> *"The most dangerous wizard is one who does not know he is a wizard at all, for he has nothing to unlearn and everything to discover."* — Excerpt from *Observations on Accidental Magic*

  Bill Parkman's first and only previous international trip had been an accidental detour into Canada during a particularly confusing drive near Niagara Falls. He had spent forty minutes in a Tim Hortons explaining to a bemused border agent that he had honestly believed he was still in New York until everyone started being suspiciously polite and all the signs appeared in two languages.

  So when he found himself at Chicago O'Hare International Airport clutching a freshly issued passport and a hastily printed e-ticket, Bill felt approximately as prepared for international travel as a house cat might be for deep-sea diving.

  "Gate H17," he muttered, squinting at departure boards while his rolling suitcase veered stubbornly to the left like a shopping cart with existential doubts. "H17, H17, H17..."

  He repeated the gate number as if it were a magical incantation that might somehow transport him directly there, bypassing the bewildering maze of terminals, security checkpoints, and kiosks selling neck pillows shaped like exotic animals.

  Two hours, one invasive security screening, and three wrong turns later, Bill collapsed into a seat at his gate, breathing as heavily as if he'd completed an ultramarathon rather than walked a mile through an air-conditioned building.

  "I should have trained for this," he gasped to the elderly woman seated next to him, who eyed him with concern. "Do you think they sell oxygen tanks at the duty-free? Is that a thing? Airport oxygen?"

  "First time flying internationally?" she asked with the gentle understanding of someone who had witnessed this particular brand of airport panic many times before.

  "Is it that obvious?" Bill asked, attempting to regain his composure by smoothing down his rumpled "Wisconsin Film Festival 2011" t-shirt, which had somehow become untucked in his transit chaos. "I've flown domestically, but never across an actual ocean. So much water. No emergency exits. Very concerning from a safety perspective."

  "You'll be fine, dear," the woman patted his hand. "The pilot knows where all the life rafts are."

  This was not as reassuring as she had intended.

  The flight itself proved to be eight hours of sustained discomfort occasionally interrupted by lukewarm meals served in plastic compartments that seemed designed specifically to prevent enjoyment. Bill spent most of it watching a marathon of action movies on the tiny seat-back screen, providing unsolicited commentary to his seatmate about the evolution of explosion choreography in modern cinema.

  "See that?" he pointed excitedly during a particularly dramatic detonation. "Ten years ago they would have used an actual controlled explosion for that shot, but now it's all CGI. The particulate dispersion is too uniform. Real explosions are chaotic, unpredictable. Cinema has lost something essential in the digital transition. The visceral quality of practical effects. The authentic danger. The—"

  His analysis was interrupted by the seatmate's noise-canceling headphones being very pointedly adjusted.

  Heathrow Airport greeted Bill with the particular brand of controlled chaos that only major international transit hubs can achieve—thousands of people moving in seemingly random patterns while somehow avoiding collisions through a collective subconscious understanding of human traffic flow.

  "Passport?" asked the immigration officer, a woman with the expression of someone who had asked this exact question approximately eight million times and expected to ask it eight million more before retirement.

  "Yes! I have one of those," Bill announced proudly, presenting his pristine passport. "Brand new. Got it expedited. Did you know they can take your photo right there at the post office? Very efficient. Though I don't think it captured my essence. I was going for 'worldly but approachable' but it came out more 'possibly wanted for tax fraud.'"

  The immigration officer's expression didn't change as she examined the document. "Purpose of visit?"

  "My sister invited me. She's married to this British guy, Raymond. Very serious. Probably arranges his sock drawer by color and thread count. They're staying at a manor house. Like in those shows where everyone's wearing fancy outfits and having repressed emotions at dinner. Also, I'm going to be a wizard! Not a real wizard, obviously. That would be insane. A pretend wizard in this fantasy role-playing experience. 'Realms of Wonder.' Have you heard of it? Supposedly very immersive. Special effects, professional actors playing elves and magical creatures, the works."

  The immigration officer looked up from the passport, her face displaying the first hint of human emotion—mild alarm.

  "Business or pleasure, sir?"

  "Oh, pleasure! Definitely pleasure. Though my sister probably sees it as some kind of intervention. 'Broaden Bill's horizons.' 'Get Bill out of that video store.' 'Introduce Bill to experiences that don't involve alphabetizing foreign film collections.' That sort of thing."

  After a long pause, during which Bill continued to smile expectantly, the officer stamped his passport and handed it back. "Enjoy your stay in the United Kingdom, Mr. Parkman."

  "Thank you! I plan to cast many successful spells. Metaphorically speaking. As part of the role-play. Not actual spells. That would be—"

  "Next, please."

  Outside the terminal, Bill squinted in the watery English sunshine, searching for his ride. Linda had promised to send someone to collect him, but he realized he had no idea who he was looking for or what kind of vehicle they might be driving.

  His question was answered by a professionally dressed man holding a sign that read "PARKMAN" in neat block letters.

  "That's me!" Bill announced, wheeling his rebellious suitcase toward the man. "Bill Parkman, wizard-in-training. Well, not yet. That's tomorrow. Today I'm just regular Bill Parkman, video store clerk and international traveler. First time in England! Everything's backwards here. Well, not backwards exactly. Inverted? The cars are on the wrong side. Very disorienting. Do you drive on the wrong side too? Of course you do. That was a silly question. You live here. Unless you're an American expatriate who specifically works picking up other Americans so they feel more comfortable? That would be a very niche career choice."

