100 Yellow Doors

july 1st, 1922, 9:34 p.m.

He didn't give her the option not to come with him, for he grabbed her arm, sweeping her up from the table with a disruptive clank and whisking her down the hall.

The back hallway was worse than the main venue. It was inky and dark, the only light the flickering neon sign that either signaled an exit or a restroom—Iman wasn't precisely sure. Neither, for that fact, was she sure where Fritz was taking her, until she realized it was not a where, but a to whom.

When they were right underneath the old neon sign, bright green buzzing underneath years of dirt and grime, Seraphine Kozlov loomed up in front of them. Her face was ageless, hair wavy and pinned, a long jade smoking pipe held by one manicured hand.

"Fritz, dear?" she demanded, her icy eyes switching frantically between Fritz and Iman. "What is this? I thought you said you weren't hungry. And a—a bride? Oh, that's positively morbid. Even for you."

"Ah, no, Sera, you misunderstand the situation," Fritz said. He still hadn't let Iman go, his hand on her arm almost protective. "It's just—she says she knows Julien."

Sera's face flashed with a new interest. Even though Iman knew this Sera was the same as the one she knew back in the present, there was still something...off about this version, something less cold, something more innocent. Was it a facade, Iman wondered, or was there a piece of the puzzle she was missing?

Before Sera could ask, Iman said: "I'm Iman. I'm a time traveler. I see Julien a lot when I go back, but right now—er, in the future—I think something's about to happen to him. And I think you two both know what it is."

Fritz and Sera shared a concerned glance.

"His maker," said Iman, and that concerned glance deepened into one of blatant apprehension. "I think his maker found him."
Fritz took in a long breath then, turning to Sera. "Seraphine, dear, do you have an extra dress she could wear?"

"What?" Sera took a drag from her cigarette, small spindle of smoke trailing into the air. "Why?"

"I think we should take that walk I mentioned earlier," said Fritz, shooting Iman a sideways glance. "On second thought, we have a lot to talk about."

The most important information came to Iman in brief bursts. She was in Taipei, 1922. Julien was here, yes, but he was back at the hotel because he hadn't wanted to go out that night. He was traveling with Fritz—Iman remembered, vaguely, something about Fritz and Julien traveling Asia together—but no, he hadn't met Sera yet.

"I suppose that's where we should start," said Fritz. They were walking through one of the city parks, lush dark green grass, stars and moon mere capsule images through the branches of the overlapping trees. "Rosario has walked this earth a long time. Every now and then, she gets lonely, makes one of us—"

"Wait," said Iman. She fussed at the neckline of her shapeless satin dress, which was slightly lower than she normally liked. "Rosario is your maker, too?"

Sera, on Iman's other side, nodded. "Yes. She made both of us. It's almost like she wanted her own little pseudo-family. That is...until Julien."

In the distance, Iman could still hear the sounds of the city, the music and voices pouring out onto the street, the faint tinkling of bells, feet upon cobblestone. "What about Julien?"

"She loved him," said Fritz, then sighed, shoving his hands in his pockets. "I suppose she still does. She loved him so much that it was never her intention to turn him, not even after he married her. She did everything she could to avoid turning him, actually. You—you know he's from Mexico, yeah? In the 1830s."