Next to him, Goldie was eying Eden with concern. Goldie was pretty, plump, and pink-cheeked, with kind eyes and a tiny perfect nose. As a rule, she was more indulgent than Xavier, but over the years Eden had learned that crossing her wasn’t wise.
“Eden,” Xavier said, “what is your assessment of today’s granting?”
Honestly, she thought it had gone quite well. Even though the summons had awoken her rudely in the middle of the night, some good had come of it. She’d seen four constellations: Orion, Canis Major, Aries, and Gemini. She’d discovered a new game. She’d gone for a swim—well, sort of a swim. And along the way, she’d taught a valuable lesson to a foolish wisher.
That was her truthful assessment. But she had a feeling the masters of the lamp might not agree.
She willed herself not to break eye contact. “I think it went well. Pretty standard.”
Goldie winced. A muscle in Xavier’s jaw twitched.
“Pretty standard. Do you really think that’s true?”
She bit her lower lip. Xavier never lost his temper. When he was angry, he just got smarter. And he was very, very smart to begin with.
“Eden, you left that poor man smothered by hot chips in a preposterously large house, with a scratch-off ticket buried somewhere underneath entitling him to a five-dollar prize.”
Eden looked down at the gold cuff bracelet on her right wrist. Her name was etched across it in cursive. When she was granting a wish, light shone through the lines of the letters. When the letters were shining, the lamp’s magic was active. Xavier and Goldie each wore an identical bracelet, but with their own names, of course.
Eden caught the elastic band of her nightgown sleeve’s cuff between her fingers and tugged it down over the bracelet.
“The man has no choice but to, for lack of a more eloquent phrase, eat his way to freedom. If—and that is, if—he makes it out alive, he’ll find that his new residence has encroached upon the property of his neighbors and damaged their dwellings. His peers will berate him. He may never succeed in removing the scent of grease from his person. All this only if he manages to emerge from the house without suffering congestive heart failure.” Xavier leaned forward. “That was not ‘pretty standard.’” His voice lowered to a whisper but retained its force, like a giant stooping to average height. “Do you see what I mean?”
Eden steeled herself. “He got what he asked for,” she said. “You two taught me the rules.”
“Eden—”
“Number three: wording counts. Goldie, you taught me that.”
“Eden, we’ve been through this,” Goldie said with a sigh. “Those rules exist so wishers don’t take advantage of us. Not so that we can take advantage of them.”
“Of course they don’t always word things properly,” Xavier said. “You’ve got to remember, these are mortals. They’re simple.”
“That’s for sure,” Eden said under her breath.
Xavier blinked. He took off his glasses and massaged the inner corners of his eyes.
“The day after tomorrow, at breakfast.”
“What?”
Xavier raised his dark, finely shaped eyebrows. “You know how I feel about that tone.”
“Fine. What will happen the day after tomorrow at breakfast, dear Xavier?”
He ignored the sarcasm. “The day after tomorrow at breakfast you’ll hand me a written report on how tonight’s granting should have been handled.”
“A what?”
“I expect your best penmanship and no errors in spelling or grammar—”
“You’ve got to be kidding me. This is so—”
“ENOUGH!” The word struck Eden like a slap. “I will not have this behavior in my lamp.”
Indignation stung Eden’s cheeks. She blinked fast so the hot liquid gathering behind her eyes wouldn’t spill over.
“Goldie?” she tried.
Eden could tell that Goldie was struggling to stay stern. It didn’t come naturally for her.
“You heard Xavier,” she said. “There’s a way to behave on grantings, and this isn’t it.”
Xavier smoothed a hand over his hair and closed his eyes as if in pain. For several moments he was silent. Finally he spoke.
“Ours is a pleasant business. We grant wishes. We make people happy. During your career, you are our representative. You show up, you make someone’s dreams come true.”
The same spiel she’d heard since her training had begun at age three.
“You are the only person on this planet who can do that. The only one. Because you’re part of a legacy like no other.” His favorite phrase. “And until you complete your lifetime wish quota, you have a responsibility to serve each wisher to the best of your ability.”
