He washed his face and his hands in the nearest bathroom to his tree house. Looking up, he saw a frightened boy looking back at him in the mirror.

Burn it all.

Mickey looked aside, nervous and afraid. He had woken from the dream. He was certain that he had. Still, he decided he did not want to be near this mirror, or any other for a little while.

It was dark outside. He went back to his tree house, climbed back into bed, but could not sleep. Hours dragged their way into morning, and the smell of breakfast cooking in the kitchen lured him back to the world.

Everyone was chatting amicably in between forkfuls of eggs, bacon, potato bread or cereal. The aromas of black coffee and herbal tea danced in the air. Thana and Lyric were whispering things in the corner that they thought no one else could hear. Mrs Goodsnout and Mr Hunter were talking about Adult Things. Flare, Mr Hunter's familiar, was toasting a slice of bread as she was eating it. To the young Jerbeen, it looked as if a firefly was hovering above the table, holding onto a comically over-sized slab. He watched them all quietly, sipping his milk and trying to think about things: the line between the real and the dream. What was his mother and siblings doing right now, back at Meadowfen? Where was his father? When did a whisper only he could hear become an order? That was a question he had not asked the last time. They had been doctors, after, and his parents crying and screaming with guards in another room. There had been medicine. He had given his word...but they were all so far away, and the pills had always left him feeling sick. Mrs Goodsnout said often that she talked to Gaspard, but how often did He come to talk to her?

"What are you up to today, Mickey?" Lyric asked suddenly, forcing him to surface from things he was not equipped to understand.

"Just going into town," he answered. It was not a lie. He was going into the deeper districts of Alderheart. What he would do when he found 63 Temple Fair, the young boy had no idea. But he would go. There was no choice in that. Still, just because he was going, did not mean that something would happen. He had gone off once, in the days before the doctors and the medicine, with the resolve to make something happen. That had been then. Now would be different. Mickey Tanner did not consider himself smart, but that did not mean he could not learn.

He left the Overlook shortly after breakfast, his plain civilian clothes covered by his scarlet winter coat, his head (though not his ears) half hidden by his tartan blue stalker's hat. All about him the tiers of the Great Tree's denizens were waking up and going about this business. It was easy for a Jerbeen to vanish into the pulsating streams of bird and humble folk. The sounds, and the smells, of the city reverberated in a rhythm that made the boy think of huge beast's breath, as if the city were some mammoth animal, that he and his fellow folk were a part of. The ground beneath him grew firmer, becoming more clean as took his time, following one stream of people after another. He did not keep track of how long he had been walking. The golden blades of morning were still blinking down upon the streets from where they breached the Great Tree's canopy when, without any deliberate effort, the young Tanner found himself entering Temple Fair.

It was a neatly kept, and tastefully decorated place, in one of the upper-upper-middle-class tiers of the city. The buildings were all terraced, with four storeys, wide ground floor windows and high, sharp slatted roofs. There might have been a hundred or so, with half of them being houses, and the other half shops. They stood rank about a wide, cobbled square which had a small park in the centre, in the middle of which was a very old looking stone fountain. It was topped by a weather worn figure that might have been a Gallus a few hundred years ago, though the water still flowed in jets. It was mostly bird folk, here. What humble folk Mickey saw were either liveried, or in rags.

It was crowded. This high up, the refugee problem was far away. Business was good. Mickey decided to go clockwise about the square, counting off of the numbers at a walking pace, looking like a bored, spoilt child playing hooky on a weekday. It was very different on the inside for the boy. His heart had picked up the pace, even if his steps had not. Keeping his breath steady was troublesome, and even though the sky was nearly clear above. Save for the edges of some of the outer branches that brought shade here, everything was open. But it felt tight to the boy, darker than it really was. A feeling of claustrophobia came over him, and only grew with every step, and every number he saw on the doors he passed by, silently counting them off.

Private houses had the fronts typically painted in muted earth colours. The shops were much brighter, all with bright signs offering services or wares. Some had awnings, reaching out and above the pavement, giving shade from a morning sun that ascending into noon. There were tailors and dress-makers, hat shops, feather-dyeing services, healers with miracle cures and massages. Three houses together formed a large gourmet grocery service, while another two had merged to become a vast toy store promising the latest mechanical wonders inside. There was a restaurant offering some kind of raw seafood dishes Mickey had never heard of before. He saw a book store offering rare scrolls and first editions of rare books. There was a bakery, a candy store, a tobacconist's, and two coffee houses. A boy with money – a boy like Mickey – could easily spend a few days here, and he had not even toured everything yet.

Number 63 was what he had expected. That was not a comfort. It added a chilling sense of reality to a dream. Hanging in the window was a huge, masterfully painted landscape of a vast, dark forest reaching down into a green plain bisected by a winding blue river running down into a far off, distant sea. Above that, over the window was a black sign with gold script, declaring this place to be THE ROGUES' GALLERY.

