Llyr’s mouth was dry. He looked at the napkin one last time. The letters had stopped being letters. They were shapes —hooks, curves, something like a bird in flight, something like a key.

The innkeeper shrugged—a small, frightened motion. “Last time, old Morwenna was still alive. She spoke the Old Tongue. Said it wasn’t English, nor Welsh, nor any tongue of men. Said it was a door written sideways. A phrase that, if spoken aloud at the right window, lets in something that ought to stay out.”

“Danlwd…”

The figure in the corner turned its head.

The last thing he heard was the figure whispering, “Welcome home, little filter. The windows have been braying for you.”