“And what if I don’t want to?” The words tumbled from her mouth even though she already knew the answer.
Xavier blinked. The haughty clock ticked on the wall: clock, clock, clock, clock.
“You’ll do it anyway,” he said. And with that, she was sent to bed.
Eden was well aware of the honor of her position. Genies had been granting mortals’ wishes for thousands of years. During all that time, no two of them had ever been alike. There’d been wise genies and playful genies, solemn genies and coy genies. Raven-haired genies and pixie-haired genies. Doe-like genies, firecracker genies, foxy genies, and majestic genies.
But there had never been a genie who didn’t want to be a genie. Goldie and Xavier had told her so, and they would know. As masters of the lamp, they’d raised every single one.
Sitting sullenly at her vanity, Eden dragged a sapphire-encrusted comb through her hair. Clumps of hot-chip grease had been shampooed away and washed down the shower drain, and now her damp locks felt limp, lacking—what? Spirit, maybe.
She’d spent every night of her life here, in a bedroom fit for a princess. The chandelier showered a frozen storm of diamonds over a whisper-soft carpet. Delicate cloths of lace and satin adorned the walls. The monstrous closet was populated by gleaming mink coats, elegant dresses, and hundreds of fabulous shoes.
And yet, for her, the room was a prison. The solid gold walls held her captive like an animal in one of the zoos she’d read about. Each night she was doomed to her plush canopy bed, where her head sank into goose-down pillows, and Egyptian cotton sheets clutched at her limbs.
Eden tapped the comb on the nose of her melancholy mirror image, but the girl in the mirror didn’t react. She combed a sheet of hair over her eyes so she and the girl wouldn’t have to look at each other.
Sometimes she was sure something was wrong with her. Genies were born into service in the lamp. Granting wishes had always been her destiny. So how could she want a different life? Why did she yearn day and night for those blessed escapes from the lamp?
It was a shame she hadn’t seen the sun this time. The night sky was thrilling too—so still and sober and endless. But how she loved that fat, brassy sun!
She’d seen it on her very first granting. On a summer morning in a French village called Usson, the wife of a wheat farmer had struck the lamp with her shovel as she dug a new patch for her garden. She unearthed it from the fertile red soil and rubbed it with her apron. In a flash Eden appeared, ten and timid, a baby genie freshly trained.
She’d learned about the sun; she knew its mass (1.9891 × 1030 kilograms), its makeup (approximately three-quarters hydrogen and one-quarter helium), the temperature of its core (approximately 15.7 × 106 °K). She’d seen intimate photos of its undulating surface captured by satellites in space. She’d seen it in photos taken from Earth: high in the sky, an orange glob like an egg yolk, or tucked into the horizon, half swallowed by the sea.
But none of it had prepared her for its glory, for the pulse of those rays reaching desperately to warm her. How could the sun love her so when they’d only just met?
Yet when she sought the rays’ source, she staggered backward in pain. Stinging currents shot through her eye sockets. Xavier had warned her to shield her eyes f
rom direct sun, but she couldn’t have imagined light like this. She was used to the soft glow of her chandelier and to the flickering of candles on the dining table. Now she saw they were thin imitations of the bright light that baked the Earth like a cake in an oven.
She was so enraptured that she didn’t notice the farmer’s wife gaping at her like she was a ghost. Tearing her attention from the sky, Eden clumsily granted the woman’s wishes (a bountiful spring harvest; a cure for her infant son’s colic; a ruby necklace like the one the president’s wife had worn in the papers the previous week). But it was hard to concentrate. How could mortals focus with that big, brilliant sun spraying its splendor all over the place?
Genies weren’t supposed to be enamored of earthly things. They had to learn about the world, but they weren’t meant to share mortals’ simple desires. That was what Xavier and Goldie told her in that first post-granting assessment.
But it was too late. From that point forward, her visits were filled with earthly discoveries. Fragrant grass, and sweet or spicy air. Trees. Dirt. Dogs, heavy with age or manic with energy. Rain. Porches—part of the home, yet open to the outside. Windows.
