by Anna Day
I can smell medicine and detergent and aftershave and coffee. Poor Cinderella cried all night, dreaming of waltzing and shimmering ball gowns. I look up from my scrubbing. “Dad?” I shout. “Dad? Where are you?” I stand, knocking over the pail, its contents spilling onto the floor. But it isn’t water—it’s just more of that damned red paint. A noise draws my attention, a smothered groan mixed with squelching like oozing liquid. I look up, and that’s when I notice them for the first time—strewn across the beams like in some disgusting slasher movie. A paper chain of dead Imps, dripping blood onto my floor.
I look at my hands. They’re covered in blood and they hold a noose.
I wake, choking on a scream.
In three days, I will hang.
I lower myself from my bunk, careful not to wake Nate, and cross to the sink. It’s dusk, and I console myself with the thought that I at least slept for most of the day. Tentatively, I rinse my face with the cold, brown-flecked water. These dreams … they seem so real. Sometimes I wonder if this is the dream and real-Violet lies asleep in bed. But the water stinging my skin feels too cold, and the pain in my back from sleeping on a block of wood feels too intense, and the early evening chatter of the Day-Imps as they leave and the Night-Imps as they arrive sounds far too cowed and subdued to be generated by my unconscious. It’s just too lifelike, too coherent, too detailed. Shame, I think to myself.
Saskia’s voice cuts through me. “We got word from headquarters.”
I turn around, my face still dripping with icy water. She looks at a tattered envelope in her hand as though debating whether to give it to me or not. She sighs, her conscience finally winning the battle, and slaps it against my chest. “It’s from your little redheaded mate.”
“Katie?”
“Don’t pretend you got more mates than you have—of course Katie.”
“Is she OK?”
“Read the bloody letter.”
I dash to my bunk and pull the divider back into position again, cocooned in my own little world. Please let her be OK, please let her be OK. I can’t open the envelope fast enough, yet my fingers seem to be on a go-slow, trembling and stumbling over the seal. I slip the letter out, trying not to tear it in my desperation.
A page of Katie’s handwriting. I love it—it’s an extension of her, neat and small with a bit of an edge. I’m used to seeing it scribbled across a notebook in English lessons, sentences like, Will this bloody lesson ever end? I’m starving! What I wouldn’t give for a Nando’s right now! It’s so peculiar, seeing that same writing stare at me from a sheet of crinkled, ancient parchment while I hide behind a dirty sheet. I steady my hands and start to read.
Vi,
Thorn said I should write to you. He thinks it will help keep you focused on your mission. At the very least, it’s something for me to do. Christ, I am soooo bored. I’m still in that horrible little room, although Thorn gave me a beat-up old sofa and helped me clean the window so I can watch the sunset, so it isn’t AS bad.
I wish I could somehow help. I feel so bloody useless stuck here day and night. And I’ve started eating the rat stew—you’re right, it tastes OK. Who knew? Anyway, I was trying to think if there was anything I could do to help, other than Alice’s suggestion, and I decided the only thing I can offer is some words of infinite wisdom. Sadly, they’re not my own.
All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players,
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts.
(As You Like It, Shakespeare)
What I’m trying to say is, you can do this, Vi. I know you can.
And did you know that Shakespeare first coined the phrase spunk rocket? (Alice believed this for a whole week, daft cow!)
Anyway, good luck, my lovely Viola. I know you can do it. Stick out your tits and smile like a hooker.
Lots of love, K xxxx
P.S. If you’re reading this, Thorn, see … I told you I was literate!
Viola. She’s never called me that before. I think she’s referring to a character from Twelfth Night, one of her favorite plays. I don’t know it well, only from what she’s told me, but I think Viola is the one who pretends to be a boy. I can see why she made the parallel, me pretending to be someone I’m not. What I can’t remember is how the play ended. I just hope Viola didn’t die a hideous death.