  The driver, whose name badge identified him as Michael, displayed the impressive composure of someone professionally trained to deal with exhausted, rambling Americans. "Welcome to England, Mr. Parkman. I'll be taking you to Thornfield Manor. It's about a two-hour drive, traffic permitting."

  "Two hours! That's like watching 'The Godfather' but skipping the Sicily scenes," Bill observed as Michael loaded his suitcase into the trunk of a sleek black car. "Speaking of which, did you know that Coppola shot those sequences with different film stock to create a distinct visual tone? Revolutionary technique for 1972. Changed how filmmakers approach—"

  "The car has a USB charging port if you need it," Michael interrupted smoothly, opening the rear door. "And there's water in the console."

  The drive through the English countryside provided Bill with a nonstop stream of new material for commentary. Every village, field, and passing cloud prompted observations that ranged from insightful to entirely random.

  "Those sheep look different from American sheep," he noted as they passed a pastoral scene. "More... British, somehow. More dignified. Like they're judging me for not using the correct fork at dinner. Do sheep use forks in England? That would explain the dignity. Cutlery awareness creates a certain bearing."

  Michael's responses grew increasingly minimal as the journey progressed, eventually reduced to occasional "Indeed, sir" and "Quite right" utterances that Bill interpreted as enthusiastic engagement.

  As they approached a particularly picturesque village, Bill pressed his face against the window like an excited child. "Is this where the wizard thing happens? Realms of Wonder? It looks magical already. Very Hobbit-esque. I could definitely see elves living here. The non-Christmas kind. The elegant, immortal kind with archery skills and existential wisdom."

  "No, sir. Thornfield Manor is still about thirty minutes ahead. The Realms of Wonder experience is tomorrow, near a village called Lower Taddington, about twenty minutes from the manor."

  "Lower Taddington," Bill repeated with delight. "That's the most British thing I've ever heard. Is there an Upper Taddington? A Middle Taddington? A Taddington-Upon-Something-Or-Other?"

  "There is actually a Middle Taddington," Michael confirmed. "No Upper, though."

  "Fascinating! The unexpected absence of symmetry in British geographical naming conventions. Someone should write a dissertation on that."

  When they finally turned onto a long gravel drive flanked by imposing oak trees, Bill gasped audibly. At the end of the drive stood Thornfield Manor—a massive stone structure that seemed to combine every architectural style of the past five centuries into one intimidatingly grand statement of wealth and permanence.

  "That's not a house," Bill declared. "That's where James Bond villains have dinner parties. Does my sister know we're staying in an obvious supervillain lair? Should I be concerned about trapdoors over shark tanks? Secret laboratories? Henchmen with metal teeth?"

  "It's one of our more popular rental properties," Michael said calmly. "The west wing was rebuilt after a fire in the late 19th century, but most of the original Tudor structure remains intact."

  "West wing? It has wings? Like an architectural bird? How many people is this place designed to house? An army? A small nation? Does it have its own postal code and system of government?"

  Before Michael could respond, the massive front door opened, and Linda Parkman-Harrington emerged. Bill's younger sister had always carried herself with the poised confidence of someone who knew exactly where she was going in life and how she planned to get there. Marriage to Raymond had only intensified this quality, adding a glossy veneer of wealth to her natural determination.

  "Bill!" she called, descending the stone steps to meet him. "You made it! How was the flight?"

  "Airborne," Bill replied, extracting himself from the car. "Pressurized. Full of strangers eating identical meals from tiny trays. Very much what I expected based on movies, minus the dramatic emergency landing or surprise terrorist plot."

  Linda embraced him with the particular technique she had perfected over the years—firm enough to qualify as genuine affection but brief enough to prevent wrinkling her undoubtedly expensive blouse.

  "You look..." she paused, examining her brother's travel-rumpled appearance, "exactly like yourself."

  "Is that good?" Bill asked.

  "It's consistent," Linda replied diplomatically. "Come inside. Raymond's on a conference call, but he'll join us for tea shortly. Michael, could you bring Bill's bags up to the east wing guest suite?"

  "East wing?" Bill's eyebrows shot up. "There really are wings? Like, multiple directional sections? How big is this place? Should I have brought breadcrumbs to find my way back to my room? Is there a map? A compass? GPS tracking devices for guests who wander off and are never seen again?"

  Linda looped her arm through his, steering him toward the imposing entrance. "It's not that complicated. Just a very large house with distinct sections built in different periods. Your suite is in the Tudor part, which has lovely exposed beams and a four-poster bed."

  "Suite? I was expecting a room. Just one room. With a bed in it. Maybe a chair if I'd been exceptionally good."

  "Don't be ridiculous. This place has fourteen bedrooms. You could have a different one for each day of your stay and still leave some unused."

  The interior of Thornfield Manor proved to be exactly as imposing as its exterior—soaring ceilings, grand staircases, suits of armor standing guard in hallways, and oil paintings of severe-looking aristocrats judging visitors from ornate frames.

  "This place looks like the set of every British murder mystery ever filmed," Bill observed as Linda led him through a labyrinth of corridors. "If someone doesn't get dramatically poisoned at dinner, I'll be genuinely disappointed. Is there a library with a secret passage? A conservatory with a suspicious lead pipe? A Colonel Mustard?"