Mortals were so jaded that they took these wonders for granted. They snatched at wealth and luxury, gold and jewels, mansions and yachts. And hot chips. Well, that had been a new one.
Eden shook her head violently and flipped her hair back so that it rose from her scalp like a lion’s mane. She and her reflection locked eyes in the mirror, united and alone in the truth.
The truth was that she was in love with the world. And there’s no worse agony than forbidden love.
A gentle rap came at the door. “Come in,” Eden said.
Goldie entered the genie’s chambers and closed the door softly behind her. She was holding a plate containing a wedge of peach pie. When Goldie entered a room, something delicious usually entered with her. She baked plain old break-your-heart chocolate chip cookies, sticky-sweet maple walnut chews, and peanut butter cookies crowned with careful crosshatches. She baked apple-rhubarb pies, key lime pies, and gooey peach pies. Sometimes she baked a cake: red velvet with cream cheese frosting, or hearty, chunky carrot cake. Considering the lamp’s small population, she baked to excess, yet somehow the goods always vanished.
Spotting the grease-soiled nightgown on the floor, Goldie scooped it up for inspection. “Don’t think we’ll be able to salvage this one. But it was getting small anyway, wasn’t it?” Eden shrugged. She had a hundred nightgowns. What did it matter?
Goldie sat on the bed and patted the spot beside her. “Don’t talk,” she said. “Just eat.” Gratefully Eden picked up the fork; until this very moment she hadn’t realized how hungry she was. She devoured the slice in huge, gooey bites.
“That’s my girl!” Goldie beamed. “There’s no cure for a bad granting like warm peach pie. It’s done the trick for every one of you girls.”
Eden’s heel swung back and cracked the wooden bed frame. “Why is Xavier so mean?”
Goldie pursed her lips. “Honey, I know he can come off a little harsh. But it’s only because he knows you can do better. We want you to live up to your potential.”
Eden scoffed. How much potential could you live up to in a prison? Potential lay out there on Earth, not trapped in an antique oil lamp.
She frowned as she tried to stick the remaining piecrust crumbs on the tines of her fork. “Goldie,” she said, “are you sure I’m supposed to be a genie?”
“Darling, you wouldn’t be here if you weren’t!” Goldie smiled fondly. “Every genie who’s ever lived in this lamp was created to grant wishes. That means you were born for something special. Being a genie is your destiny.”
“But what if the lamp made a mistake with me?”
Goldie laughed. “Nonsense! The lamp can’t make mistakes!” She took Eden’s wrist in her hand. “If you’re ever unsure of who you are, look at your bracelet and remember.” Each resident genie wore the bracelet for the duration of her career. When she retired, the bracelet would be deactivated, and its light would be extinguished forever. At the moment of deactivation, a new bracelet would appear on the wrist of the baby genie born to take her place.
“I know writing the report seems like a drag,” Goldie went on. “But you’ve got to do it. Might as well put on a happy face and make the best of it.”
A fresh surge of irritation coursed through Eden’s veins. You’ve got to do it. Wasn’t that how everything worked around here? Until she granted all her wishes, she couldn’t make a single decision for herself.
“Now listen.” Goldie took Eden’s hands. “No point in getting down after a bad granting. Every genie has them. We use what we’ve learned to make the next time better. Tomorrow, or the next day, or a week or a month from now, someone new will find the lamp, and you’ll grant like a pro.” Her eyes flashed. “You’ll knock their socks off.”
But that was the problem. Eden didn’t want to make the next time better. She’d had enough of brief escapes; she wanted to leave the lamp for good. She pulled her hands away from Goldie’s and folded her arms across her chest.
“How. About. This.” Goldie spaced out her words to build suspense, like she was about to announce something brilliant. “Let’s you and me have a girls’ sleepover, like we used to. I know you’ve had a growth spurt, but this bed’s still big enough for the two of us! I’ll make some hot cocoa and bring us another slice of pie. I’ve got a chess pie that you’ll absolutely—”
“I don’t think so,” Eden interrupted. Strange how she used to beg for girls’ sleepovers with Goldie. These days, the idea had lost its luster. “It’s been a long night. I think I’ll go to bed.”
