kaolinandbone

Isabella Katarina Markova almost drops her teacup when the door appears in her garden.

A long moment passes: then Isabella settles her teacup into its saucer with a tiny clink. Her skirts rustle as she stands, a frown settling on her youthful face as she steps towards the door. She recognizes the wood: gnarled hawthorn, full of knots and imperfections. Someone has carved the doorknob into a stylized rose, anchored by thorned vines of black iron.

Her lips pressed together into a hard line, she wrenches open the door.