  "No Colonel Mustard," Linda smiled despite herself. "But there is a library with some first editions, and yes, there's a conservatory. We're having tea there once you're settled."

  Bill's "suite" turned out to be a series of connecting rooms that collectively had more square footage than the entire video store where he worked. A bedroom with a four-poster bed draped in rich brocade. A sitting room with antique furniture arranged around a fireplace large enough to roast a wild boar. A bathroom featuring a claw-foot tub that resembled a small yacht.

  "This is..." Bill paused, searching for the right word.

  "Magnificent? Impressive? Historically significant?" Linda supplied hopefully.

  "Terrifying," Bill finished. "I feel like the furniture is judging me. That chair in particular seems to have very strong opinions about my travel wardrobe."

  Linda rolled her eyes. "Freshen up and meet us in the conservatory in thirty minutes. It's down the main staircase, through the portrait gallery, past the library, and second door on the left."

  "So... follow the signs to Portugal, make a right at the equator, and continue until Tuesday?"

  "Very funny. If you get lost, just ask Mrs. Watkins. She's the housekeeper."

  "There's a housekeeper?" Bill's eyes widened. "With one of those little black and white uniforms? Does she mysteriously appear from hidden passages? Know all the family secrets? Maintain a shrine to the previous owners in a locked attic room?"

  "She wears regular clothes and lives in the village," Linda said flatly. "And she's worked here for the rental company for fifteen years, so she knows the house layout better than anyone."

  After Linda left, Bill explored his suite, opening drawers and peering behind curtains with the enthusiasm of a child on a treasure hunt. He bounced experimentally on the enormous bed, tested all the light switches, and spent several minutes in the bathroom counting the total number of towels (seventeen, an amount he found both excessive and vaguely suspicious).

  By the time he made his way downstairs—having taken only two wrong turns, which he considered a victory—Bill had developed elaborate fictional biographies for three different portrait subjects and convinced himself that one of the suits of armor had shifted position while he wasn't looking.

  The conservatory proved to be a glass-enclosed space filled with potted palms and wicker furniture that seemed at odds with the manor's otherwise oppressive grandeur. Linda was already seated on a white wicker sofa, engaged in conversation with a man who could only be Raymond Harrington.

  Even seated, Raymond gave the impression of being tall—an effect achieved through impeccable posture and a way of holding his head that suggested he was perpetually looking down at something mildly disappointing. He wore what appeared to be casual attire for a country weekend, which in Raymond's case meant a blazer, pressed trousers, and a shirt with actual cufflinks.

  "Ah, William," Raymond said, rising as Bill entered. "Welcome to Thornfield. I trust your journey was adequately comfortable, despite the airline's mishaps."

  "Bill, please," he corrected automatically, accepting Raymond's handshake. "And yes, very comfortable. Except for the parts that weren't. Which was most of it. Did you know they serve food in tiny compartments like TV dinners but worse? And the bathrooms! So small I accidentally washed my hands while still using the toilet. Very efficient but ethically questionable."

  Raymond's smile tightened almost imperceptibly. "Indeed. Do sit down. We're just having tea."

  Bill took a seat in a wicker chair that creaked ominously under his weight. The tea service before them gleamed with actual silver, accompanied by a three-tiered stand of tiny sandwiches and pastries that looked too precious to eat.

  "I was just telling Raymond about your fantasy adventure tomorrow," Linda said, pouring tea into delicate cups. "It sounds quite elaborate."

  "Yes, the Realms of Wonder experience," Raymond nodded. "Quite popular with a certain set. Creative types seeking an escape from digital overload, reconnecting with analog experiences, that sort of thing."

  "I'm just excited to be a wizard," Bill admitted, selecting what appeared to be a cucumber sandwich that proved to be approximately two bites' worth of food. "I've spent my whole life watching fantasy movies, organizing fantasy movies, recommending fantasy movies to people who actually wanted romantic comedies but were too polite to say so. Now I get to be in one! Sort of. A live-action one. With actual people instead of just characters on a screen."

  "While you're communing with elves tomorrow," Raymond said, sipping his tea with precise movements, "Linda and I will be finalizing details for Saturday's dinner. It's quite an important gathering."

  "Business thing?" Bill asked, reaching for another miniature sandwich.

  "Raymond's launching a new investment fund focused on historic properties," Linda explained. "Several important European financial institutions are sending representatives."

  "The Von Richter Group in particular," Raymond added, naming the entity as if Bill should recognize it and be appropriately impressed. "Klaus Von Richter rarely attends these events personally, but he's made an exception in this case."

  "Klaus Von Richter," Bill repeated thoughtfully. "Excellent villain name. Is he bald? Does he have a facial scar? A white cat he strokes menacingly during business negotiations? These are important character details for comprehensive villainhood."

  Linda shot him a warning look. "Klaus is one of Europe's most respected investment bankers, Bill."

  "So... yes to the cat, no to the scar?"

  Raymond cleared his throat. "After the investment dinner on Saturday evening, we're planning a small bonfire by the lake. A casual way to conclude the formal negotiations. Showing our European colleagues some traditional English countryside hospitality."

