Dusk was settling in. Dorothea huddled beneath the one window in her room, her arms wrapped around her knees, her shoulders slumped in defeat. She felt despair, not just for herself but for Turner. She kept picturing him crumpled in the dirt, on the tunnel floor, blood seeping from his skull. They had forced her to accompany them, to leave him behind, injured and alone. Tears spilled a warm path down her cheeks. He could be dead for all she knew. And for reasons she could not fathom. Somehow it was all her fault.

She had been taken to an immense island fortress resembling a castle and imprisoned in one of the many stone towers that guarded its spacious courtyard of polished cobblestone and manicured grass. A nest of cannons occupied much of the surrounding land, barrels pointing towards the sea in every direction, like eyes gawking through rusty brown domes. Windows fashioned like crucifixes covered the castle's angular walls and men in army uniforms patrolled its lengthy battlements, walking between distant posts with rifles resting on their shoulders, the wind tugging at their emerald coattails.

The stronghold extended over twin islands, connected by a half-mile-long bridge supported by arched piers of cement and stone. From her lofty quarters, Dorothea could see the opposite isle, drably clad in a vast concrete flat dotted with watch towers, an airfield, a radio array, and massive hangars of ribbed steel, several of which stood open. She could make out tanks and planes parked within the iron dens.

Surrounding both islands were slanted ramparts where the sea churned, making them nearly impossible to approach, let alone scale. The only conceivable ways into the castle were by plane or the massive shipyard that had been carved out of the castle's granite foundations. It was into the shipyard that Dorothea had been delivered before being hustled to the tower. The accommodations were comfortable, certainly an improvement over the cramped ship's quarters, but she chafed at the idea of the locked door, all the while fearing what lay beyond it. The walls were cold grey stone, the furnishings a dark wood, almost black, elaborately carved. Her bed was dressed in ornate sheets, the duvet covered in ivory silk. Across from the bed sat a small open fireplace, before which a table and two chairs were situated. On the table sat the roast dinner they had brought her hours earlier. It sat untouched.

Her captors had presented her with a much-needed change of clothes. She looked down at the cropped tea-stained jacket, cotton drawstring skirt, and red-laced black leather boots.

The sound of a key in the door lock caught her attention, but she remained where she was. Kritzinger entered. He glanced at the meal that sat on the table, fat congealing. Even the water had not been touched.

"Stubborn as ever, I see."

Dorothea watched him warily but didn't reply.

"Are you cold? Shall I have the fire tended?"

Dorothea continued to stare at him in silence. Pulling a chair out from the table, Kritzinger rested his cane on the back of it and sat. Glancing down, he brushed some dirt from his pants leg. Seated, he appeared much less intimidating.

"I understand you are upset," he said, his voice even, his expression inscrutable. "It was never our intention to hurt you. Everything we have done since we first approached you has been to keep you safe."

"Approached? You mean stolen!" Dorothea snapped. "You took me from my home!"

"I suspected others may have cottoned on to your importance and felt it necessary to ensure your safety above all else. Although I was right to act, I regret I lacked sufficient time to explain beforehand."

"Why was I in danger?" she demanded. "What's so important about me?"

Kritzinger leaned forward.

"In the past, were you ever given something that you have always kept with you?" Kritzinger asked. "Something special."

"Something special?"

Dorothea's hand rose to her throat without thinking. Kritzinger's eyes followed her movement.

"That pouch you carry," Kritzinger said, conversationally, as if changing the subject. "May I see it?"

Dorothea clasped the purse around her neck as if to shield it from his gaze. What did he think was inside, she wondered? It was merely a keepsake from her grandfather, a token. Hesitantly, she drew it over her head and handed it to him. His eyes brightened and his hand shook slightly as he reached for it, as if trying to restrain his eagerness. She watched as, slowly, carefully, he removed the single piece of parchment tucked inside. It had been folded into a paper sculpture shaped like a person and painted. It had a flat head and pointed hands and feet, its skinny limbs cast in ink, equal parts red and black, giving the paper man a fine twinset suit.

"My grandfather gave it to me," she said, "when I was small." She smiled momentarily at the recollection. "He said it would keep me safe, after he was gone..."

"His passing was recent?"

Dorothea nodded.

"My condolences. My daughter..." Kritzinger stopped short.

"Something happened to your daughter?" Dorothea probed gently.

"Man is a violent and unpredictable creature, Dorothea, and we of the Commission are launched in an almost daily struggle to keep it from falling back into its warring ways. Our soldiers strive to foil those who would incite war. But no matter our might or noble  intentions, even we suffer casualties, from time to time, and..."

Kritzinger quickly stood and turned his back on Dorothea. He rubbed a handkerchief over his brow - and very briefly his eyes - before returning to his seat.

"The best way to keep such tragedies from occurring is to secure what knowledge and weapons might upset the tenuous peace the Commission has kept for the last hundred years. To keep it from enemy reach, so we don't have to fight them for it. I have reason to believe you might possess such knowledge, or – at the very least – a way to it."

Kritzinger handed her the pouch but kept the paper figurine. Turning it over in his hand, he said, "I suspect that what you have here is no common memento." With methodical fingers, Kritzinger began unfolding the parchment.

Dorothea gasped. "What are you doing?" she cried. "Stop! You're destroying it!"

Kritzinger held the paper up against the light from the window and nodded. Fully unfolded, the slip of paper extended nearly eight inches. The clothes drawn on the paper man's lissom build became writing, cleverly and carefully incorporated into its design. The cursive lettering flowed from one side of the creamy parchment to the other, applied with calligraphic precision.

"As I suspected."

"What is it?" Dorothea asked, her outrage forgotten. "What does it say?"

"It is but one word, yet it is a very special word."

Dorothea studied the paper. She didn't recognise the script, let alone understand it.

"All that is just one word?"

"A name, to be precise," Kritzinger said, almost reverently, as if talking to himself. "A spirit name that is the key to bringing golem to life."

"Golem?" Dorothea remembered her grandfather telling her stories about them.

Kritzinger looked down at the paper again as if it were the most precious of objects. "A spirit is bound to the paper on which its name is printed," he explained, "and the one who possesses the name commands the spirit. I saw proof of this last night."

"Last night? I don't remember anything after I fell from the ship."

Kritzinger lifted an eyebrow.

"You remember falling?"

She nodded, hesitantly. Everything else was a blank. She concentrated. With a start, Dorothea thought of what Turner had said, his outrageous claim that he had taken her from the hands of a giant that had emerged from the sea with her in its possession. "Do you mean the giant?" She felt a bit foolish sharing Turner's story.

Kritzinger nodded. "It saved your life. I believe it did so at your behest."

"That couldn't be." Dorothea frowned. "I don't know how to order spirits around. I fell and I was terrified. I remember thinking of my grandfather while praying someone might save me, but I don't remember saying anything or conjuring any spirit."

"Commanding a spirit is more about will than word. A command doesn't need to be spoken out loud."

"You're saying that the thing from the water – the giant – was a golem? And that I somehow created it?"

Kritzinger shook his head.

"That was a manifestation of the spirit, a quasi-golem at most, both weak and short-lived. A true golem is crafted by human hands and is specifically intended for a spirit to inhabit. Relentless, powerful, and virtually invulnerable to harm, you can imagine how troublesome such a creation would be were such things to fall into the wrong hands. My mission is to ensure that doesn't happen by securing every possible means of their making." He carefully refolded the paper.

"But how? I mean, why me? How could my grandfather possess such a thing? And how did you know I might have it?"

"All in good time." Kritzinger got to his feet and reached for his cane. "There is something I need to show you first."