A male voice from the doorway asked, “How many coins did you give them?”
I looked up to see a guy at least a few years older than Emily but not yet old, maybe twenty-one or twenty-two. He kind of reminded me of Emily's boyfriend, Frank Lupiano, except with better hair. And broader shoulders. And, generally speaking, a more intelligent expression. Actually, he looked a lot better than Frank.
Because I am so quick on my feet and such a great conversationalist, I said, “Huh?”
“Did you give them two coins?” he asked. “Three?” “Just the one.”
I saw him glance at Ms. Bennett.
“What?” I demanded.
Good-Looking—he had to be the Adam Ms. Bennett was substituting for Sybella—said, “Wishes start at one coin, but they get more expensive depending on how complicated they are.”
“So they took my money and tried to kill me for shortchanging them?” I asked.
Adam shook his head. “They didn't try to kill you.” Before I could protest, “You weren't there,” he said, “They only granted you a portion of your wish. The kind of spell you asked for, transporting you ... well, I don't know without looking it up how much it would cost, but more than one coin. You gave them a portion of what the wish cost, so the sprites transported you a portion of the way there. Like getting tossed out of a taxi when your fare exceeds what you've paid for. It was just coincidence that your money ran out while you were passing over the edge of a cliff.”
“So you're saying it was my own fault?” If I'd been more daring, I could have pointed out that Rasmussem seemed to be saying that everything that went wrong was my family's own fault.
“Well, yes,” Adam said. Then he gave a smile nice enough to make me feel inclined to forgive him his lawyerly ways. “But it shouldn't have happened. I've made a note.” He handed Ms. Bennett the clipboard he had carried into the room. To her, he said, “No callbacks from the boyfriend yet, or the roommate, but I spoke to the Residence Advisor at her dorm, and one of the teachers. I asked Sybella to cover Emily's phone contact list.”
Ms. Bennett read over what he'd handed her and said, “Hmmm.”
Mom put things together faster than I did. “You're checking up on the people who know Emily?”
“Yes,” Ms. Bennett said.
“I already told you she's doing well in school and she has lots of friends.”
“So you did.”
Mom shook her head, obviously miffed.
But I could see Ms. Bennett's point. It's like when you've lost something, and you search in all the places it should be, and it's not there. You have to start checking in places it shouldn't be, because if it were where it was supposed to be, it wouldn't be lost. Obviously, we had missed something about Emily.
Since this guy Adam was somewhat reminiscent of Emily's Frank, I figured she had to have hit it off with him, even if— for whatever reason—she had neglected to befriend coworker Sybella. So I asked him, “Do you know my sister?”
“I'm engaged,” he said.
Which was a lot more, and a lot less, than I had asked.
“Congratulations,” I told him.
“I met her.” He squirmed. “We never really talked.”
I glanced at Ms. Bennett to see if she looked as skeptical as I felt sure I looked. But her face didn't give anything away, and she didn't say anything.
Mom didn't seem to have caught that exchange—probably because she wasn't interested in Adam, only Emily. She asked, “So what does Emily's RA say about her?”
“That she's quiet,” Ms. Bennett said. “A bit of a loner.”
Mom snorted—which I would have done, too, except what if I snorted and something came out? I was trying to appear cool for Adam—even if he was seven or eight years too old for me, and walking around announcing his prenuptial status. Mom said, “Then this RA doesn't know her well. Or has her confused with someone else.”
Ms. Bennett said, “And the teacher, her psych professor, says she's got a good solid C.”
That didn't sound like Emily, either. Her marks were generally better than mine. And she had been telling our parents all semester long that she was doing fine.
“This is all wrong,” Mom said.
Well, no kidding.
Mom turned to me. “Did you see Emily? Did you learn anything?”
Facing her please-please-please-give-me-something expression, I couldn't tell her how Emily had been so ... so ... Is underwhelmed a word? So the-opposite-of-excited to see me. And how she had intentionally ditched me, first chance she got. “Nothing useful,” I told her.
Ms. Bennett raised her eyebrows but didn't ask for details.
Before Mom could put me on the spot, Adam asked, “Ready to go under again?”
“I guess.”
He must have picked up on some subtle clues that my enthusiasm was less than cheerleaderish. “You're doing fine,” he assured me. “Any game takes a bit of getting used to. You're a good kid. And Emily's a good kid, too. You'll connect.”
Maybe this wouldn't have sounded like such a bland, empty platitude if he hadn't just finished saying he hardly knew her, and if he hadn't met me only about seven seconds earlier.
Oh, yeah, seven...
“Seven,” I said before he could ask me. “One hundred and seven, two hundred and seven, three...”
