book, and without it I'm hardly much of a witch, am I?"

He shook his head, pulling a face. "What kind of logic is that? Now come on, you're better than that! When that thing bit you, you knew exactly what I needed to do, and you could barely see straight enough to read the damn b–ack! Blast. The book, you don't need it," he finished heavily. "But I very much need you, to help me get to the portal. If you can get me back on my feet, we can find it."

She took a deep breath, looking up at him with some uncertainty, and nodded.

"Brilliant. Let's get to work."

Winnie gathered everything in her sights, from ashes to flowers to honey and honeycomb, tufts of fur from rabbits and dirt from the molehills as they burrowed beneath the earth. She was sure she'd be able to come up with something, some variation of the salve he'd given her when she'd wandered into his camp an eternity ago. She'd set him up against a fallen log, helping him keep the pressure off his ankle long enough for her to concoct something for him.

Chickweed, yarrow, rocks for grinding, ash and mud to bind.

It wasn't perfect, but it would work. She returned to him by sundown, setting up a small fire between them and depositing her gatherings by the fireside as she ground the ingredients into an unpleasant goop that she spread against his ankle, wrapping it with the tall grasses that had grown astride the berry bushes she'd picked clean for their supper that night. It wasn't much, but it would be enough to get them to the morning.

The fire crackled and burned away at the kindling at an alarming rate, Winnie trying to ration their remaining kindling so that they wouldn't run out before sun up. It felt almost pleasant to be back out here, with a fire in front of her and someone other than the Shadows to talk to. Wilson had taken to telling her in exhaustive detail about the misadventures he and Maxwell had while she was trapped on the throne, and Winnie found herself listening more to the sound of him than his actual words. She stared at him with a blank sort of look, pleasantly as the fire cast eerie, restless shadows against his sharp features.

He stopped halfway through his sentence, and gave her a funny look. "What're you staring at me like that for?"

She blinked, startled from her trance as he spoke directly to her. She sat up straight, looking caught off guard. "I… I don't know. I guess I was just wondering. I don't remember much about what happened on the throne, when you arrived. How did you get out?"

"Same way you did, I'm afraid. Maxwell took the throne back and kicked us both out into the wilderness. You don't remember anything that happened when I was there?" he asked.

She shook her head. "Not much, no. It's all sort of a blur leading up to when They let me go."

Wilson gave an uncomfortable shuffle that had nothing to do with the healing twinge in his ankle. "So… you don't remember what you told me, before you, uhm… died?" he didn't like the way the word tasted. He'd certainly prefer to avoid that topic as much as possible, but his curiosity got the better of him.

She shook her head again. "Not a clue, I'm afraid. I'm sorry. I hope it wasn't anything too terribly important."

"No, I wouldn't say it was." he said offhandedly, hoping she wouldn't call his bluff. They'd discussed their mutual ostracization before - he'd told her about his estrangement from his family and his science, and she'd told him about her witchcraft - but she hadn't mentioned that she'd lost her home, that others had tried to kill her; she'd come to the island for lack of better choice.

"Good," she yawned, lowering herself to the ground in front of the fire and closing her eyes. "Tomorrow we'll see if you can walk, and go find that portal…"

"I just hope it works. Maxwell seemed to know what he was doing, but if I had to fix it, I'm afraid I wouldn't know where to begin!" he said, looking over to her.

Winnie was fast asleep.

He took a breath, letting her sleep off whatever ill effects the throne undoubtedly had on her. He suspected they would have to find some flowers for her at some point as they searched for the portal.

Winnie's eyes snapped open and she sat up with a jolt. "Wilson? Wilson!" she called, scrambling to her feet.

"Take it easy! You'll put someone's eyes out with those elbows." he said, easing her arms back to her side as he rounded her, moving back to the campfire. "Three guesses as to the big news for the day," he said, grinning and holding his arms open in demonstration. He was back on his own two feet, good as new with the exception of a slight soreness in his ankle. "Book or no book, miss Winnie, your work is brilliant as ever! Now, I already did some packing for the journey, considering I'm not sure exactly where the portal is in relation to us–"

"–it's north–"

"–I've made sure to pack plenty of rations and tools for the both of us just in case Maxwell thinks he– I'm sorry, what?" Wilson blinked, realizing she'd cut across him.

"The portal you built. It's north from here, I remember. There should be a dirt path just to the east that will lead up up that way." she gestured in the general direction of the pathway.

"Did you see it already?" he asked, thinking perhaps she'd passed it in her travels before she'd found him.