I fold the letter and carefully slip it into my overalls, her words warming my chest like I’ve just tucked a hot-water bottle down my front. She’s safe, at least for now. And she’s taken Alice’s suggestion on board, which I think is code for flirting with Thorn. I hope she knows what she’s doing. Current-Thorn is so unstable, even more so than canon-Thorn. If she overdoes the flirting, he may get a little too friendly, but this thought makes me feel sick, so I push it from my mind.
Nate’s sandy head appears, his eyes sticky with sleep. “So what scene is it tonight, sis?”
“It’s the one where Willow teaches Rose to read.” I smile at the irony—receiving Katie’s letter the same night I have to pretend to be illiterate.
“Oh yeah, well, that should be easy enough.”
I nod. “Katie’s doing OK.” I think about showing him the letter, but I feel an odd sense of possession and I don’t want to share it. “We just got word from HQ. Apparently, she’s bored out of her tree but she’s doing fine.”
Nate grins. “Has she got down and dirty with Thorn yet?”
I whack the top of his head. “God, you’re nearly as bad as Alice.”
Later that evening, I perch on a grassy edge of the road, waiting for Ash at the bus stop, the sharp evening air drilling beneath my overalls. I’m desperate to talk with him about the kiss, but completely unsure of what to say. Eventually, he arrives, the bus fumes causing him to cough.
He sees me and smiles. “Hey.”
“Hey,” I reply. Well, that wasn’t so bad.
We fall into step, side by side, making our way toward the Imp-hut. He drags his hand along the privet hedge, rustling the leaves as he goes. He seems fine. I begin to relax a little.
“To what do I owe the honor?” he asks.
I raise a quizzical eyebrow.
He laughs. “My welcoming party of one.”
“Oh yeah, right. I just, you know, wanted to check you were …” I fumble with my words. “That you were … you know … OK.” Smooth, Violet.
“Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“No reason.”
Denial. This actually works well for me. We just won’t acknowledge my thing with the Gem—the enemy. The blood on my hands. Ash never knew in canon, after all, so why should we talk about it now? I’m just ensuring those two pieces of thread continue to wrap around each other. I know this should make me feel better, but it doesn’t. I realize I was hoping he would be upset—jealous. What’s wrong with me?
“So, you enjoyed yourself at the ball last night?” he says in an overly casual voice, like he’s trying a little too hard not to care.
“Yeah. It was OK.”
“You certainly looked like you were enjoying yourself.”
“I guess.”
He stops walking and takes my arms in his hands. I can feel the heat of his skin sinking into mine. “Look, Violet—or Lily or Daisy or whatever floral name you’re going by today—sorry about last night. I wasn’t spying or anything, I was just worried about you ’cause the rest of the Imps serving at the ball had all come back. I just thought, you know, you might have gotten hurt, or lost, or something.”
I think I may implode from guilt. He is apologizing to me. “Don’t be daft. I didn’t think you were spying,” I say.
“You just looked pretty shocked when you saw me.”
“I was.”
He looks at the path and fidgets with the fabric of his overalls. “So you—you really like this Gem guy?”
I shrug. “I dunno.”
“It’s just …” He takes both of my hands in
his. “It’s just, I think you should know what you’re getting involved in, for your own sake.”
“I’ll hang if I get caught, I know that.” The word hang still causes my stomach to lurch.
He meets my gaze—causing my stomach to lurch once again, but for a very different reason—and shakes his head. “That’s not what I meant. I meant the type of people you’re getting involved with.”
“Willow’s OK. I know he’s a Gem, but really, he’s a nice guy.”
He explores my face with his eyes like he’s searching for a hidden answer. I can still pick out the blue of his irises, even in the half-light—the color of a blackbird’s egg. “There’s something I’ve got to show you,” he says. “But we need the cover of complete darkness.”
I try not to look too interested, my curiosity roused. “But I’m meeting—”
He laughs. “You’re meeting Willow.”
“Yeah.”
“OK, then after you’ve met Willow. I’ll wait next to the chicken coop. Promise you’ll come. But don’t tell anyone, OK? It’s really important it stays between us.”
