"Only the first step into the rest of our lives." She doesn't really try for flippancy at all. She needs him to be serious about this, anyway. Get his head together. "If you're going to freak out we should stop and do it right here. Then you'll have it out of your system and you'll get this shit done."

“I’m not freaking out.”

He’s not.

“Do I seem like I’m freaking out, to you? That’s a little availability heuristic of you, Wicker, I thought we’d graduated past Psych 101. It’s just the one thing standing between me and grad school on the one hand, and me and abject poverty on the other.”

Both ways lies financial instability, obviously. A Bachelor’s in Comp Lit and a PhD in Philosophy won’t do him any favors on the job market. He probably shouldn’t say that during the interview.

"Oh, no. You seem very calm. The most amount of calm a person can be. And, please, you're as far away to living in the gutter as I am. It's not in my mom's interest to have me hanging around with the lower class. She'll keep shelling out money for as long as she's in the public eye. And then some."

“...thanks, Jules. I’m glad to know I can mooch of your mother’s boundless compassion for useless layabouts.”

Despite himself, he feels better. Jules always knows how to get him out of his head- half the time, because she can’t see why anyone would want to be in there. He’s long since given hope that they’ll be anything other than friends- or not, since he keeps thinking about it- but he’s glad they have this.

”They’ll probably take anyone halfway conscious for philosophy. I’m as good as in,” he asserts, trying to will it true. He doesn’t need another failure under his belt; he’s running out of notches.

She straightens his jacket and brushes the hair out of his eyes. "That's the spirit. You'll run circles around them. You've been preparing for this since you could string a sentence together."

He closes his eyes. The wind is biting, his shirt itches, but he is going to ace this interview.

He takes a sip of his coffee, and knocks on the door to his future.

After a respectful pause, the future does not answer. He knocks again, more tentatively.

"It's Quentin Coldwater, for the grad school interview?"

Calling out through a closed door doesn't much help. Maybe he went out to do something more fun than interview two nerds. Maybe he's having an orgy and can't come to the door. Maybe he's died of a sudden and rare condition and they'll have to call 9-1-1. Do you call 9-1-1 for things like that? Quentin isn't sure. He knows what to do in case of fire or flood, he memorized those emergency plans when he was 9. He's not sure about dead bodies.

...Julia knocks herself, more firmly. They are not going to topple all her hard work. All the time and energy she spent to build Q up to be his best self. It's unacceptable.

Or she could just try the door. They had an appointment. She will not be left waiting.

The door opens, creaking slightly, as the doors of houses of this type do. The house is lit with natural light, which on a day such as today means poorly lit, but the colors make the place warmer and cozier than the city outside.

"Hello? Quentin- Quentin Coldwater, and Julia Wicker...we're supposed to be here for an interview..."

He steps inside. When Julia decides to push through boundaries, it's usually safe to follow in her wake. He looks around with mild curiosity; whoever invited them here today liked his essay, which, given that it was a rambling mess on close-up magic and fantasy literature of the mid-20th century, means that Quentin kind of wants to meet the guy.

The house feels out of place. The air itself smells musty, of parchment and mothballs. The decor consists of the kinds of antiques that older Americans use to clutch onto the last gasps of a dying way of life; no sign of a radio, let alone any technology more modern. And of course, there is the clock.

Quentin approaches the clock, all curiosity about his interviewer forgotten.

It's exactly how he always pictured it- and the two rams, that can't be a coincidence. How common could that kind of detail be? He's never studied clockmaking before, maybe it was all the rage after the American Revolution, but he's the one looking at it. His hand reaches out before he thinks better of it, an aborted gesture to pry it open in search of a secret door to Fillory.

"Jules, look at this..."

Jules is a little busy looking for signs of life, actually. It doesn't look like this place is interview-capable. Especially not for Yale. But she does follow him to the clock.

"What is it?"

"It's the clock, Jules, it's Diggory's clock! You can see the two rams, Ember and Umber up top, and look, the- it's frozen at the same time as in the books..."

He checks the side of the clock, looking for the etching that Charles and Fiona would have left. Just at the height of a young child...he bent down to see it, reading aloud the familiar words.

"None could say how life under these trees was different from in any other forest. Perhaps, the difference between here and there was that, in Fillory, the flowers held poetry within their petals, that the streams babbled sweet ballads, and the caverns echoed with forgotten legends. That green-and-gold land, filled with veins made rich with stories, the most precious material of all."

"Well. I guess it makes sense that they're a huge nerd. They did like your essay." She takes a closer look at the clock... does it open? "Must be worth a fortune."

"It wasn't about Fillory, I keep telling you that, it was really about how close-up magic lets us believe in the power of illusion long past when childhood innocence gave us that luxury, which is a critical part of retaining our faculties of reason in a world full of interconnected systems of-"

His nonsensical rambling is interrupted as the clock does open, easily, under Julia's hands. There's a slight click. 

