by Anna Day
Finally, Alice kisses his cheek and dashes out the door. I almost expect her to lose a glass slipper on the way. I tell Mustache I need to pee and slip out of the room, using the staff door at the back.
The cool evening air catches in my nostrils, and the stretch of lawn—the stillness of twilight—calms me for a moment. I close my eyes and listen to the lilting melody floating on the air. Something beautiful I can’t quite reach.
I tread lightly, moving across the gravel, heading toward the side of the manor where I expect her to be.
“Violet!” Her golden head bobs around the side of the building. She beckons me.
I reach her and she pushes me back so a privet hedge shields us from view.
“It’s so good to see you,” she says.
We embrace and the jealousy grows blunt at the edges, the familiar scent of cherry blossom and lemongrass filling my head. The whaleboning of her dress digs into my ribs, but I continue to hold her, allowing myself to acknowledge just how much I’ve missed her.
She holds me out at arm’s length and looks me up and down. “You make a good Rose.”
“Thanks, you make a good Gem.”
“Aw, thanks.”
I fail to return her smile. “Alice, what’s going on?”
She smooths down the fabric of her dress, avoiding eye contact. “So Thorn asked me to pose as a Gem.”
“Yeah, I kind of guessed … But why?”
“He wants me as a backup plan, in case you fail. There’s more than one way to skin a cat and get those Gem secrets. He doesn’t believe the alternate universe thing, can’t blame him, really—he thinks Baba may have lost the plot, excuse the pun.”
Just at that moment, the band bursts into a lively jig. She turns her head as though she can see the music floating on the breeze.
My body grows rigid, paralyzed, and frustration builds deep inside, pushing upward and outward until I think I might burst. “But that’s not why we’re here. In case you’ve forgotten, we’re here to make sure Willow still falls for Rose. To make sure the story runs its course so we can go home. Remember? The psychic lady with no face … ‘You must save the Imps, Violet.’ ”
“Yeah, but Thorn’s priority is still getting Willow to blab about Daddykins.”
“And your priority is … ?”
“To help you, obviously.”
“By hitting on Prince Charming.” I tap my foot—she hates it when I do that.
She wrinkles up her nose, her makeup cracking like a china glaze. “Look, Violet, things have deviated from canon already. You’re not Rose for a start—you may know her lines, but you’re still not her. You need all the help you can get.”
This tugs at some deep-rooted insecurity. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Do you know how eligible Willow is? Seriously, every unmarried Gem girl wants a piece of him, he’s gorgeous and kind and rich—”
“Says the unmarried Gem girl.”
“Violet, don’t be an idiot. If I’m seen with Willow, then I’m putting off the Gem competition and you stand a better chance.”
“A likely story,” I snap.
“I’m just trying to help.”
The insecurity grows and grows until all I can hear are the words Violet the Virgin. “What, you think I can’t do this on my own? You think I can’t make a guy fall for me?”
“Not just any guy—Willow Harper. You know, the most perfect man in the universe … this universe and ours.” She makes a circular motion with her finger.
“Oh, so if he was an ugly loser, then I’d stand a chance.”
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
“Then what exactly are you saying?” My tone rises, and I realize this is the first argument we’ve had since she stole my red dress and wore it to a party back in Year Ten. I remember feeling so angry, not because she didn’t ask me, or even because she slopped garlic dip all down the front, but because she looked better in it than me.
She exhales quickly. “I’m saying, we just need to get Willow to fall for you and follow you to the city. How it happens doesn’t matter.”
“Jesus, Alice, this isn’t some little fanfic exercise—you can’t just rewrite the plot and hope for the best. We’re the butterfly, remember, flapping our massive wings. Just the slightest change and the consequences could be drastic.”
“Yes, but you also said the story wants to unfold. Anyway, I’m not rewriting the plot, I’m ensuring it hits its key climax moments.”
A bitter laugh erupts from my lips. “Yeah, I can see climaxing is your main concern.”
“Now you just sound jealous.”