  "A bonfire!" Bill perked up considerably. "Will there be s'mores? I love s'mores. Graham crackers, chocolate, marshmallows all melted together. Classic American campfire tradition."

  "S'mores?" Raymond looked genuinely baffled.

  "You've never had s'mores?" Bill gasped with exaggerated horror. "This is a culinary tragedy of international proportions. We must remedy this immediately. Do you have graham crackers in England? Or is that another American innovation you've failed to adopt, like proper dental care and reliable air conditioning?"

  Linda intervened smoothly. "I'm sure the chef can arrange something similar if you'd like, Bill. Now, about tomorrow's fantasy experience—Michael will drive you there at nine thirty. It's about twenty minutes from here, near a village called Lower Taddington."

  "Lower Taddington," Bill repeated with childlike delight. "Michael told me there's a Middle Taddington but no Upper Taddington. Asymmetrical British village naming. Fascinating cultural anomaly."

  "There's actually a geological reason for that," Raymond said, unexpectedly animated. "A limestone escarpment creates three distinct elevation levels within what was historically a single parish, but the highest elevation was never settled due to poor water access."

  Bill blinked, momentarily derailed by Raymond's sudden transformation into a font of obscure geographical knowledge. "That's... actually interesting."

  "Raymond has an encyclopedic knowledge of British topography," Linda explained, a hint of genuine pride in her voice. "Part of his due diligence process for property acquisition involves extensive landscape and geological research."

  "Lower Taddington sits on particularly interesting geological formations," Raymond continued, warming to his subject. "Ancient limestone caves and underground water systems that created what locals call 'fairy rings' in the surrounding forest."

  "Fairy rings?" Bill perked up. "Like in the brochure for the Realms of Wonder thing? It mentioned something about local legends and fairy rings being portals to another realm."

  "Indeed. They're naturally occurring circular formations of mushrooms or unusual vegetation patterns. Scientifically, they're caused by fungal mycelium growing outward in a circular pattern underground. But local folklore attributes them to fairy activity or other supernatural phenomena."

  "So they're real fairy rings, just not caused by actual fairies," Bill nodded enthusiastically. "Perfect setting for a fantasy role-playing experience. Using actual local folklore adds authenticity."

  "The Realms of Wonder organizers make excellent use of these natural features," Raymond confirmed. "Incorporating them into their storylines and using them as settings for key moments in their fantasy narratives."

  The rest of tea proceeded with similar conversational currents—Raymond expounding on business opportunities and geological formations, Linda mediating between her brother and husband, and Bill making observations that Raymond either didn't understand or chose to ignore.

  After they finished, Linda suggested Bill might want to rest before dinner. "International travel can be exhausting, especially with the time change. Your body probably thinks it's still morning."

  "My body has no idea what time it is," Bill admitted. "It's in a state of temporal anarchy. Revolutionary chrono-rebellion. The overthrow of biological rhythms by artificial transportation speeds. Very disorienting."

  Bill did try to nap, but his excitement about the next day's adventure made sleep impossible. Instead, he spent the afternoon exploring the manor, getting lost at least four times, and developing an elaborate theory about the suits of armor being secretly alive, based entirely on his conviction that they were in slightly different positions each time he passed them.

  Dinner proved to be another exercise in culinary pretension, with courses so small and artfully arranged that Bill found himself wondering if they were meant to be eaten or merely appreciated visually. Raymond spent most of the meal describing the investment opportunity he was presenting on Saturday, using specialized financial terminology that made Bill's attention wander to the hunting scenes on the dining room walls.

  "Those deer look very disappointed about being shot," he observed during a rare pause in Raymond's monologue. "That one in particular seems to be saying, 'I had plans this weekend. Important deer plans. Now look at me, stuck on a wall watching people eat tiny food arranged like abstract art.'"

  The next morning, Bill awoke with the particular excitement of a child on Christmas morning. Today was Wizard Day. Today he would become, if only temporarily, a character in the kind of fantasy stories he'd spent his life organizing alphabetically by director versus thematic content (a taxonomical debate that had occupied his thoughts for the better part of a month).

  "Good morning, sir," said Mrs. Watkins, the housekeeper, who had appeared in his room with a breakfast tray and the silent stealth of someone who might actually be a ninja in disguise. "I've brought your breakfast. Mr. Michael will be ready to take you to your fantasy adventure at half past nine."

  "Perfect timing," Bill said, bolting upright in bed. "I need adequate nutritional intake for optimal spell-casting. Wizardry is hungry work, I assume. All that arm-waving and mystical incantation must burn calories."

  Mrs. Watkins' expression suggested she was mentally calculating the remaining years until her retirement. "Indeed, sir. Miss Linda asked me to tell you that she and Mr. Raymond have gone into London for the day but will return in time for dinner."

  "Excellent," Bill nodded, attacking the breakfast tray with enthusiasm. "That gives me plenty of time for magical adventuring. Do you know how long this Realms of Wonder thing is supposed to last?"

  "I believe it's a full day experience, sir. Mr. Michael is instructed to collect you at five o'clock."

  "Seven and a half hours of immersive wizardry," Bill said around a mouthful of toast. "That should be sufficient for mastering the basic mystical arts. Elemental manipulation, minor divination, possibly some introductory potion-making. A solid magical foundation."

  Mrs. Watkins nodded politely and backed out of the room, apparently unwilling to engage further with Bill's fantasy predictions.

