The Land of Yesterday

by K. A. Reynolds

  A section of her hair, harder and coarser than she remembered it, ruffled forward, volunteering as sacrifice. Fisting the strand of coarse locks, she pulled. They came free too easily, and soon, she knew why. Each strand was flat and wide and dry. “Paper,” Cecelia said. She checked the remainder of her frantic hair, but the rest had yet to parchmentify.

  The gnomes barked. The winds grew so violent, she could barely sit straight. The dog-gnomes kept bouncing away, and the Caterwaul was nowhere in sight.

  Regardless, Cecelia knew what had to be done. She wrapped her broken ankle in lengths of blue paper hair. Ignoring her fast-growing paperness, Cecelia crisscrossed it around her foot and up her leg like a Grecian sandal and tucked the ends in place. Without looking back, she ran and didn’t stop until she arrived.

  Up close, the castle shone like a polished gem. Mazarine-colored mist ribboned out through the open castle doors. The long wooden drawbridge had been lowered, likely by the Caterwaul, who was waiting for them inside.

  A moat circled the towering castle. As the trio crossed the bridge, Cecelia noticed the moat wasn’t filled with water but flowed with thousands of what looked to be lost paper souls. Each human-size cutout was thin as a sheet and had big, hollow black eyes. They undulated past in eerie silence. Some had slender black lines for mouths; others had razor-sharp teeth; some stared straight at her. They floated, layer upon layer, too creepy to be alive. Cecelia shivered at the thought of ending up like them.

  Once over the bridge, her inner lantern flamed brighter, warmer, filling her with reassuring light. Mother’s in there. I can feel her. Cecelia took a deep breath and peered in through the door. Then she glanced down at the gnomes. “Are you ready?”

  They nodded and appeared as calm as tea with the queen.

  “I am, too.” Cecelia smiled bravely, focused on how far she’d come instead of her wobbly stomach, and then stepped inside.

  Purple-blue mist snaked the floors in the foyer of Never More and Once Again. Everything here reminded her of her mother. Mazarine’s voice drifted toward her, humming the lullaby she’d heard earlier in the desert. Maybe Cecelia’s mother felt her presence and called to her now?

  Cecelia grew so preoccupied with her mother’s voice she didn’t notice the purple-blue mist wrapping her neck like strangling hands.

  “Mother?”

  She didn’t notice the castle doors slam quickly behind her, locking Trystyng and Phantasmagoria outside. Nor did she hear the haunted THUD-THUD-THUD of her brother’s fall replayed in the walls like a drum as she shadowed the mists up the staircase. Cecelia didn’t register that Yesterday’s castle resembled Widdendream exactly—right down to the broken knob on the top of the banister.

  In a trance, Cecelia followed the mist and her mother’s lullaby, unaware that with each step another strand of her hair dried to paper. By the time she reached the end of the second-floor corridor, all her hair had crisped and dried. Yet her heart continued to flutter in a flesh-and-blood flurry of happiness as she arrived at her mother’s bedroom door.

  Cecelia ran her palm over the familiar entrance. Without looking back, she whispered, “Phantasmagoria, Trystyng, we made it.”

  As she grasped the doorknob, Cecelia got the distinct impression that she’d forgotten something, but couldn’t think of what. Haunting music wound through the halls. Cecelia began to feel sleepy.

  “Mother,” she said with a yawn. “Is that you?”

  Mazarine stopped singing. Mist leaked like poison gas from the walls.

  “Ah, Cecelia, my love, I’m so glad you’re finally here.”

  Chapter 16

  Nothing Will Make Me Forget

  The moment Cecelia entered the bedroom, she felt completely at ease. The purple-blue mist blended into the purple-blue curtains, into the bedspread on her parents’ bed, the paint of their dresser, and the circular rug in the middle of the floor. Soft music hummed from each molecule of air, songs sung by her mother when she was small. The deeper Cecelia immersed herself in the castle, the dimmer her lantern became, and the faster reality slipped away.

  Cecelia blinked. Her sleepiness grew into a lazy euphoria while she stared at Mazarine, who sat at her vanity brushing her long midnight-blue hair.

  Mazarine smiled at Cecelia in the mirror. “Hello, my darling.”

  “Mother!” Cecelia rushed to her side. “I’ve been searching everywhere for you.”