“Well, maybe I am. You get to be with Willow, the most perfect man in existence, and I have to slum it in the Imp-hut, worrying about me and Ash, Saskia breathing down my neck, and you get to live like—like …”—I gesture around me, to the manor, the estate, the stars—“a Gem.”
Her brow knots. “You’re worried about you and Ash?”
I stutter on my words. “Well, not worried …”
“Seriously, the hero with the big dong and the massive crush? He’s just background noise in canon, you know that, yeah?”
I study the ground, dodging her accusatory stare, banning thoughts of feathers and potential first-kiss scenes from my mind. I notice how intricate her diamanté sandals look in comparison with my boots. “Of course I know that.”
“You’re a hypocrite, Violet.”
The band stops and the world seems strangely empty. Flat. Like a reflection of itself. I open my mouth to respond, but only a strange hissing noise escapes.
We stare at each other for a moment, and then she does this familiar thing—she rubs the little split heart between her thumb and forefinger. A sign she’s anxious. I hadn’t realized she was wearing it till now.
I feel myself soften. “Where are you staying?”
“With a Gem family who live nearby. Thorn has a lot of connections—there are Symps in all sorts of places.”
“So they know you’re—”
“An Imp?” She laughs. “Yeah, they know. I don’t think they believe it, though.”
“Try not to sound too pleased.”
She glares at me. “Look, I need to get back to Willow.”
“Wait.” I catch her arm. “How did you end up as his date?”
“I need to get back to Willow,” she repeats. “If he comes looking for me and sees us together he’s bound to get suspicious.”
I know she’s right, but I can’t bring myself to agree. “Yeah, and I need to get back to waiting on you and your Gem friends, slave that I am.”
“For God’s sake, Violet, I’m an Imp, too.”
But I think of those honey hands wrapped around her waist and the jealousy combines with anger, a lethal combination. “You’re also supposed to be my best friend—turns out you don’t know how to act like either.” I turn on my heel and slam my feet into the gravel, my head full and hot and ready to burst.
THE REST OF the night passes in a blur of perfect teeth and multicolored dresses. I complete my duties robotically, just trying not to drop that blasted tray. Gradually, the music ends and the guests disperse. I watch Alice and Willow walk up the stairs together, his hand resting on the small of her back, and I feel the pressure of a thousand tears building behind my eyelids. He will never kiss me now, and I may never go home.
I know it’s pathetic, desperate even, but I hang back just like in canon, sweeping the floor. The rhythmic action soothes my mind, the swish of the broom drowning out the words in my head: Violet the Virgin.
I sweep and sweep until the first signs of dawn push through the windows. I’ve let everyone down—Nate, Katie, even Alice, though I think she may deserve it. Finally, I let the tears flow. They drop from my chin and splat on the floor, transforming to smears beneath the bristles of my broom. The treachery burns deep in my chest—how could Alice sabotage our only hope of going home? I know she’s always had this bunny boiler, fangirl crush on Willow, an
d I know she loves being a Gem, but this is different, this is our lives. Now I have to return to the Imp-hut and look Nate in the eyes as I tell him what’s happened. And then an even more terrifying thought rams its way into the forefront of my brain … Thorn will kill Katie.
Katie. I wish she was here instead of Alice. She would never sleaze all over Willow. She would never put the Gems on a pedestal—she would call them a bunch of fuckturnips and follow it up with a quote from Shakespeare. I really miss her.
I pull my sleeve across my face and step into the cool of the dawn. The faint outlines of last night’s stars still blink in the sky, speaking of what could have been. Slowly, I drag my boots over the lawn, hoping that if I walk really slowly, I may never reach the hut.
“Rose.” The voice moves through the air like a song.
I turn and see Willow striding up the hill toward me. He’s lost the bow tie, and sweat glistens on that triangle of honey-colored skin. He looks tired, but he smiles and lifts his hands. “I promised you that last dance.”