Mickey stood outside, letting the crowd ebb and flow about him. He stared up at the freshly painted green door, which seemed to be waiting impatiently for him to climb up its couple of steps, and pull it freshly polished brass handle. He could see nothing of the inside, even with the big window.

Should he go in? There were benches in the park, a couple of which were facing this way. He could sit for a while in one, and watch...what? Other people going in? What if they didn't come out? What if all of the dream was real, and he was letting some innocent person walk into danger?

"Oh, bother!" Mickey grumbled, a little too theatrically. His heart was still hammering, and even though his breathing was under his control, it was a struggle to keep it so. In his dream, this place had frightened him. In his dream, beyond that door waited something wicked.

He's with me, Mickey told himself, as he climbed the steps, and took hold of the brass handle. I'm not going in alone.

He entered.

The door made no sound, nor was there any ringing of a bell, as a shop might have to announce customers. The door closed with a whisper behind him. Young Tanner thought he had affected the perfect subtle entrance, until enough of his slight weight was pressed down upon the cool floor. It was of a well smooth wooden sort, polished and cleaned until it was almost a reflective surface. The Jerbeen was light, even for his own species, and yet after just a few steps inside, the ground was creaking beneath him, an absurdly loud noise to the boy, echoing as it did about the big space he found. The very big space.

The boy had wondered, since coming to Alderheart, what one of these big, fairytale houses might look like with all the floors and ceilings taken out. He did not have to wonder about it any longer. Four storeys, and the space that might have been kept for the sake of the attic were gone. What was left of the upper floors now consisted of layers of metal catwalks that lined the walls, giving one the feeling of being in the courtyard of a castle. A winding staircase in the opposite corner gave access to the upper viewing walks. Most of the light in here came from the vast skylight, sharply arched and taking up nearly the entirety of the ceiling. Aside from the light brown floor, every surface that the boy saw was a stark, uniform white. It enhanced the effect of the paintings, adding an extra vibrancy to their colours, and there were so many of them.

There were dozens lining the ground floor, catering to heights from Jerbeen, all the way to Cervan. Dozens more hung above, with the catwalks keeping in with them, rising all the way up to the ceiling, and the shifting, late morning sunlight. The frames were all of gilded, beautifully carved wood – an artistry all on its own. The pictures themselves were magnificent, displaying a level of skill that was almost eerie. There was a level of reality to them that even an untrained eye, such as the boy had, could not help but appreciate. Mickey felt himself drawn deeper in, passing from painting to painting, stopping at each in a moment of quiet awe.

He saw deserts, wind swept and eternal, scorched by a pitiless sun. White tundras bereft of life with a lonely, crumbling vessel trapped amidst the ice watched from above by a silent moon. There were forests and jungles. Mountains and seas. Rugged coastlines with solitary, sorry ruins. Quiet beaches with miniscule little towns and piers. Dread fortresses. Malarial swamps. Vibrant fields. Rain drenched cairns half hidden in bogs…

They were landscapes, one and all. No life studies. No portraits. There was nothing abstract, or surreal. At a casual glance, there seemed to be almost nothing living depicted in any of them.

A slight chill ran through the boy, from the tip of his tail, travelling all the way up his spine as this thought occurred to him. He remembered the dream, especially when he saw an uncomfortably familiar mountain scape with accompanying forests. He stepped closer to it, which hung just a little above his head. He started searching, afraid of what he might find, quietly hoping that perhaps this was just a coincidence. Perhaps it was all just a dream, and he would find nothing -

"Good morning."

Mickey started, and a squeak gasped out of him before he could stop himself. Had she snuck up on him? How was that even possible? No one could sneak up on him, especially on a floor that announced even the slightest step, and yet there she was.

She was a Luma, and in her youth she must have been heartbreakingly beautiful. She still was, even with the greying of her fine white feathers. There was great dignity in her stature, even if it was stout. She wore no jewellery, but there was a powerful scent of mint in the air about her. Her clothes were dark, edged with white and red patterns the boy did not recognise. Her eyes were an arctic shade of blue.

"Are you lost, little boy?" She asked. Her voice was husky, and reminded Mickey of the old ladies that would gather together to smoke tobacco rolls and swap stories about their children back home.

Mickey, who despite his anxiety had been raised correctly, immediately pulled his hat off. The simple gesture grounded him, kept his feet in place, instead of scrambling to get to the door.

"N-no, ma'am!" He answered, unable to stop all of the stutter that threatened to make a fool of him.

This answer seemed to amuse the lady. She let out a light chuckle, an oddly ugly sound for someone so pretty. She was only a few feet away, and loomed large over him. Mickey felt uncomfortable at this short distance, yet he could not quite work up the will to back away. There was something about her eyes that kept him in place.

"So," she asked then. "What brings you here? Do you like pictures? Are you a collector?"

Mickey nodded. He didn't know why, but his throat was as dry as the deserts in some of the paintings that hung about him.

"They're all mine," the lady went on. She drew closer by a step, and a shiver crept up the boy's spine. She breathed in then through her wide nostrils. There was such force behind it, that it actually stirred the hairs on the top of Mickey's head. Something flashed across her eyes. Disgust?