"Of course I have. I was there, don't you remember?" she asked, starting off to the east. She smoothed her apron out in front of her as Wilson followed behind her. "I, uhm… didn't mean to snap at you, then. Things got kind of jumbled and angry with the projection." She didn't look up at him, instead preferring to watch her feet as she walked.

"Ah, of course. You were there. Mostly. No apologies needed, miss Winnie, so long as we can get out of here, let bygones be bygones."

"Bygones be bygones," she repeated softly. She very much liked that idea; she'd been ghastly through that shadowy projection of herself during her time on the throne. She'd been crude and unreasonable, and she very much regretted what she remembered of it all. She was grateful that Wilson was willing to understand, especially with how she'd worked so vehemently against him the whole time.

They walked in silence after that, save for the little hums and nudges that Wilson gave her to alert her of a small patch of flowers that she could pluck from to fill her apron pockets and weave into her hair. With each new flower, she seemed to think a little bit clearer, be a little more attentive, brighter and more focused. She led them up the path, barely dismayed by how twisting and winding the trail was.

They walked for all of the cool morning, hiding beneath the shade of some particularly tall evergreen trees during the height of the day, and continuing on by the evening, hoping to reach the portal before nightfall.

Eventually the path came to an end, and Wilson recognized the tree stumps from the pines he'd felled under Maxwell's direction. They were drawing closer; somehow, Winnie had been right, she'd brought them in exactly the right direction. As the sun began to set and Wilson prepared to set up a campfire, they broke through the thickest part of the trees that had regrown from the devastation Wilson's axe had brought on the forest.

He felt a thrill of excitement, seeing the frame of the portal standing there, untouched, surrounded by all of the equipment that he and Maxwell had left behind. Granted, most of their food stores were probably rotten by now, but the fact remained that the camp remained intact. He rushed to the firepit, tossing in some handfuls of dry grass and pulling Winnie within the safety of the firelight just moments before the darkness fell around them.

The night settled, and Winnie was delighted to find that there was light streaming down from the overcast sky. "It's a full moon," she said, gaze turned towards the glow.

"All the better to work by. I just need to… figure out how to activate the portal…" he said, examining it. "Maxwell had the plans, he knew how to operate it. I didn't think we would be operating it ourselves, when we built it…" he grumbled.

Winnie tore her gaze from the moonlight to look over at Wilson. "You thought he would be here to activate it? He never meant to leave through the portal, Wilson." she said softly.

He hummed. "Do you think Maxwell will really let us leave, then? He built the portal, I can't imagine he'd have gone through all that work just to destroy it again."

Winnie shook her head. "That's what I was trying to tell you. Maxwell didn't build the portal as a way home. Do you remember what you said to me when we found his door in the woods? That a door is a door, and if you come in one way you must be able to go out the same way? A door isn't always like that. Sometimes doors only work one way. And Maxwell… he didn't build the portal to go home."

Wilson slowed. "What - you don't mean, he–" the pieces clicked, the smug look on Maxwell's face as he'd taken the throne again. Wilson had been little more than Maxwell's personal flesh and blood pawn piece, shoved around the board and discarded. He felt his cheeks flush with heat, somewhere between embarrassment and anger as Winnie looked on. "He - he used me! He said it would bring us home, back to the real world, that we'd finally be able to leave, and he - he lied!" As the words passed his lips, he realized it was hardly a surprise. Maxwell had done nothing but lie and cheat and deceive him since the moment his skeevy, smug voice had come over the radio back in his attic. It was just who he was, throned or not.

"Took you long enough to catch on, pal."

Winnie jumped a mile at the voice behind her, leaping away to Wilson's side, facing the shadowy apparition that leered down at the two. He was suave and rigid, one arm behind his back as he puffed on his cigar.

"Wouldn't exactly call that an accomplishment."

Wilson's breath came in a trembling huff. All that work, all that hope, all that mindless misery and death, all for nothing, all for Maxwell's personal gain. It was infuriating, and Winnie felt him tense, hands balling into fists at his side. She laid a hand at his arm, concerned as Maxwell gloated across the way.

"You did all this - the portal, the throne, all of it! For what? If we can't go home, what could you possibly need the portal for?"

Maxwell grinned, a terrible, toothy grin that sent a chill down the survivors' spines. "I was so hoping you would ask that," he said, and snapped two elongated, claw-like fingers.

The portal shimmered, shuddering to life between the two sides. There was a ripple between the arch, like the shimmer of a mirage. Through the swirl of the arch, Wilson could just make out shapes moving to and fro - it was the other world, he was sure of it. Something in him ached and abandoned all deductive reasoning for the simple fact that even if he couldn't be certain, he just knew.

