“He stopped, puzzled, and opened his hand, examined his palm.” Neverwhere, by Neil Gaiman, p. 261.
* * *
He stopped, puzzled, and opened his hand, examined his palm. What she’d placed there, heavy and cool, folding his fingers around it and giving them a slight squeeze as she turned away, was a key.
Looking up, his eyes met hers for a split second, before she disappeared into the crush of people on the concourse. He made as if to follow her, but saw in an instant that it was hopeless. The crowd spilled forward, a river breaking free of a dam, down half a dozen platforms and onto waiting trains, some already whistling and chuffing, like racehorses anxious to start from their gates. He would not find her again. Not today.
He cursed himself, silently, for not grasping her arm, pulling her to him. He’d been afraid of making a scene. But with all this chaos, he might have gotten her safely away from here.
It was a large brass key. Not modern. An old warded lock key, with a filigreed bow. The scrollwork there suggested, possibly, a stylized letter “G.” The rectangular bit was broad and flat, with little notched cutouts branching across its surface but never meeting, like a tiny map showing the dead-end passages of a garden maze. He had seen a key like this, once before.