  By nine-thirty, Bill was waiting by the front door, dressed in what he considered appropriately wizard-adjacent clothing—jeans, a black t-shirt with the faded logo of a science fiction convention, and his most comfortable sneakers. In his backpack, he had packed what he considered essential supplies for a day of magical adventure: a bottle of water, several granola bars, a pocket notebook for recording magical insights, and a small tube of hand sanitizer (because who knew where those magical artifacts had been).

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  "Ready for your adventure, sir?" Michael asked as Bill bounced into the back seat of the car.

  "Born ready," Bill confirmed. "I've been mentally preparing my wizardly gestures all night. I'm thinking something between Gandalf's forceful staff-planting and Dr. Strange's elaborate finger choreography. A signature magical style with a hint of Wisconsin casual."

  "Very good, sir," Michael nodded, pulling away from the manor. "The weather looks favorable for outdoor activities. Unusually clear for this time of year."

  "Perfect magical conditions," Bill agreed. "Optimal atmospheric clarity for spell transference. Minimal mystical interference from precipitation particulates."

  The drive to Lower Taddington took them through rolling countryside that looked almost deliberately picturesque, as if designed specifically for postcard photography. Stone walls separating fields of sheep. Ancient trees standing sentinel along winding roads. Occasional glimpses of village churches with square Norman towers poking above the landscape.

  As they approached the village itself, Bill pressed his face against the window like an excited child. "This is exactly how I pictured it. Quintessentially English. Aggressively quaint. Like a film set for a cozy murder mystery where the detective is either an elderly woman or a man with an unusual pet."

  "Lower Taddington is indeed quite picturesque," Michael agreed as they drove through the village center, which consisted of a small green, a church, a pub called The Prancing Stag, and a handful of stone cottages that looked like they had been there since the Norman Conquest.

  "Where exactly is this Realms of Wonder place?" Bill asked as they passed through the village and continued down a narrowing country lane. "I was expecting some kind of visitor center or fancy entrance gate."

  "The meeting point is just ahead," Michael assured him. "It's deliberately understated, to maintain the immersive experience from the very beginning."

  The car turned onto an even smaller lane, barely wide enough for the vehicle, with ancient hedgerows pressing in from both sides. After about half a mile, Michael pulled into a small gravel parking area at the edge of dense woodland. The only indication that this might be a commercial venture of any kind was a simple wooden sign that read "Realms of Wonder" in elegant carved letters, with smaller text below: "Where the Veil Between Worlds Grows Thin."

  "This is it?" Bill asked, somewhat underwhelmed.

  "This is the meeting point, yes," Michael confirmed. "According to the instructions, you're to follow the marked path into the woods, where you'll be met by your guides."

  "No visitor center? No costume distribution point? No waiver to sign promising not to sue if I'm accidentally stabbed with a prop sword?"

  Michael smiled. "I believe everything happens once you're inside, sir. That's part of the immersive experience—it begins the moment you enter the forest."

  "Very Narnia," Bill nodded appreciatively. "Stepping through the wardrobe and all that. I approve of the minimalist approach to the fourth wall."

  "I'll be back at five o'clock to collect you, sir," Michael said as Bill climbed out of the car. "Right here in this same spot."

  "Perfect," Bill said, adjusting his backpack. "If I don't return, assume I've been made King of the Elves or trapped in an enchanted sleep that can only be broken by the kiss of a magical forest creature. Standard fantasy hazards."

  "I'll be sure to inform Miss Linda accordingly," Michael replied with a perfectly straight face.

  As the car pulled away, Bill turned to face the forest path, which disappeared between ancient oak trees whose branches formed a natural archway. The path was well-worn but deliberately rustic, with exposed roots and stones creating a suitably adventurous terrain. Small wooden signs with carved arrows confirmed the route.

  "Well, here goes nothing," Bill murmured, adjusting his backpack straps and starting down the path.

  The forest closed around him almost immediately, the canopy overhead creating a green-tinged light that felt noticeably different from the bright sunshine of the parking area. The path twisted and turned, passing over small streams via wooden bridges and winding between trees that looked old enough to have witnessed the signing of the Magna Carta.

  As he walked, Bill began to notice small details that impressed him with their attention to production design. Tiny lanterns hung from occasional branches, unlit in the daylight but presumably part of a lighting scheme for evening events. Small carved wooden creatures—foxes, rabbits, what might have been fairies—were occasionally visible nestled in tree roots or perched on low branches. Signs written in an elaborate script provided cryptic directions and warnings: "Beware the Shadow Woods" and "Elven Territories Ahead" and "Respect the Ancient Pacts."

  "Not bad," Bill nodded appreciatively. "Setting the mood nicely."

  After about fifteen minutes of walking, with no sign of other visitors or the promised guides, Bill began to wonder if he had somehow taken a wrong turn. The path had narrowed significantly, becoming little more than a game trail winding between ancient trees. He was about to turn back when he heard voices ahead—not the friendly greetings of fantasy role-playing guides, but the more aggressive tones of an argument.

  Curious, Bill moved forward quietly until he could make out three figures on the path ahead. They were dressed in what appeared to be medieval-style clothing—leather jerkins, rough-spun tunics, and boots that came up to their knees. Each wore a hood that partially obscured their face, and all three had what looked like very realistic prop daggers at their belts.

