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The wall opened not with a door but a pocket of warm air that smelled faintly of oil and roses. A small mechanism, brass and soot-dark, eased through: a circular thing the size of a teacup with a single glass eye. It regarded her as if expecting payment. She reached into her apron and offered the dog-eared photograph from the mantel—a child smiling with the slack, honest face of someone who had not yet learned to look away.