- Julia stills and looks over at Q.

"Oh my god. I- Jules..."

He stops, and takes a deep breath, and he bows theatrically.

"Well, Jane, I think it's about time we got going, wouldn't you say?"

The affected British accent is very poorly done, hardly his best work, but Quentin is beyond caring. He steps into the clock.

It should be a tight fit. Quentin is not the tallest person, but he should be much too tall, and the clock much too packed with the mechanisms it needs to run- but instead of any of that, there is a long hallway, with bright, natural light at the end of it.

Julia follows in after him! She is not going to miss out on this. Not on her life. She grabs a hold of the back of his jacket, who knows how actual portals to different worlds work, she's not going to lose him now.

It does cause him to stumble slightly, which causes the seed of doubt to take root in his mind.

He just started a new course of meds. This could be side-effects. Or maybe- she's still with him, she's following, so it could be bigger. Neurons misfiring, while he's dying, or a gas leak playing havoc on his already-fragile mental state-

He keeps walking. This is Fillory, not Columbia. This is something he might actually be capable of handling.

As they reach the end of the hallway, the light grows brighter. It's brighter than anything they've ever seen, on Earth. Yet somehow, not too bright.

The air feels different, in Fillory. Every person that read the books remembers the descriptions of the place, with foliage so green, greener than anything found in nature, with golden light so bright that it nearly blinded the viewer, but somehow still soft, gentle, and forgiving. The air smells of flowers, but only just enough to evoke a feeling of comfort and pleasure, not enough to distract or overwhelm. The woods are familiar, comforting in their normalcy, yet so filled with an unearthly, uncanny palette and aroma that the mind races trying to catch up to reality.

He's not going to cry. He's not. He's not ten, or a woman, or congested three ways past Sunday, or any of the reasons that justify crying. He is not going to cry.

He reaches for Julia's hand.

Julia is there. And solid and completely in awe. Looking around everything and her heart is beating fast and this is actually happening. She takes Quentin's hand and squeezes it tight. Painfully so.

"Q. This is Fillory. Actual Fillory. What the fuck."

"It's real, Jules. It's actually- god, I can't wait to tell people. Do you think it's all true? If I'd known the books were a- tourist's guide- I would have spent less time on theories and more time memorizing geography. The air is better here, can you feel it?"

"Of course it's better than Brooklyn. It's a literal magic world that isn't filled with crap and pollution - do you still have your copies on you? I have them on my phone, but physical copies don't need to be charged."

"Shit."

He turns around, but instead of a secret door to Fillory, all he sees is Fillory.

"Um, no, this is still good. I haven't memorized everything, but I've read the books more than you, and I memorized the big stuff. I can probably figure out stuff that we can't check...we should copy down keywords from your copies that can help jog my memory. Oh, and we should try to find the Questing Beasts, that would give us some leeway to do everything else. No, first is Whitespire, because we're children of Earth...I need to take notes."

Julia reaches into her bag and pulls out a spiral notebook and pen and hands it to him.

"Always prepared. We need to figure out the bullshit from the truth. Then we can become royalty."

"Okay. So, let's see, big stuff: Ember and Umber and the quests they send the kids on, the changes Charles made to Fillorian dueling culture which might come up if we're trying to take the throne...we could try helping out with the Eternal Hive like Fiona did, I think since we're adults instead of kids we can handle being patient enough to earn the reward. We'll want to talk to everyone, really, the dryads, the centaurs, and definitely the talking bats."

"We need to get a map of the area. Figure out where everything is. I know the White Lady is in the Darkling Woods. Should be near the Flying Forest... hm. The White Lady grants wishes, which we definitely want. Though we should figure out what we want to ask beforehand so we don't waste it. And she can get us started on a quest. All the best kings and queens of Fillory start with a quest. If we do that we can solidify our claim to the throne quickly."

"Okay, yeah. Let's see if we can find someone to give us a map."

He starts making his way through the woods, making notes about some of the notable landmarks. He's not going to be able to pick out specific trees by their whorls, but he can trust his memory with this view of Whitespire- he adds some notes and they're off.

"There's usually rules on wishes, so even though the books didn't mention any, we should have backups. Should we try bootstrapping to get to the other Questing Beasts, or is that a waste?"

"Depends on how hard they are to find. Or how shitty we are at being adventurers. Let's try to find some before we go wasting a wish on it. Plus, they're Questing Beasts. They're meant to be found."

"Fair enough."

Walking, walking, walking...taking notes...marvelling in the beauty of Fillory, actual real, in-the-flesh Fillory!

"We should try to wish something for back home. There's no magic on Earth, but maybe we can bring some there with the right wish. Imagine doing magic in New York, Jules."

She hums in thought. "Diggory's clock was in New York and the clock is magic... what other magical items were there?"

"The clock is supposed to be made from Fillorian wood, right? That's why it's special."

