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She lets out an aggrieved chirp, then reaches down with four of her legs to heave a huge crystal ball onto her desk.

“CHOICE A: Work as a scullery maid for one of those pompous Fae you like so much.”

The crystal ball conjures up a misty image of me on my knees, still dressed in nothing but a towel, scrubbing an intricately tiled ballroom floor that I recognize from the Seasons of the Fae streaming series.

In the vision, I look tired and overworked before the ball once again fills with fog.

“CHOICE B: Your former service in the Lower Realm military qualifies you to enlist in the Troll Army—that’s the only fighting force in the Middle Realm that accepts females from other species.”

As she lists the second option, the crystal ball fog clears to show another vision of me, though now I’m wearing a helmet and shoulder armor over the bath towel. I’m marching along a cliffside with a group of female trolls, who are both taller and wider than I am—in a muscular way that doesn’t hint at even an ounce of fat.

“Though that option might be taken off the board when they discover how puny the human variety of females are.” The spider clerk gives me a disapproving up-and-down glance as the ball once again fogs over.

“Or you can go with CHOICE C: Sign up for the Registry.”

In the crystal ball’s vision, I stand on a raised dais—still in the towel, which I’m beginning to suspect the crystal ball thinks is the same as clothing. I’m one of many women lined up just a few feet apart as we’re appraised by a group of creatures that includes minotaurs, satyrs, fauns, and Fae.

One Fae in a laurel wreath points to the tall and mainstream-pretty redhead standing to the left of me in a pale-pink summer dress. She jumps up and down like a pageant winner before leaping off the stage to join him.

“So, the Registry is like an auction?” I ask as the crystal ball fogs over again.

“If females are chosen for marriage and mating by auction in your world, then yes,” she answers.

“No, um, that’s not how we do it at all.” Though the stickler in me makes me add, “Anymore—at least in my part of the world.”

“Well, thank you for that piece of Lower Realm lore I do not care about.”

“If we’re in the Middle Realm, who occupies the Higher⁠—”

“Enough chitchat.” The spider cuts me off with an irritated chirp. “How are you choosing?”

I grimace. “How about Choice D?” I ask hopefully. “Going back home to the Lower Realm?”

“We don’t offer portaling services in the way station. You’ll have to find a mage cave if you want to return to your native realm. Sorry about that,” she answers, not sounding apologetic at all.

“Now, are you going to decide your fate, or do I need to?” The spider once again raises her stamp like a weapon—this time over Choice B.

“Wait, no!” Holding my proverbial nose, I reluctantly choose. “Choice C, okay. Choice C!”

I figure this Registry option has got to be the easiest pathway to escape. Middle Realm Fae castles are notoriously labyrinthine, and even after that one orienteering workshop, I get lost going to the grocery store. And as a vet, there’s no way I’m going to risk getting caught trying to desert the Troll Army.

“Choice C it is!” The spider slams the stamp down with so much force that the sound echoes. Like an ominous warning. “Train’s leaving from Track 4!”

She hands me the passport, which is no longer glowing or golden. It’s now a dull, stapled-together bundle of parchment with the word REGISTRY stamped across the page next to the one with my sepia picture, name, age, and Realm of Origin.

“Where is Track 4?” I ask, retightening my towel around me. “And before I go, would it be possible to get some clothes⁠—”

“NEXT!” the spider calls out before I can finish, and the next thing I know, I’m being yanked out of line by one of the rat guards.

“Track 4’s that way.” He points toward a dark tunnel that looks like it was sponsored by a horror movie—one I’d refuse to watch even though it’s Halloween back home.

A glowing blood-red neon sign floats right beneath its top arch. It looks like it’s written in some runic language until it rearranges itself into one word and one number: TRACK 4. An eerie, continuous whirring sound issues from the tunnel’s ether.

My heart starts to pound. I do not want to go in there.

“Better run,” the rat advises. “Train leaves in less than thirty Lower Realm seconds. And if you miss it, you’ll be stuck in the way station for the next three Lower Realm hours.”

So, there’s a difference between Lower and Middle Realm time? Like the way station that wasn’t in any of my beloved Clara Quinn books. Neither was… a chill goes down my back… the Registry.