  "This is perfect," Bill whispered to himself. "Must be the start of the adventure. Mysterious hooded figures having a clandestine meeting in the forest. Very fantasy-appropriate. Excellent immersive setup."

  As he watched, one of the figures—taller than the others and with a distinctively aggressive stance—appeared to be berating the other two about something. The words weren't quite audible from Bill's position, but the tone was unmistakably angry.

  "Probably bandits or smugglers or some kind of fantasy outlaws," Bill guessed, impressed by the actors' commitment to their roles. "And I've stumbled upon their secret meeting. Classic adventure setup. Now I just need to eavesdrop and learn about the impending danger to the realm or whatever macguffin they're after."

  Deciding to fully embrace the role-playing scenario, Bill crept closer, trying to move as stealthily as possible while still staying on the path. Unfortunately, his idea of stealth had been informed primarily by comedic spy movies rather than actual woodcraft, and he managed to step on what might have been the loudest twig in the entire forest.

  The crack echoed like a gunshot, and all three hooded figures whirled around to face him. There was a moment of surprised silence as they stared at Bill, and he stared back, offering a small, apologetic wave.

  "Hi there," he said cheerfully. "Don't mind me. Just a passing wizard on his way to... wherever the magical adventure starts. Terrible at stealth checks, obviously. Failed my dexterity roll. Carry on with your... bandit meeting or whatever."

  The three figures exchanged glances, and then the tallest one stepped forward, pushing back his hood to reveal a young man with close-cropped hair and the kind of features that suggested he had been cast specifically to look menacing.

  "Well, well," he said in what Bill considered a rather clichéd villain tone. "What have we here? A lost tourist?"

  "Not lost, exactly," Bill corrected. "Just slightly directionally challenged. I'm here for the Realms of Wonder experience. The fantasy role-playing thing? I assume you guys are part of it. The introductory encounter, setting up the adventure narrative. Very atmospheric. Great costume design."

  The three exchanged glances again, and Bill noticed that their expressions seemed genuinely confused rather than dramatically confused. Then the tall one's face shifted into a smile that was more predatory than friendly.

  "Oh, right. The fantasy thing," he said, his accent shifting to something that sounded vaguely like a Hollywood version of Cockney. "Yeah, we're part of it, mate. You've found the... uh... first challenge."

  "Excellent!" Bill clapped his hands together in excitement. "I knew I was on the right track. So what's the scenario? Am I supposed to solve a riddle? Barter for safe passage? Offer to help you with some morally ambiguous quest that will eventually reveal your hidden hearts of gold beneath the gruff exterior?"

  The three men exchanged another set of glances, this time with raised eyebrows and suppressed smiles that suggested they couldn't believe their luck. The leader cleared his throat and attempted to look serious again.

  "Yeah, something like that," he said. "But first, we need to... verify your identity. Security purposes, you understand. Can I see some ID?"

  "Oh, sure," Bill nodded, reaching for his wallet. This seemed like a perfectly reasonable request from what were obviously employees of the Realms of Wonder experience checking that he was the paying customer he claimed to be. "I've got my passport right here. Brand new, actually. Got it expedited for this trip."

  He handed over his passport, and the leader flipped through it with a grin that was growing less actorly and more genuinely delighted by the second.

  "William Parkman from Wisconsin, USA," he read aloud. "That checks out. Now, for the next part of the challenge, we'll need to hold onto this for you. And we'll also need your wallet and phone. For... magical reasons."

  Bill hesitated for a moment, a tiny flicker of doubt crossing his mind. But then he remembered the brochure for Realms of Wonder, which had mentioned that participants would be separated from modern technology to enhance the immersive experience. This must be their way of introducing that element of the adventure.

  "I see what you're doing," he nodded knowingly. "Separating me from my modern identity, forcing me to embrace the fantasy persona fully. Very method. I appreciate the commitment to immersion."

  He handed over his wallet and phone, which the leader promptly passed to one of his companions, who tucked them into a pouch at his belt with a barely suppressed snicker.

  "That's right," the leader agreed, seeming increasingly amused by the situation. "Complete immersion. Now, there's just one more thing we need from you to truly begin your magical adventure."

  "What's that?" Bill asked eagerly.

  "Your backpack," the leader said, holding out his hand. "Can't have any non-magical supplies where you're going."

  At this, Bill finally started to feel genuinely suspicious. The brochure had mentioned bringing water and snacks for the day-long adventure. Why would they want to take those from him?

  "I'm not sure about that," he said, taking a small step back. "I've got my water and granola bars in here. The brochure specifically said to bring refreshments."

  The leader's friendly facade dropped completely, and he pulled what appeared to be a very real knife from his belt. "Let me clarify the situation, American. This isn't part of your fantasy game. This is a robbery. Give us the backpack, or things will get unpleasant."

  Bill stared at the knife, then at the three men, who were now arranged in a loose semicircle blocking the path ahead. His brain struggled to process this unexpected development.

  "A robbery? In a picturesque English forest? That seems very off-brand for the tourist experience. Shouldn't this happen in a gritty urban alley? There should be steam rising from manholes. Distant police sirens. Proper mugging aesthetics."

  "Are you mental?" one of the other men asked, seemingly genuinely confused by Bill's reaction. "This isn't a game, you idiot. Give us the backpack before Jake here cuts you."

