Free Illusionarium by Heather Dixon

asked.
    â€œOnly in books.”
    â€œThen come.”
    I followed him up a staircase and emerged onto the command deck, a large open floor with windows allaround the sides, and officers and navigators at their posts. Weak winter sun shone over us. Afternoon. I walked to the side and peered, fascinated, at the expanse of city that stretched below the ship.
    It was like the city Lady Florel had illusioned, but far grander. Steel and marble shone in the sun. Light semaphore of all colors made the city glitter over a tapestry of train tracks and commerce. Airships of all regulations and sizes docked to vertical ports and stretched as far as the eye could see. I could even smell it through the windows: burning orthogonagen and wet brick.
    Arthurise. The City of Virtue. Years ago it had been called London. That was before the Assemblage of the Round Table. Now it stood before us, the largest and greatest city in the world.
    â€œCity is in mourning,” said Captain Crewe as we waited for permission to dock in the Old London sector. “Quarantine, too—though it’s doing little good. The Venen’s already spreading to New England and India. I had hoped the king would let you stay and work with your father, but—” He stopped and shook his head.
    I stared miserably at the towers and architecture that surrounded us as the Valor descended into the scrubbed brick of Old London. We docked; Captain Crewe and several airguardsmen led me out, handcuffed, into the docking lift. I couldn’t believe how warm it was here. Atleast thirty degrees! And the sounds! Airships. Distant trains. The lift opened into a courtyard and I stepped onto grass— grass!— strange and spongy beneath my feet. Leafless trees lined the stone wall around the courtyard, their spindly branches like veins. It smelled so thickly of a hundred muddled scents that I gagged when I inhaled.
    The Tower of London. I knew this place only from books. I stared up in awe at the water-worn towers attached to massive stone walls. Slotted windows and ancient doors punctuated the fortress. Queens and dukes had been held prisoner here hundreds of years ago. I hadn’t realized it was still used as a prison. 9
    A large building stood in the middle of the courtyard made of brick, domed towers at each corner and arched windows in between. An Arthurisian flag flew from a pole at the roof, a blue-and-gold ensign. We climbed a wooden set of stairs to reach the entrance. I read a plaque next to the door that designated it as the White Tower, then my eyes caught the door.
    It was wooden and arched, with iron hinges and latch, and I immediately recognized it.
    It was the door Lady Florel had illusioned.
    And it wasn’t .
    This door had been tended to, polished and cleaned over the years, and the hinges weren’t rusting. But it was that door!
    I shifted impatiently, nearly bursting with the revelation, as the head yeoman—the main guard of the tower—reviewed my papers in his office, and exhaled loudly at me.
    â€œWhy is it,” he said to no one in general, “that when the king is in a foul temper, we are always full?”
    Passed over to the tower’s stewardship, I managed one last word with Captain Crewe before we parted.
    â€œThis door,” I said as we were led out the entrance again. “This is the door Lady Florel illusioned!”
    Captain Crewe’s brow creased and he looked at me, confused.
    â€œIt was older—rotting,” I said. “But it was this same door . I’m sure of it.”
    â€œWhat can it mean?” he said.
    â€œI don’t know. “But—Captain—will you tell my father? He might be able to sort it out—”
    â€œI am not returning to Fata Morgana, Jonathan. I have been given leave. My wife and daughter are dying.”
    I was struck speechless.
    We parted without another word. Cold rain drenched me as my new guard escorted me across the courtyard,