  Mazarine turned in her seat and embraced her daughter. “Look no further, here I am.” She held Cecelia at arm’s length and inspected her crown to toe. “So,” she said, clapping her hands together, “it’s a brand-new Yesterday. What shall we do, hmm?”

  Cecelia wrinkled her brow. A brand-new yesterday. She’d never heard that one before. Although she guessed she liked the sound of it.

  “Anything,” Cecelia said with a delirious grin. Purple-blue mists swam around her like curious fish. “I’m happy with whatever you want to do.”

  The picturesque Hungrig countryside rolled on outside the window: gentle green hills, snowcapped mountains, puffy white clouds, spring breezes, rustling leaves. The purple-blue curtains billowed like ghosts. A twinge of not-rightness squirmed in Cecelia’s belly. Like the view should be something different, something darker, deader, black-sandier. But as soon as the mist rolled thicker across the bedroom floor, and the music hummed a bit louder, she forgot all about that pesky not-right twinge.

  “Wonderful. Ah,” her mother chirped. “I know. Let’s gather our little family, just you, your father, and me, and go on a picnic. What do you say?” Mazarine’s eyes flashed. “It will be just like old times.”

  A picnic? That didn’t seem possible for some reason—but why not?

  An abrupt cloak of dense clouds, the same shade as her mother’s eyes, blotted out the view of Hungrig. Cecelia watched the fog spin in a hypnotic dance. And suddenly, a picnic sounded completely possible, and like a perfectly wonderful idea.

  “Yes,” Cecelia answered, each eye blinking out of sequence. “That sounds delightful.”

  “Then it’s settled.” Mazarine swiveled back to her mirror. “Run along and get changed. Your father should be home soon.”

  While Cecelia watched her mother brushing her long, silky hair, an image bombarded her memory: of a boy with black hair and pale-green eyes. He used to sit on her rug and watch Cecelia as she brushed her hair. And oh, how her hair had loved the attention. A few strands always swam out behind her and tickled the boy.

  The boy. Her brother.

  Yes.

  Except the photographs on these bedroom walls contained only her mother, father, and Cecelia, when they should have shown the boy, too. She didn’t understand. She remembered him so clearly.

  Celadon.

  “Mother?” Cecelia asked before leaving. “Where’s Celadon? Should I tell him to get ready for the picnic, too?”

  Mazarine stopped brushing midstroke. Her face hardened in the mirror. A cold embrace of air clamped around them as if the room had sealed their bodies in ice. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, who?”

  A fresh wave of mists glided toward Cecelia from all corners of the room. Mazarine held up her hand; the vapors halted immediately.

  Were the mists listening to her?

  “Celadon, my brother.”

  Mazarine turned in a slow arc and locked eyes with Cecelia. Her expression shot flaming daggers into her soul. “If this is a game, I don’t like it. You do not have a brother. You said it yourself: ‘I wish I never had a brother.’ I believe those were your exact yesterday words?” Her eyes sparkled merrily as she turned back to the mirror. Mazarine’s voice poured as smoothly as warm crème from her lips: “Yesterday gives us a chance to forget the pain of today, Cecelia. You’d do well to remember that. Now be a good girl and get dressed for the picnic. This is a day for fun.”

  Mazarine waved her hand, and the mists were on Cecelia once more.

  Drowsily, Cecelia mimicked her mother’s words, “Be a good girl, get dressed, this is a d
ay for fun,” and left the bedroom, more bewildered than ever.

  In the hallway, the lullaby music grew fainter and less magnetic. A memory nagged at Cecelia as she gazed across the hall. She recalled a door. And a boy who once lived behind it. When she pictured the boy, the lingering mists cleared.

  I have a brother.

  Cecelia grinned with his memory. Black hair, pale-green eyes, light and joy in his smile. Cecelia closed her eyelids. In the darkness, she saw Celadon plain as ever. Her father told her once, “No force anywhere is greater than love.” Cecelia fought to hold on to this truth.

  A small table beneath the window at the turn of the staircase held a vase brimming with fresh daisies. On instinct, Cecelia picked one for Celadon.

  Daisies, that meant something, didn’t it?

  Moving forward, she glimpsed the staircase banister. A nightmare flashed in her mind—of a boy and a fall and a death, and an angry, murderous house. She couldn’t tell if those things happened or if they were a bad dream.