Tearing away from Winnie, he dove for the portal, reaching out for the shimmering gateway, wanting nothing more than to be back, to go home, to be free of this nightmare, to be free of the forest and the fear and of Maxwell–

Wilson hit the dirt hard as he stumbled through the gate with no resistance. He looked back behind him, almost in shock, watching as the figures in the gate carried on with no indication that he'd passed clean through them.

"You really do need to learn to listen to your friend," Maxwell mused, moseying over around the portal to where Wilson was picking himself up from the dirt. The scientist looked down to his palm, which had been split by a particularly sharp rock. "She really knows what she's talking about, not that you'd know. I built this portal to bring you more friends, Higgsbury, you should be grateful!" he chuckled. "It's so hard to creep into that world. Radios. Docks. It's so cumbersome. This, I think, is an improvement. Wouldn't you say?" he asked, admiring the bare-bones frame of the portal, watching the gears turn and the deerclops eye dart back and forth from its perch atop the portal.

Wilson hauled himself up, looking up at Maxwell with an dazed sort of expression, trying to process the news. "You're right," Wilson said finally. He sighed deeply, and straightened himself up, smoothing out his waistcoat. "I do need to learn to listen to Miss Winnie, when she talks of magic and all those sorts of thing I've always thought nonsense. So. No time like the present!" he said, turning on his heel and lunging for his machine. It was odd - it didn't look anything like the science machines he'd built in the past, but now was the moment of truth to find out if it worked. He'd run some preliminary tests, but he hadn't had the chance to test it like this.

His hand closed around the purple gem that made up the middle of the contraption, his blood warming it and activating the machine.

There was a pulse, and a dark flame shot out from the gem, speeding outwards as Maxwell finally turned his attention towards Wilson, surprised to find the contraption actually worked - surprised to find the shadow manipulator sending out a pulse, surprised to find his manifestation begin to disintegrate under the light that the gem emitted.

Wilson watched as Maxwell disappeared back into the shadows. The machine had never been built for him. It was meant for Winnie, to ensure that she wouldn't appear from the throne to sabotage their work once they returned.

But this worked too.

He clutched his flayed palm, trying to stop the bleeding. "Winnie! I take it all back. Everything I've ever said about your magic, I take it back! You can fix the portal. You're the only other one on this island that knows anything about magic, and you're the only one who can get us out of here."

Despite the warm night, Winnie felt herself break into a cold sweat.

"Are - are you - did you hit your head, Wilson, you're not - this isn't like you!" she trilled, nervously.

"I know it's not, but for once, Maxwell is right. Your magic has never once failed us. It set my leg, it found the parts for the teleporter, it found me! It works! I don't know how but it works, and it can work again!"

Winnie looked up to the sky, finding the full moon shining down on them. It was a perfect night for casting. "It… won't work, Wilson, just like last time…" she shook her head. "The runes, they only made things worse."

"What can be worse than this?" he asked, laughing in a mad, bewildered sort of way. He ran his good hand through his hair, clutching at his forehead for a moment. "Maxwell is going to make our lives hell here! He's going to make our lives hell, and he's going to make others' lives hell. If you fix the portal, we can escape and prevent anyone else from being dragged in like we were. You have to try!"

Her breath shuddered and she clutched at the front of har apron, balling up the fabric in her fists. "But - my book–"

"You don't need your book! You're a bloody witch!" he exclaimed, dragging her forward, towards the portal. She stumbled to a stop, looking up at it, knowing that the sun would rise soon and magic at its peak would pass.

He released her, and she looked down to her arm, where he'd grabbed her, where he'd left a red smudge across her arm.

"Wilson…"

He waved it off. "I'll bind it later, it doesn't matter, I'm fine!"

"No–" she grabbed his wrist, lifting his injured palm "The door in your attic. How did you build it?"

"A - uh… a lot like this one, actually, why?"

She gave his wrist a little shake. "Did you bind it with blood? Your own blood?"

Wilson grimaced, remembering the sharp pain in his palm as he slit it with a knife, bleeding himself into the concoction that powered the door. There was a fine white scar on the inside of his palm, now smeared with blood once again from the fresh cut. "I - yes, miss Winnie, I did."

He recognized that look in her eyes. It was the look of a genius who had gears turning in their head. It was a look he often got, working through some problem or another in his attic, working on his inventions and theories. It was the look of brilliance, and it was a look that sent a thrill of excitement through him to see on her.