I think of that bastard butterfly, inadvertently spreading her natural disasters. I think of the canon and of home, and Katie’s letter feels like it’s burning a hole in my skin. A few unscripted conversations, the odd innocent stroll, well, I can justify those, surely. But a secret nighttime unveiling? I may as well give the butterfly a baseball bat and let the havoc commence.
But when Ash trickles his fingers down the backs of my arms, he leaves two parallel trails of light, and before I can stop myself, I’ve already said the words: “I promise.”
Later that night, I meet Willow. It’s the scene in canon where Willow taught Rose to read. A sweet, tender scene that showed their fledgling relationship really starting to fly. Willow smuggled this ancient book out of the manor. He’d stolen it from a museum when he was just a boy and kept it hidden under his bed. A book of Imp poems, one of the few to survive the Gem burning of the Imp books all those years ago.
The lovebirds huddled in the loft of the old hay barn, crouched over a paraffin lamp, running their fingers over the letters. I follow the script, cuddled into Willow’s chest, but I struggle to concentrate. Not just because I know how to read, but because I can’t stop thinking about what Ash said.
“So the curly letter there, that’s a C,” Willow whispers into my ear. It really tickles.
I nod, but my mind won’t stop turning. What does Ash think is so important? There’s nothing in canon to give me any clue. I should probably just leave it, stick to canon and focus on my end goal—returning home.
“Rose?” Willow says.
“Sorry, yes, C, like cup and card.”
“That’s right.” He turns the page, eyebrows raised, unable to hide his surprise at what a fast learner I am.
My mind wanders again. Why would this mysterious revelation make me think so badly of Willow? Surely, that can only be a bad thing. I mean, I don’t need to like Willow to complete the story, but it kind of helps. No, I definitely shouldn’t go to the chicken coop tonight.
“Rose, are you even interested?” Willow says.
Dammit. We’re off-script. I kiss him on the cheek to distract him. “Sorry, go ahead, what’s that letter there? The one shaped like a zero?” Imps can read numbers because of their slave tattoos.
“That’s an O. As in orange.”
We launch back into our lines, but my brain is elsewhere. I barely notice when Willow starts to kiss me. I’d forgotten about the making-out scene. It seemed so romantic—Rose and Willow nestled in the straw, basking in the flickering glow of a paraffin lamp. But in reality, the straw pricks my face and the lamp is a massive fire hazard, and I just feel guilty for kissing Willow when I’m thinking about Ash. I suddenly wish we were in a movie or a book, then I could just hit the fast-forward button or flick through the pages at record speed.
“So, I’ll see you tomorrow?” Willow asks.
“I’d like that.”
Willow helps me down the wooden ladder, book tucked beneath his arm. I feel a swell of relief—the scene finally drawing to a close. I can’t believe I didn’t enjoy that. What’s my problem? It’s Willow, for Christ’s sake. My fangirl crush since I was fifteen.
This place must be getting to me.
We share a final kiss, which is a little on the sloppy side, and I watch him meander back to the manor, his silhouette fading into the dark. I think I said my lines right; he certainly seemed happy enough. More than happy—I think he has genuine feelings for me. I guess this isn’t a script for him. It’s real.
And I think I’ve just figured out what my problem is. Love can’t be prescribed or thrust upon you. Love doesn’t follow a script. Falling in love is about falling into unpredictability—it’s about taking a risk.
And on that note, I run toward the chicken coop.
I SEE THE FLICKER of Ash’s flashlight—like the beam of a dying lighthouse—before I see him. I move toward it until I can hear his breath. He leans against the coop, and I notice how monochrome he looks in the dark, the white of his skin against the black of his hair. I catch his scent on the breeze, weaving beneath the smell of creosote, and I inhale a little deeper.
“I wasn’t sure you’d come.” He whispers, even though there’s nobody else around.
“You said it was important.”
“It is.” He shines the flashlight in my face. “But you have to promise not to tell a soul.”
“Yeah, ’course.”