  Bill looked at the knife again, then at the increasingly frustrated expressions on the three men's faces. Oddly, he didn't feel particularly frightened. The whole situation seemed so absurd, so out of place in this peaceful forest setting, that his brain simply refused to categorize it as genuinely dangerous.

  "I get it," he said, sudden understanding dawning. "This is one of those interactive theater experiences where they blur the line between fiction and reality. Like that movie, 'The Game' with Michael Douglas. You're making it seem like a real mugging to heighten the dramatic tension before the actual fantasy adventure begins. Very edgy. Very meta."

  "Oh for—" the leader, apparently Jake, cut himself off with a frustrated growl. "Just give us the bloody backpack, you American moron!"

  "Fine, fine," Bill said, slipping off his backpack and holding it out. "I'll play along. Very convincing performances, by the way. The escalating frustration, the authentic-looking knife, the very realistic aura of criminal menace. You guys are really earning your actor paychecks today."

  Jake snatched the backpack with his free hand, tossing it to one of his companions who immediately began rifling through it.

  "Nothing but water, snacks, and... is this hand sanitizer?" the man reported, looking disgusted. "No cash, no electronics."

  "Told you," Bill said helpfully. "Just wilderness survival basics. Hydration, nutrition, bacterial protection. The fundamentals of any magical quest."

  Jake looked like he was seriously reconsidering his life choices. "Right, well, we've got his wallet, phone, and passport. That'll have to do. Let's go before he talks us to death."

  As the three began to back away down a side path Bill hadn't noticed before, he called after them, "So... is this where the actual fantasy adventure starts? Do I follow you guys to the bandit camp or something? Or am I supposed to report the robbery to the fantasy authorities?"

  "Just keep walking straight ahead, you nutter," Jake called back. "And don't follow us unless you want a real stabbing instead of a fantasy one!"

  With that, the three disappeared into the underbrush, leaving Bill standing alone on the path, now minus his wallet, phone, passport, and backpack.

  "Very immersive," he nodded approvingly. "Genuinely unsettling encounter that forces the protagonist to continue the journey without modern resources or safety nets. Narrative-driven technology separation rather than just a 'please put your phone in this bucket' approach. I respect the commitment to storytelling."

  Convinced that this had been an elaborate setup to begin the fantasy adventure properly, Bill continued down the path with renewed enthusiasm. If anything, the "robbery" had increased his excitement about the experience—clearly, the Realms of Wonder people took their immersive storytelling seriously.

  The path continued to narrow as he walked deeper into the forest. The trees grew taller and more ancient-looking, their branches creating a canopy overhead that filtered the sunlight into dappled patterns on the forest floor. The underbrush became lusher, with wildflowers pushing up between gnarled roots and fallen logs hosting vibrant colonies of mushrooms and moss.

  "Now this is proper fantasy forest," Bill approved, stepping carefully over a particularly impressive patch of toadstools. "Ideal setting for magical encounters. Perfect backdrop for mystical manifestations. Exactly the kind of place where one might expect to meet a talking animal with cryptic advice or a diminutive forest guardian with questionable fashion sense."

  The path twisted and turned, leading him deeper into the woods. Bill began to wonder if he should turn back—he had been walking for quite a while with no sign of fantasy guides or other participants—when he spotted something peculiar ahead.

  In a small clearing, illuminated by a shaft of sunlight breaking through the canopy, was a perfect circle of mushrooms. White with red spots, they formed a ring about fifteen feet in diameter, their caps gleaming in the sunlight like tiny beacons.

  "A fairy ring!" Bill exclaimed, immediately recognizing it from Raymond's geological explanation and the Realms of Wonder brochure. "An actual, genuine fairy ring! Formed by fungal mycelium growing outward in a circular pattern underground. Creating a visible manifestation of invisible biological processes. Nature's own crop circle."

  He approached the ring slowly, a childlike wonder overtaking his previous concerns about being lost. This was exactly the kind of feature that had been prominently featured in the Realms of Wonder marketing materials—a natural phenomenon with mystical associations, perfect for sparking imagination.

  "The gateway between realms," he quoted from the brochure, which he'd practically memorized in his enthusiasm for the adventure. "Where the veil between worlds grows thin."

  The mushrooms looked exactly like the ones in children's books about fairy tales—the classic Amanita muscaria with their distinct red caps and white spots. Bill circled the ring slowly, admiring the perfect symmetry of the formation. It really did seem too precise to be entirely natural, though he knew perfectly well there was a scientific explanation.

  "Step within to begin your adventure," he murmured, remembering another line from the brochure.

  A sudden rustling in the underbrush startled him. Bill turned, half-expecting to see the "bandits" returning for another interactive theater sequence. Instead, a rabbit hopped into view, its nose twitching as it regarded him with apparent curiosity.

  "Hello there," Bill greeted it solemnly. "Are you the White Rabbit? Am I about to follow you into Wonderland? Should I be checking my pocket watch and complaining about being late for a very important date?"

  The rabbit, disappointingly, did not respond with witticisms about temporal concerns. It simply stared at Bill for a long moment, then hopped directly across the fairy ring and disappeared into the underbrush on the other side.

  "Well, that was anticlimactic," Bill observed. "Though I suppose expecting talking animals would be setting the bar unreasonably high for random woodland encounters."