  Glancing over her shoulders, making sure her mother’s door remained closed, Cecelia knocked on the door of the boy she couldn’t forget. “You do not have a brother,” her mother had said. But she remembered him. And if he didn’t exist, this door wouldn’t exist either, right?

  “Celadon?” Excitement bubbled through her, but she kept her voice low. Her paper hair wouldn’t stop squirming. Cecelia waited and then pressed her ear to the wood. The room remained dead quiet. After another moment, she opened the door.

  Darkness, as deep and sticky as tar, filled the room. “Hello?”

  When Cecelia reached into the void with her paper hand, the darkness, the door, and the room shattered into a million crystal shards that fell without sound.

  Heart thundering like a stampede of wildebeests, Cecelia gaped at the now blank wall. “Celadon,” she whispered, and placed one hand over her lantern. “No matter where I am, I’m never far from you.”

  A hand clamped down on her shoulder.

  Mother.

  She shoved the daisy into her pocket and turned.

  “What are you up to, Cecelia?” Mazarine loomed over her, seeming taller than she had before. Colored mists wafted through her grin of teeth. “I told you to get ready for the picnic.”

  “Oh, I thought, um, I heard something odd. But it was . . . nothing.” Cecelia put on her best smile. “I’ll just go change.” I have a brother. He lived. And then, she thought sadly, he died.

  Nothing will make me forget.

  “There’s no room for strange here,” her mother said, grabbing Cecelia’s sweater sleeve. The hem tore off in her hand. Mists poured through the cracks in the walls and floors. Lullaby music returned, louder than before. “When in doubt, listen to the mists. They will keep you happy and safe.”

  Cecelia had to fight to control her obnoxious hair, which kept thrusting toward her mother. “I understand.”

  “Wonderful. And, on second thought, I think you look fine the way you are. No need to change.”

  Cecelia glanced down at her ripped sleeve, hiding her frown. “Whatever you say.”

  “Don’t forget to smile, Cecelia. You know how your father loves it when you smile.” Mazarine clasped her right hand. The instant their palms touched, Cecelia’s skin prickled and crackled and numbed. Her arm papered in a wave to her shoulder.

  Oh souls.

  “Something wrong, Cecelia?” her mother asked innocently as mists wound about Cecelia like eels and slipped into her mouth and nose.

  “Nothing at all,” Cecelia answered, trying not to breathe. “Everything’s fine.”

  “Excellent.” Her mother paused on the stairs. She glared at her daughter’s lantern as it struggled to stay alive. “But do be careful, Cecelia. Yesterday must be cold and numb to be safe. Paper children with stubborn inner fires almost always get burned.”

  As Mazarine led Cecelia downstairs, Cecelia struggled to remember her paper brother lying in a cage by her heart. She wanted to think that the hope scrabbling inside her had claws, feathers, and teeth, and was willing to scratch, rise, and bite to survive. She fought to feel the fire of life within her and the power she possessed to shine. Cecelia resisted until the mists won.

  The castle would not go down without a fight.

  Chapter 17

  Slippery, Crumply Things

  Mazarine wore a purplish-blue sundress and sandals, both matching her eyes exactly. Her blue hair floated around her shoulders of its own volition. The picnic basket was almost packed. So far, it contained everything Cecelia loved best: French toast with oodles of syrup, peanut-butter-and-blackberry-jam sandwiches, garlic-stuffed olives, and cheesecake. The only thing left to pack was her absolute favorite—pie.

  “Are you ready for telling stories and laughing by the lake?” her mother asked, seeming almost normal. “It’s a perfect day for a family picnic, don’t you think?” Mazarine kissed both of Cecelia’s cheeks.

  Her lips felt hard and flat. Like paper.

  Cecelia tried to focus on her mother’s question, but a procession of vivid images kept marching through her mind: of Celadon, gnomes, hot-air balloons, black deserts, lit lanterns, and a sea of daisies. The sense that this place wasn’t her real home poked her in the gut, yet she couldn’t get it all straight in her head.

  “Cecelia? Are you listening?”

  “Hmm?” Cecelia replied, eyeballing the mists. “Oh, right. Yes. The perfect day for a picnic.” The streamers of colored smoke drew back with satisfaction, and so did the hypnotic tune. Cecelia forced an especially bright smile.