It feels like my feet have sprouted claws and I’m unable to move, except for the huge smile reaching across my face. “You took your time.” Beneath the excitement, I feel this surge of panic—we’re totally off-script. I have no lines to recite. And this isn’t Ash, this isn’t some background noise, this is Willow—this matters.
But Willow just smiles. “I prefer fashionably late.” He places one hand at the base of my spine and gently takes my hand in the other. The heat of his body travels through my clothes. The skin on my throat suddenly feels very exposed. He hums a soft melody under his breath and we begin to turn.
I decide to just take a risk. “Who was that girl?”
The humming stops, but we continue to revolve.
“Who? Alice?” he says.
I nod. And I can’t help feeling a little peeved that his mouth has formed her real name and not mine.
“I met her yesterday at some social—a friend of a friend. She just seemed to … really know me. It felt like she could read my mind. And Mother had been nagging at me to get a date.”
I tuck my face into his chest so he can’t see my scowl. She used her knowledge of his character to her advantage. It feels like she’s cheated.
“Well, you looked good together.” I try to keep my voice light. This close, I can smell his aftershave and the scent of champagne on his breath.
He laughs, his chest vibrating beneath my ear. “No, we didn’t, we looked awful, like a copy of a copy. We all look the same, us Gems, I get so bored of looking at us.”
“You should mix with us Imps a bit more, you know, slum it.”
“Is that an invite?”
“Yeah, anytime you fancy hanging out at the Imp-hut, just let me know.”
We stop revolving and he holds me away from his body so I can really take in the beauty of his face—so perfect, it’s almost bland.
“Alice was quite charming,” he says. “But she said a few things that really made me …” I get this twinge in my stomach, anticipating the stab of further betrayal. But he chuckles softly to himself and says, “… miss you.”
The betrayal thins in my veins. “Like what?”
“Oh, you know, she said something about intrigue being at the core of attraction, and of course I thought of you. I know I said I loved the way you were so free, but I also love the way you can be so, so … awkward, and real. You’re such a strange combination, you really fascinate me.” He pauses. “You remind me of what it is to be human.”
This really makes me smile. Not just because he uses the word human, an old-fashioned term never used in the world of The Gallows Dance, as it implies the Imps and Gems belong to one species, but also because he likes me. Violet. The branches slapping my face, the hair in my mouth, he finds it fascinating.
He takes both my hands in his. “And then Alice said something really beautiful. She said that you could spend your whole life wandering the earth and never find that one person who makes you feel complete. So if you ever meet that person, you should cling to them with both hands and never let them go.” He pulls my hands into his chest and smiles.
The quote from the book. Alice was helping me all along. I feel like a maple seed, spinning and floating through the sky. The betrayal disperses completely, replaced by pure love for my best friend.
“Rose?” he says.
I shake my head. “Sorry, yes. Never let them go.” I take a deep breath. It’s time to seal the deal—to get the canon back on track and go home. I smile into his beautiful face and say, “It’s like we were born to …”—and as if to prove the point, he joins in, and we utter the same words—“… fit together.”
My mind reels back to earlier this evening. How Ash and I fitted so perfectly together beneath the silver birch, curled up in the grass. But I order my brain to stay on track, to stay in the moment. I stare into Willow’s eyes and notice how bright they look against the watery morning sky. He studies my face, tracing a line from the corner of my mouth to my cheekbone with his index finger.
Then, finally, he kisses me.
We kiss for a long time, neither of us pulling away. I love the scent of his skin, the pressure of his lips, the gentle flick of his tongue against mine. It’s a perfect kiss, not a gherkin in sight. But I don’t feel moved. I no longer spin like a maple seed. It just isn’t how I’d imagined it all those times I sat on the sofa, dreaming it was me in his arms. Maybe my expectation was just too high—he is, after all, only human. Genetically tweaked, but still just a man.
Eventually, the kiss comes to a natural end. He stands tall and smiles down at me. I ignore that nagging, disappointed feeling and tell myself I’m only doing this to go home. I’m about to kiss him good-bye when a slight movement draws my attention. In the elm trees on the horizon, peering at us through the leaves.