Without another word, she dragged him with her, holding his wrist in a vice grip and pressing one finger against his opened palm. He hissed in pain, not appreciating the intrusion but not daring to interrupt her as she dragged her bloodied fingers across the woodwork, drawing out the same scribbled runes that she'd added to the wooden thing in the other world.

She'd been right all along, of course. Her work was impeccable, she was a talented witch who understood the intricacies of magic better than Wilson could ever hope to. Her every rune had been correct, but they'd all been drawn in the wrong medium.

She drew in his blood, connecting the portal to the door back in his attic, and as she worked he could almost feel it, the change in atmosphere as the portal changed, giving one final burst of light as she finished the last stroke of the final rune.

The sun began to rise, and her grip on his wrist slackened slowly, fingers trailing as she released him. The two of them stood in the dawn light for a long moment, staring at the blank white shimmer of the portal's arch. Winnie glanced to him, then looked back to the portal, holding her breath as she reached out with her bloodied hand, and watched as it parted the shimmering surface of the arch like water.

There was a loud cheer in her ear, vaguely registered as Wilson's voice as he shook her, staining her blouse red. Truthfully, neither was exactly mindful of what got smeared with blood, as he grabbed her arm again, pulling her forward with him, and they were both swallowed by the brightest, coolest light either of them had ever felt.

There was the sputtering of smoke and the chugging of machinery as the door opened again, the light of the portal popping and cracking into existence like fireworks, knocking several beakers from the nearby worktable in Wilson's attic. They crashed to the floorboards, shattering in small explosions of glass that couldn't even hope to live up to the spectacle that was taking place in front of the machine Wilson had built ages ago, that was suddenly sputtering to life in a show of sparks.

There was a final crack and twin thuds as Wilson and Winnie hit the floorboards not unlike the beakers had. They pair coughed and gasped for breath, coming to a rest in the dust that had collected on the floor in the last two years. Winnie blinked, trying to take in the unfamiliar surroundings.

There was laughter from beside her. Wilson had struggled to his feet, drops of blood pitter-pattering across the floor as he moved erratically. It felt so strange to be somewhere familiar, to be somewhere safe and comfortable and kind. It was his home, his actual home - not a tent, not a bedroll, not a cave or a particularly comfortable tree. It was his actual, real home, just as he remembered it, with the exception of a lot more shattered glass, but honestly he didn't care if every glass piece he'd ever owned had exploded into a million glittering pieces in his absence.

"You did it! Stars and atoms, miss Winnie, you did it! We're back, this is my attic, this is my house! I have a house! Oh, this is remarkable!" He scooped her up, leaving a bloody hand print at her back. It was joyous, and Winnie couldn't help but grin as well. It was almost hard to believe - it had worked, her magic had gotten them home, and things could finally go back to normal. There were no more shadows, no more foraging, no more creatures that lurked in the darkness.

"Home…" she said gently, as he released her, rushing off to shut off the machine across the room. As soon as he had a proper sleep in his own bed, the first thing he was going to do was dismantle the damned thing. "I genuinely didn't think I'd ever see it again…"

Wilson turned off the machine, watching as it collapsed into itself in the idle position, and slowed, looking back at Winnie. It hadn't escaped him that she had nowhere to go. He knew that she was going to pursue her craft, and that she was going to be regarded with the same kind of suspicion and bitterness that had driven her from her home no matter where she went. He of all people knew that not everyone was willing to learn or come to understand the eccentrics like Winnie or himself.

He watched her as she went to the great window across the room. He'd been meaning to fix that for the longest time, but science had always gotten in the way. He'd always been very single minded, long before the Machine.

He knew he shouldn't ask. He knew it would be rude. He squared his shoulders, watching her for a moment as she looked up at the full moon that shone outside his mangled window.

"Say, Winnie?" he asked. She hummed and turned her quiet attention towards him. "You have someplace to go, don't you?" He knew the answer, already.

Her eyes widened, and she looked at him with an incredulous jolt. Her hands balled in the front of her apron again, smudging it with half-dried blood. "Of course! I've got to - get home!" she managed to beam up at him. "They'll be missing me in Ogunquit."

He hummed. "Right, of course." he nodded. "S'just a shame. I've been, ah, meaning to hire an assistant of sorts. Daft old man like me, can barely take care of the lab. Look at this. Broken glass everywhere. I was hoping, perhaps, if Ogunquit could wait, if you'd like to… consider the position."

She looked at him for a moment, unmoving.

Slowly, Winnie smiled.