the door I need: the one that leads to the ivy-covered home under the bridge. GlitterThe magic pools in my hand, and I concentrate on what I desire it to do. Itrsquo;s work, switching doors. HighnessUsually I keep it set on the brown one that connects to the house in the heart of townmdash;the house my friends think is real. It is, in a way, since it leads to the same interior as the other one.The door I need is heavy and black, with a large bronze knocker in the shape of a gargoyle. It always groans when it opens, like most things Irizain this house do.Once the frog eye dissolves, I open my eyes. The brown door is now black and old and menacing. I turn the gilded knob, and the sound of freeway traffic overhead greets me. Checking to make sure the coast is clear, I cautiously step onto the front porch. Not that many people use this road anymore, since ours is the only house still standing out here. And;standingrdquo; is a loose termmdash;it looks more like an abandoned ruin.Itrsquo;s always cool

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