He thinks it over, though. He watches the sky's color shift ever so slightly, more impressionistic than natural. Fillory is beautiful in ways he didn't know the world could be beautiful. He blinks back tears, again, like a complete basket case.

"Jane had a doll, it was- it worked with Fillory's magic, but I don't think it was magical itself. You remember, when she got sick, the- when she was attacked by that Lorian assassin. The rose vines almost strangled her to death from the inside, but the doll protected her because it looked like her."

"We should find someone to give us Magic 101. Which we can make happen because we're royalty."

They should do that! This will require finding some actual people, which takes some walking. Eventually, they come upon a hut of sorts. Quentin thinks it looks like an obvious trap.

"It's literally made of candy. I think we can skip this one."

"What, you don't want to be chopped up and put into a stew?" But she agrees and shuffles them onwards, hopefully not attracting any attention.

If any anthropophages take an interest, they don't play their hand. The two of them walk on.

Until eventually, before they've entirely cleared the forest, they hear a rustling in the woods.

Quentin makes some attempt to stand in front of Julia protectively-

A tall handsome teenager steps into view and takes them in. His clothes are a little dated, but very obviously Earth fashion. Mid-twentieth century.

Julia grabs a hold of Quentin, ready for anything.

"Hello, it's an honor to meet you."

His voice is trembling and his accent is the stupid fake British one they used to use when they played Fillory. He's probably embarrassing himself in front of a king of Fillory- or something way more dangerous in disguise. Still. He'll play ambassador; Jules isn't the type.

"Is it just. Children of Earth, I suppose? It has been a very long time. How did you manage that, exactly?" His accent is English, though not the pitiful imitation Quentin is trying at.

"We were just- there was an interview- could I have your name?"

Because he's pretty sure giving his name would be a mistake, but asking can't hurt.

"You don't recognize me? I thought I was famous."

Julia pulls Quentin back a step. "Q..."

"...Oliver?"

But he steps back. If Jules is scared, then he should be. He's missing something. Something in the tone or the body language that he's not picking up on, he never does and for once it really does feel like a 'cognitive deficit'- he grabs her hand. She'll squeeze it if it's time to run.

Oliver Chatwin laughs. It's not a nice sound. It's oppressive and the forest around them silences in reaction.

"Excellent! I thought perhaps she had chosen a couple of idiots. I never should have doubted her. You two will do nicely, I'm sure."

He squeezes Julia's hand and runs. He finds himself cursing puberty for not making her taller- he's not even sure how height works, actually, he'll have to look it up- if he gets home. He could die here, at the hands of his childhood hero- how lame is that, aspiring to be a fictional character and then getting killed by him? Why is Oliver Chatwin evil, anyway? He is evil, right? Quentin thinks about turning around- but Jules thought so, too, and she's better at that.

He's not sure they're going to be fast enough.

This is not how this is supposed to go! This is Fillory. You're not supposed to run into a crazed English schoolboy in your first hour and be murdered by him!

She yanks Q and pulls him back towards the direction they came from, maybe they can find that stupid clock and get home and he won't be able to reach them -

Oliver appears in front of them in a swarm of moths. His hands move in a complicated pattern and the air hardens and strikes out at Julia.

"Oh, I've missed this. You really can't run, you know. This is my world."

Julia falls in a heap, her chest cut open and blood everywhere.

"JULES!"

Probably it's really stupid to stop for Julia. Probably she's already dead and staying is going to kill him- it's so much blood and he can't put it back, he keeps trying to think of how he could just get the blood back in there so she'd be fine but now he's bent down over her body not moving a sitting duck and-

"Why," he croaks, voice hoarse.

She doesn't give him time to wonder.

She grabs his hand and pulls, casting a brilliant spray of color behind her.

"What, where, Jules is back there!"

"Please do shut up, I need to outrun him."

She mumbles something foreign which Quentin doesn't understand, twists her hand ever so, and their feet begin to shimmer as though the ground has baked in the oppressive heat of this eternal summer.

He's really not one for running.

"Jane, my dearest sister. I've missed you. Don't you think this has gone on for long enough?"

"That's why you're here, Oliver, and not out there, where you could hurt more people."

She just has to get close enough to where the portal is without letting him see- or at least without him following her.

-Quentin's eyes go to the portal-

-damnit. She runs for it, pulling the foolish boy after her.

"You're getting sloppy in your old age, Jane. You can't save all of them. Evidently."

To prove this point he twists his magic again, cuts down the boy, and steps between her and the portal.

-well. She has a way out, doesn't she. She just can't use it in front of him. She's already cast the spell before he's finished talking- she was always faster, even though he has always, always been stronger- she transposes their positions. Now she's between him and the portal, and now she's through. She smashes the clock behind her.

She'll need to do that again, though. And she'll need to watch out for this 'Quentin' and 'Jules'.