A Sliver of Stardust by Marissa Burt

key.”
    The Crooked House! Wren got up on her hands and knees, easing herself over to the curtains. She twitched the fabric a fraction of an inch, enough to peek through.
    â€œWe waste time talking while Boggen’s henchmen might be on their way here.” The man was standing at a table, dumping things into a wooden trunk. He wore odd clothes crisscrossed with belts and buckles, and the layers of fabric were covered with a film of dirt that made Wren wonder when they were last washed. “Best make a run for it while we can.”
    â€œRobin isn’t home yet.” The woman looked slightly cleaner, her ratty hair held back with the goggles that were pushed up onto her forehead. “We can’t leave without her.”
    The voices grew less distinct as the man and womanturned away to gather things from a chest against the wall. Something about messages and candles and sleep. Whatever was going on, their panic transferred over to her, and she felt an icy chill crawl up her spine the more they talked about Boggen and his bloodthirsty hunt for a key. The name tickled at her memory—she had heard it somewhere before.
    While they were busy with the chest, Wren tried to gauge the distance to the door, and that was when she realized that the room beyond was nothing like the room she’d gone to sleep in. There was no rocking chair. No window seat. There was a smoky fire where the fireplace should be, but instead of a tiled mantelpiece, Wren saw hammered metal that glinted in the shadows. The walls were covered with the same substance, and a jumble of off-kilter tables and stools were piled where the bedroom door should have been. Where am I? What is going on? She sat back on her heels right as a light flashed before her.
    â€œWait!” The woman must have seen her. “Dreamer! Wait!” Someone ripped aside the curtain around Wren’s bed, and she saw the woman standing there, her grubby hand reaching for her, but suddenly a dark silhouette loomed in the doorway behind her, toweringup and over. As the shadow expanded, the whole scene disappeared with a thunderclap.
    Wren woke in her bed in Pippen Hill, the sheets and blankets a tangle around her ankles, her heart pounding. The curtains hung as she had left them, open, and showed her room at Pippen Hill as it should be. A nightmare . That was all it was. Only a nightmare. Her neck and shoulders were stiff with fear, and she had to breathe deeply to still the racing of her heart. It was dark outside, the few stars now blotted out by heavy cloud cover. The wind set one tree branch tapping against the window, as if to remind her it was all a dream.
    Wren leaned back against the pillows. This dream wasn’t like other nightmares she’d had, ones where memories of events faded with each passing minute. Instead, every detail seemed clearer to her waking mind. The grainy feel of the scene, almost like it was an old black-and-white film. The smoky look of the room. The tense conversation. The woman’s final frantic approach. Dreamer ,she had called to Wren, as though she knew Wren was asleep and dreaming.
    Wren shoved off the covers and switched on a lamp.The adrenaline rush had chased away any chance of going back to sleep. She slid her feet into her shoes and made her way down to the kitchen. The orange warmth of the old-fashioned stove set off a cozy glow, leaving the farthest corners of the kitchen bathed in shadow. Wren wished that she could rummage in her own familiar refrigerator, maybe find a piece of leftover chocolate cake and pour an ice-cold glass of milk. If she was lucky, her dad might come down, and they could sit together, sharing the cake and talking things over. Maybe he could help her understand what was going on, why she felt haunted by the thought that it was more than a dream.
    â€œYou couldn’t sleep either?”
    Wren jolted, bumping her elbow on the wall, the too-recent feeling of fear returning with a