  He turned his attention back to the fairy ring. Standing at its edge, Bill felt a strange compulsion to step inside. It was silly, of course—just mushrooms growing in a circle, no magic involved. And yet...

  "What the heck," he said to himself. "If I can't find the official fantasy experience, I can at least pretend. Create my own immersive adventure. Self-directed magical role-play. Independent wizardry."

  With a small, self-conscious hop, Bill stepped over the ring of mushrooms and into the center of the circle. He spread his arms wide and adopted what he imagined was a suitably mystical expression.

  "I am Bill Parkman, Wizard of Wisconsin, Master of the Misplaced DVD, Sorcerer of Special Features, Archmage of Alphabetical Organization!" he declared to the empty forest, then chuckled at his own absurdity. "I command this portal to open! Transport me to the realm of magic and wonder! Show me elves and dragons and... I don't know, talking squirrels with tiny swords!"

  Nothing happened, of course. The forest remained peaceful and ordinary, birds continued their distant singing, and not a single talking squirrel appeared to challenge him to a duel. Bill sighed, acknowledging the limits of imagination in the face of mundane reality.

  "Worth a shot," he shrugged, turning to step back out of the ring.

  That's when it happened.

  A sudden gust of wind swept through the clearing, causing the trees around him to sway and leaves to swirl up from the forest floor. The light changed, taking on a golden, shimmering quality that made the air itself appear to ripple.

  "Whoa," Bill breathed, turning in a circle. "That's... atmospheric."

  The air continued to shimmer, the effect intensifying until everything around the fairy ring seemed to be vibrating slightly, as if reality itself was becoming unstable. The sounds of the forest faded, replaced by a high, sweet note that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.

  "Okay, this is weird," Bill admitted, a tingle of something like fear finally breaking through his perpetual optimism. "Though probably just a sudden weather change. Microclimatic instability. Localized atmospheric phenomenon. Perfectly normal forest stuff."

  The shimmering intensified to a brilliant flash that momentarily blinded him. Bill blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision, a sense of disorientation washing over him. For a moment—just a moment—he felt as if he were falling, though his feet remained planted firmly on the ground.

  Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the effect ended. The light returned to normal, the sound faded, and the wind died down. Bill stood in the center of the fairy ring, blinking away the afterimages of the flash.

  "That was... unexpected," he said to himself, feeling slightly dizzy. "Possible temporal lobe disruption caused by sleep deprivation and minor stress. Or maybe I'm still jet-lagged. Or it could be a small stroke. Do strokes cause light shows and musical accompaniment? Should I be concerned about that? Should I call Linda? Do I even have a phone anymore? No, I don't, because I got mugged by English forest bandits who failed to understand the proper setting for criminal activities."

  He looked around the clearing, which appeared largely unchanged except for one significant detail—the path by which he had entered was gone, replaced by a different trail leading away through the trees.

  "Huh," Bill frowned. "That's disorienting. Must have gotten turned around during the weird light show. Spatial confusion resulting from temporary visual impairment. Common perceptual disruption."

  Seeing no alternative, and figuring any path would eventually lead him back to the main trail, Bill followed the new path leading away from the fairy ring. The forest around him seemed subtly different—the trees more ancient and gnarled, the undergrowth more lush and varied, the quality of light somehow richer and more golden.

  "The woods are definitely getting more atmospheric," he observed as he walked. "More Brothers Grimm, less English countryside. More enchanted forest, less managed estate. Interesting how natural lighting conditions can alter perceptual interpretation of familiar environments."

  As he rounded a bend in the path, Bill came face to face with a sight that stopped him in his tracks. Before him stood what appeared to be a massive stone archway, intricately carved with symbols and runes, flanked by two figures in elaborate armor that gleamed with an iridescent, almost metallic sheen. The figures wore helmets that concealed their faces entirely, and each held a staff topped with a glowing crystal that pulsed with inner light.

  Bill's mouth fell open, his eyes widening with childlike wonder and delight. Only one thought formed clearly in his mind, pushing aside all questions of how and why and what:

  "The Realms of Wonder experience! I found it!" he exclaimed, clapping his hands together in excitement. "I must have wandered onto their property. Accidental discovery of immersive fantasy setting! Unintentional access to paid entertainment experience! This is amazing! The costume design is incredible!"

  The armored figures shifted slightly as he approached, their staves crossing to block his path. The movement was so fluid and natural that Bill found himself impressed by the performers' physicality.

  "Halt," said one of the figures, its voice resonating with an otherworldly timbre that suggested some kind of voice modulation technology. "Who seeks to enter the realm beyond the veil?"

  Bill grinned broadly, absolutely thrilled by this unexpected turn of events. Without ID, without a ticket, through sheer bumbling good fortune, he had stumbled into exactly the adventure he'd been hoping for. The universe, it seemed, had decided to grant his wish after all.

  "I am Bill Parkman," he declared with enthusiastic theatricality, "a traveler from a distant land called Wisconsin, seeking adventure in your magical realm!"

  And with that declaration, Bill Parkman—video store clerk, movie enthusiast, and completely ordinary human—unwittingly took his first step into a world where magic was real, danger was genuine, and he was about to be mistaken for the most powerful wizard in existence.

  All because he happened to be the wrong person in exactly the right place at exactly the right time—and because he had absolutely no magic whatsoever.