  “That’s my girl. Now gather your blue sweater. The mists around the lake can get chilly.”

  Cecelia peered out the kitchen window. She should have seen mountains and a lake encircled by daisies, but now there was only thick silver-green fog.

  “Greetings, Dahl family,” said Aubergine, breezing into the kitchen. He wore a casual shirt, the same deep plum shade as his name, and pants to match. “Is everyone ready to gorge themselves on sandwiches and pie?”

  Cecelia’s heart leaped at the sight of him. She couldn’t remember why exactly, but she felt like she hadn’t seen him in ages. In her excitement, she forgot to remember any odd details about this place, and hurried over to hug him like she’d never let go.

  “Well, that’s quite a reception. I love you, too, Cecelia.” He knelt down to speak with her face-to-face. Looking deep into his eyes, Cecelia could see right through them, past the green, into black. “We can live happily here, you know,” he said, no longer sounding like her father, but a slippery, crumply thing. “Everything’s always wonderful inside the mists of Yesterday.”

  A flash of memory seized her brain. Of her father, trapped in Widdendream’s attic, screaming her name.

  Her lantern pulsed, and then, it blazed.

  Cecelia backed away slowly. Her father kept changing shape. One blink and he looked like one of those paper spirits she saw in the moat: flat body, black eyes, and sharp teeth. Two blinks later, her loving father would return.

  “What’s wrong, Cee-Cee?” Aubergine asked. Reddish-purplish mist seeped from his eyes, nose, and mouth. “Aren’t you going to get your sweater like your mother told you to?”

  Her breath stopped. He called her Cee-Cee. The only person who called her that was her brother.

  Celadon.

  Cecelia glanced at her mother, who was currently glaring at her father, and then narrowed her eyes at them both. “Nobody calls me Cee-Cee but—”

  “Now, now, Cecelia,” Mazarine said. “You’re just excited about our outing.” The woman who may or may not be her mother stopped cutting the pie. She circled the kitchen island and approached Cecelia, knife still in hand. Cherry pulp dripped from the blade in gruesome strings. Mazarine cradled Cecelia’s face in her hands—knife and all.

  “In this perfectly brotherless Yesterday, we can have daily picnics, just the three of us. Free of sadness, grief, and those dreadful things called tears. We can stay just like this, whe
re nothing bad ever happens. Nothing dangerous, nothing new, the same yesterday lived again, and again, and again.”

  Sticky warm drops of cherry dripped onto Cecelia’s forehead.

  “And again, and again,” her father chimed in. Not as Aubergine, but the tall, thin, fully formed, black-eyed, sharp-toothed paper doll. “Soon you’ll understand that the mists are good.” He pushed in beside Mazarine, wiped the cherry from Cecelia’s forehead, then ate it. “We’ll have so much fun. You’ll realize that having no brother is better than having a dead one—especially when you’re the reason he died.”

  Cecelia’s hair writhed in rage. “That’s not true! What happened was an accident. And I do have a brother. And even though I lost him, I don’t want him erased from my memory, my life, or my heart. He was real! I love him, and I won’t let the last of him go!”

  Aubergine growled, “We are your parents, and if we are to have a tear-free yesterday, that boy cannot exist.” Colored mists oozed from their skin. The mists wound about Cecelia like hungry anacondas and attempted to seep into her pores.

  “The mists are good, Cecelia,” Mazarine said with swirling hypnotized eyes. “They take away all the pain, just like that.”

  The doorway that led to the hall was only two feet to her right. Cecelia eyed it carefully. “Get away from me,” she said, and took a step for the door.

  In a flash of unbelievable speed, the Father thing clamped down on her paper arms. “Don’t leave us, Cecelia.” He pushed his face into hers. “We love you more than life itself.”

  “Cecelia.” Her mother, now the same monstrous thing as the father, wrapped a midnight-blue sweater around Cecelia, forced it onto her, and then hugged her—tight. “Soon you’ll be a lightless paper thing, like us.”

  Peering over the Mother thing’s shoulder, a splash of color Cecelia hadn’t seen earlier grabbed her attention from the hall. The daisy she had plucked from the vase lay on the floor. It must have slipped from her pocket. Familiar words chimed through her brain: Follow the daisies.