He moves the beam across my face, as though trying to see beneath my skin and into the contents of my head. “Because it could end up getting us both killed … I mean it.”
“Shit, Ash. Just show me.” I hate change, I hate surprises. I should be hiding in the Imp-hut, practicing my lines with Nate. Yet, being here with Ash, I find I actually want to take a risk—perhaps this universe is forcing me to let go a little, desensitizing me to all things new. Or maybe being with him just makes me feel safe enough to shut my eyes and jump. Maybe he brings out a different side of me … a better side.
He takes my hand—I think through practicality rather than intimacy, but it thaws my insides all the same—and leads me away from the coop, even deeper into the estate. We walk in silence for a mile or so, Ash constantly glancing behind his shoulder like we may be followed. This makes me a little uneasy, but the curiosity chips away at the fear, and that safe, steady hand gripping mine stops me from flipping out. We walk through meadows, climb a stone wall, cross a wobbly bridge, and, finally, enter a wood.
The temperature falls and a rich scent of pine and damp grass fills my head. The leaves block out any ambient light and the beam of his flashlight only just alerts us to the trunks before we bash into them. I can’t remember ever being in the woods at night, only in the day back at home, picnicking among harebells—more Mary Poppins than Blair Witch. But everything seems scarier in the black—especially the noises. Cawing, hooting, caterwauling. I focus on the sound of Ash and me, crunching through the undergrowth, drawing in mouthfuls of stiff night air. It’s slow going; zigzagging between trunks, stumbling on tree roots and bundles of weeds.
“We’re nearly there,” he whispers.
Something bursts from the undergrowth. A whirl of feathers, a loud clacking noise, something warm and soft brushing up against my face. I fall to the ground, too scared to scream.
“It’s just a pheasant,” he says.
He follows the brown body into the tops of the trees with his beam. I try and catch my breath, my heart punching into my rib cage.
“Come on.” He helps me stand. I can just make out the glint of his teeth, no doubt he’s grinning that massive grin.
“Don’t you dare laugh, you massive dolt,” I whisper, before laughing myself.
He places a finger over his lips and hushes me, and it feels like we’re back at the chicken coop the first time round, like he’s going to arch his back and start clucking like a hen.
“There
’s nobody here,” I say.
He places the flashlight beneath his chin so it lights up his face. He looks like an evil hobgoblin. “We’ll see about that.”
A few more trunks, a few more roots, and suddenly I realize I can see without Ash’s flashlight. A clearing. The moon high above, its light thinned by a smudge of clouds.
“Ta-da,” he says, his voice still low.
“There’s nothing here.”
It’s just a clearing. A stretch of dirt, surrounded by a dense forest and a lattice of weeds. A pocket of stillness.
He runs his flashlight beam over a few of the nearby trunks, then slips his hand into a tree nook. “In here, there’s a little switch.”
“That’s what all the fuss is about, a little switch?”
“This place is so far from the estate, nobody ever comes. But you know me, I like to explore.” He fiddles with something inside the nook. The switch, I’m guessing. He looks at me, his eyes wide. “Don’t you think there’s something weird about this place?”
I look at the clearing. Just a load of trees. “In what way?”
He gestures with his head. “That side of the clearing looks exactly the same as this side. A mirror image. All the knots and branches and hollows … everything.”
I peer across the stretch of dirt. I can just make out the nook of the tree, and next to it, two pale blobs—not blobs—faces. I’m about to freak out again, but something about those faces looks so familiar. “Is that us?”
He laughs. “It took me a while to find, but it’s a cloaking device, a clever mirroring gadget. It filters out human forms in the day, but at night, I don’t know, it just seems to miss us.”
I hear a sharp click. He pulls his hand free.
The air in the clearing seems to shimmer for a moment. Instinctively, I grab Ash’s hand. A large gray cube materializes. A bunker. I suppose it was always here, but it’s as though it’s fallen from the sky. A basic structure built from concrete, shorter than the trees but more than tall enough for someone to stand inside.