The palest blue eyes I’ve ever seen.
I SPEND THE REST of the morning looking for Ash. I scour the estate while the sun lights up the sky all orange and pink, this burning sensation growing in my chest. I finally give up and return to the Imp-hut, the contents of my head turned to pulp.
I push through the door, amazed by how heavy it feels. Nate sits at the table, drinking tea next to Matthew. I notice with a pang of jealousy that they’re playing cards.
“Well?” Nate says, his face a real mixture of excitement and fear, like he’s just sneaked a horror film past Mum.
“Nailed it.” I try to look happy, but I think of Ash’s face peering from the leaves and I just feel like crying.
I roll onto my bunk, let the cotton divider separate me from the world, and I pray for the numbness of sleep. But Nate ducks under the makeshift curtain, his sandy head bobbing into view. He speaks quietly so Matthew won’t hear, but an unfamiliar sharpness hardens his voice. “You’ve just scored Willow … why do you look like someone’s died?”
I exhale heavily. “It’s just, I don’t know … Ash saw.”
“Saw what?”
“Me—scoring Willow.”
“So?”
I cover my eyes with my hands, secretly wishing Katie were here, even Alice. You can’t really talk girl-stuff with your little brother. But right now, he’s my only option. “So … it felt weird.”
“Violet, Ash is just some little dweeb who follows you around looking lost and in love. Remember that.”
“No, you’re thinking of Ash from canon. My Ash is completely different.”
“Since when was he your Ash?”
“You know what I mean, this Ash, real Ash.” I roll onto my front so I can see Nate better. It feels like we’re in a tent, the light sifting through the dirty white divider, contained and safe in our own little pod. “He’s so different from canon-Ash, he’s funny and edgy and not in the least bit lost … He delivers babies in his spare time.” Nate opens his mouth to object, but I keep on talking. “But you know, part of me wonders if he’s different because I’m so different from Rose, maybe he can be himself with me, maybe I bring out a di
fferent side to him, a better side to him. Maybe we’ve just got that thing, you know, that connection.”
“Oh God,” Nate says. “You’ve fallen for the wrong guy. I knew this was going to happen. The stupid way you gawk at him.”
“No … no … it’s just …” I process the end of his sentence. “I gawk at him?”
“Look, sis, you’re Cinderella, and Willow’s Prince Charming and Ash is …”
“Buttons,” I say. This analogy keeps popping into my brain, especially with the ball so fresh in my memory.
“Yes. Bloody Buttons.”
“Nate, don’t swear.”
He shakes his head, irritated. “Cinderella does not end up with Buttons. She marries the prince and lives in a palace and—and—she hangs at the Gallows Dance so we can all go home.”
“OK, OK.” I roll onto my back again, indicating the end of the conversation.
“Just forget about Ash,” Nate says. “Focus on what really matters, and quit flapping those wings of yours.”
I know he’s right. I just need to stick to the script—play it safe. And what kind of a lame fairy tale has the princess falling for the butler, anyway? But Cinderella always was my favorite fairy tale, and I’ve always had a soft spot for the underdog.
“’Night, Vi,” Nate whispers, even though it’s late morning.
“Yeah, ’night. Sweet dreams.”
“You, too.”
But when I finally fall asleep, my dreams are anything but sweet. I’m kneeling—bent double—over these flagstones, scrubbing at a hearth that is covered in red paint. I dip my scrub brush in a pail, slop water on the paint, and I scrub and scrub and scrub. But the red won’t budge. And then I hear a voice narrating my favorite fairy tale. It sounds like Dad. Poor Cinderella desperately wanted to go to the ball, but her evil stepmother would not allow it. I wipe a giant tear from my cheek, leaving a crimson smudge across my skin. The narrator changes his tone, like he talks to someone offstage. I feel kind of silly, are you sure she can hear me? I hear a woman’s voice. Yes. I’m sure. Carry on.