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“Start at a corner, follow the curves, cross the line where letters touch,” Grandad said. He pointed to an ink blot that joined an o to an r, and to the way an l leaned into a d. “Let your eyes make paths.”

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Tomas stretched out his hand and dipped a single finger into the dark. It slipped through like cool silk and emerged dotted with silver dust. He giggled. Mira followed, and where their hands passed the blackness widened, revealing a sliver of a place beyond: it smelled faintly of rain and warm bread, and in the corner of that sliver stood a tree with lanterns hanging from impossible branches. “Start at a corner, follow the curves, cross