"That is to say," she went on, trying to sound friendly. "That I painted them all. Do you like them?"

Mickey nodded. She was a little closer now, and he picked up something else in the air, hiding behind the scent of mint. Something...rotting.

The lady drew closer. Instinctively now, Mickey felt himself recoiling. He was alone. He had come here alone, and he had not told anyone where he had been going. The sheer folly of it struck him, then. Lyric was not here to crack a joke. Thana and her anger were far away. Mr Hunter and his spells would not protect him. Mrs Goodsnout could not comfort him, and give him courage. He had blundered in here, without thought or preparation, into something he was completely unready for.

"My name's Maria Mussorgsky," the Luma went on, offering a smile that seemed crooked. "What's your name, little boy?"

Mickey did not answer. There was no force on this earth that would have made him give up his name to this person. The very thought brought a sense of animation back to his limbs. With no little difficulty, but by a great force of will, he started to back away, retreating to the door, and the street outside.

The lady laughed at this, that same unpleasant cackle.

"Don't be afraid," she told him. She did not follow after, but something changed in her expression as he began his awkward flight. There was a mocking cruelty to it that marred her mask of beauty.

"I-I need to go home, now," Mickey croaked, his throat arid. "I'm very sorry for disturbing you, ma'am."

"Don't go," Maria insisted. "Please, stay. Be my guest. I'm in the middle of something in the back, actually. It's a new painting. I've been working on it all night. I was inspired by a dream I had."

The smell of mint in the air intensified, hiding something horrible. For just one brief, disorienting moment at the edge of his perception, the boy thought he saw movement in all the paintings on the walls. He was halfway to the door, but he did not dare take his eyes off of the smiling lady with the coldly burning eyes.

"Would you like to see it?" Mussorgsky asked then, her voice like a trickle of ice. "I've got some hot chocolate brewing on the pan. It's got lots of cinnamon, and a few drops of vanilla syrup in it. Just the way you like it."

Despite the light, and the warmth that was cascading down from above, the small boy felt cold, and in shadow. This place was a tomb, and he needed to escape.

"I need to go," Mickey said. He turned and ran, hoping his speed might see him to the door before whatever he was trapped in here with would have time to react. It did! The relief he felt as his hand pulled at the brass handle, and the wash of fresh air that swept over his face as he threw the door open was beyond description. He leapt, rather than stepped out of the door way. That was as far as he got, before his heart stopped, and his whole body went cold.

There was supposed to be a street outside. There was supposed to be bustling, noisy people. There was supposed to be light.

Instead, there was a forest. There was darkness. There was silence.

"I'm glad that you came here," a cruel voice whispered behind him, stirring his ear. "I'm grateful to you, for sparing me the burden of finding you...Michael."

There was no thought. There was no reason. Michael Tanner just screamed, and ran.

Laughter followed after him, as his feet found the damp dirt. In his panic he slipped, nearly toppling headlong into the mud. His reflexes kept him up. He made for the trees, his heart hammering now in his throat. Behind him, something big was moving. It was creaking like bones. It made the ground beneath him tremble. Like a fool, he glanced behind him.

The house was sitting there in the clearing, as if it had been carried off and laid down here by something colossal. No, that was not right. It was not sitting. It was rising. It was standing up, swaying unsteadily for a second upon a massive pair of legs. They were huge, muscular limbs that ended in feet with three toes and massive claws. In a daze, they looked like those of a chicken to the terrified boy. The lights were all out, but there was something glowing in the black maw of the doorway. Eldritch blue eyes. Green smoke vomiting from a chittering, rotting beak.

The laughter cracked out again, like thunder. The huge house swayed, took a long step forward, and the ground shook as it towered over him, coming right at him.

The scared little boy could only scream again. He ran, weaving through the trees, stumbling in the dark. The laughter, and the shaking of the earth with those terrible footfalls chased after. As terrified was he was, Michael knew that he could never outrun the nightmare that was hunting him. A branch flashed in his vision high above. He leapt, bouncing off of the trunk of the tree's neighbour. He nearly lost his balance as he landed, and the ground shook again. Another beckoned him from above. He scrambled, leapt and made it, barely. His hands were shaking. He was half blind with tears. He had never been so afraid. Another branch was above him. He threw himself at it. He couldn't outrun the thing that was hunting him, but maybe if he got high enough, and kept to the treetops, then he could hide.

The momentum of his leapt was a little short. He floated in the air for an awful second as his hands reached for the branch, desperate for any kind of purchase. He got it. The slender limb began to bend with his weight.

It snapped.

He fell. His limbs began to flail, looking for anything he might grab, for anything that might save him. In his struggles against the rushing world, the boy found himself facing down.

There was nothing there, but the darkness. As he fell towards it, the nothing became a doorway, looming open like the maw of some awful monster. At the centre of it all were a pair of burning eyes, and a smoke vomiting mouth.

Michael Tanner had time to scream a final time, before the darkness took him.