Disappointment flashed across Goldie’s face, but she quickly concealed it. “All right, missy. Next time, I guess. Good night.” Empty plate in one hand and soiled nightgown in the other, she kissed Eden on the forehead and left.
At the click of the door, Eden fell back on the bed and let out a slow stream of air. Her eyes drifted to a hazy unfocusedness as she peered into the shimmery folds of the canopy above.
Did she really have to write the report? She’d never challenged Xavier or Goldie’s commands before. They were the masters; their word was law. But what punishment could Xavier give that would make things worse than they were now?
With a burst of energy she sprang from her snow-angel imprint on the bed. She threw open the closet door, strode to the back, and pushed aside floor-length dresses to expose a section of solid gold wall with a row of maroon-colored marks grouped in threes. She dropped to her knees and picked up the tube of lipstick lying on the floor, a tool pilfered long ago from Goldie. With it she added three ticks, bringing their total to thirty-three. Thirty-three wishes down, 966 to go.
By the time she’d started brushing her baby teeth, Eden had already known her career would consist of 999 wishes. That was the quota for every genie who inhabited the lamp. Since each wisher got three wishes, each genie was summoned 333 times. That could take fifty years, or forty, or maybe, if she was lucky, thirty.
A genie’s career began at age ten, so she’d been granting for two and a half years. Eleven escapes from the lamp, ranging from a few minutes to just under an hour. There was no limit on the time a wisher could possess the lamp, but, as Xavier said, mortals were simple; they wished frantically and lustily. As soon as three wishes were granted, Eden was banished back into the lamp, where she was kept safe and sheltered, as hopelessly confined as a songbird in a cage.
After 999 wishes, the genie got her thousandth wish—and that wish was her own. With it, she could choose whatever she wanted for the rest of her life. It all had to be included in a single wish, but after that many grantings, genies were masterful at wording to maximize results.
In the dark of the closet, she shut her eyes. Maybe this time the lamp will land on a bustling street corner. Mortals will fight for it, and I’ ll be summoned at any moment. Maybe a little girl just picked it up, and she’s rubbing it now—Eden
braced herself for that rocket ride out of the lamp and the lightning-fast growth to a thousand times her current size.
But it didn’t come. When would it? When would she see that infinite night sky or greet that brassy sun again?
She shoved the dresses back in place. She’d made up her mind: she wouldn’t write the report. And if that tipped the ancient balance of the lamp, so be it. Maybe for once things would get interesting around here.
In the lamp you couldn’t see the sun rise or set, so you’d think the time of day wouldn’t be important. But with Xavier in charge, that wasn’t the case. He commanded an army of clocks stationed in the living room, the kitchen, the lesson room, and the study. Sure as a swinging pendulum, he strode from clock to clock, consulting the fat gold watch on his wrist to ensure they never disagreed with one another.
Every morning at 7:30 A.M., Eden awoke to the sound of Xavier’s booming voice belting a show tune. He had perfect pitch and a vast mental catalog of songs. Sometimes he sang “On the Street Where You Live” from My Fair Lady or “If I Were a Rich Man” from Fiddler on the Roof. Other mornings it was “Almost Like Being in Love” from Brigadoon or “Tonight” from West Side Story. Often Goldie chimed in, her voice earnest and clear as a bell.
On the morning after the Darryl Dolan granting, the wake-up song was one of his favorites: the opening number of Oklahoma!.
“Oh, what a beautiful MORNIN’! Oh, what a beautiful day!”
Eden groaned and pulled the goose-down comforter over her head.
“I’ve got a beautiful FEELIN’, everything’s going my way!”
It was no use. She flung the covers aside and swung her bare feet to the carpet. Another day was beginning, and there was nothing she could do about it.
She took a quick shower, braided her hair into a pale rope, and pulled on a long-sleeved cobalt-blue dress. With the exception of her nightclothes, there was no casual attire in the closet.
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