Chapter 7
Some Enchanted Evening
I WAS BACK in the gazebo, which I guess was better than being halfway through a fall off a cliff or being back in the maze. But my lack of progress was making me cranky. I almost swatted at the glittery butterfly that alighted on the swing next to me, but then I thought better of it. Sure, one gold coin was just about useless, but if the game's designers were providing so many opportunities to get coins, money must be important. I caught the butterfly and put the resulting gold coin in my pocket.
I'd figured we'd go to total restart, but I guess Ms. Bennett and Adam didn't want me to lose what few experience points I might have accidentally managed to accumulate. Either that or they couldn't restart since I'd interacted—Ha! If you want to call it that!—with Emily. So there I was with the same old clothing I'd been wearing right up to my plummet off the edge of the cliff, the dress sweaty and grass-stained, one silver ballet slipper missing in action. A change out of my Victorian dress with its long skirt and full-length sleeves and waist-nipping torso would make me feel much more comfortable. Not that I'd ever go Emily's route and gold-coin-wish myself into a closetful of frills. Still, for a moment I wondered how much the sprites would charge for a nice-fitting pair of jeans. But I knew dealing with those guys was just asking for trouble.
And what kind of girl frets about her clothing while her sister is in desperate need of rescuing? There were so many levels on which I could be anxious about Emily, starting with worrying about what had happened to get her to write that note, and ending with the almost paralyzing dread of what the result would be if I couldn't talk her into coming back with me. Once the panic from that thought subsided a bit, I stopped mentally grousing about my dress, which was when I noticed that things had changed. The sky over the lake was dramatically pink and orange and iridescent: sunset. Pretty, but I could only wonder what night would bring in Emily's world.
Another big difference was that the house was now sparkling with lights. There were candles in every window, and the pillars and railing of the porch were strung with little white Christmas bulbs. Very festive.
There was also music playing—the kind you hear in movies set in the time of kings and queens; as in: the king and queen request the honor of your presence at the royal ball. Not the kind of thing I'd ever have suspected Emily would put on her playlist.
I walked into the house, following the music and the chatter of conversation into what had formerly been the dining room. The furniture was gone. All four walls were lined with mirrors that caught and reflected the candlelit crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Turned out the music was being played by four men—wearing
powdered wigs, no less—a violinist, a cellist, a harpsichordist, and an I-have-no-idea-what-ist, who had an instrument that might have been second cousin twice removed to a guitar. Meanwhile, a roomful of men and women in elegant garb chattered and laughed while they waltzed or did a reel or minuet or some sort of dance. It was like I'd walked into one of Marie Antoinette's parties—before she lost her head, of course.
While I was still taking all this in, a young man came up to me. By the gold braid and shiny brass buttons on his coat, I could only assume he must be an officer in the military. And while I was distracted by thinking, Wow, no wonder people talk about the attractions of a guy in uniform, he bowed and held his hand out to me.
Well, that was all very nice, but, “Sorry,” I said, “I'm only here looking for Emily.”
The women in the room had these tall, elaborate—but kind of pretty if you overlooked their goofiness—white wigs, and they had dresses that accentuated bosoms while minimizing waists; plus there were necklaces and bracelets and tiaras of diamond, ruby, sapphire, emerald, and probably a lot more gems than I had names for. All of which gave them a kind of sparkly, lovely, grown-up likeness to each other, so I couldn't even tell if Emily was in that crowd. All those mirrors reflecting everything—and reflecting each other reflecting everything—added to the disorienting confusion.
And then, on top of everything else, I felt that soul-draining realization that a girl gets when she notices she's drastically underdressed.
Which was stupid under the circumstances.
But I still noticed.
Of course, in this crowd I would have been outclassed even if my dress had been clean and I'd had two shoes.
I was annoyed with myself for being self-conscious.
The young captain—lieutenant? admiral?—had not backed off, even though I'd ignored him. He still wore that shy but hopeful smile as he continued to hold his hand out to me, an offer, I could tell, to dance.
It was difficult not to feel flattered, even if this was only a silly game.
Still, I told this gallant young man, “Really. No.”
I stepped into the bewigged, bejeweled wall of dancers—and came close to colliding with a couple who only had eyes for each other.
My guy—okay, okay, I was already thinking of him that way—was right behind me, and he whisked me out of danger. But he didn't do that by pulling me back: he did it by angling me into the swirling mass of elegant dancers.
His left hand held mine; his right was gently but firmly on my back.
“I don't dance,” I told him.
He didn't need that warning: I'd already stepped on his feet twice and my own once.
His smile never wavered. Brave man.
I could blame my lack of dancing skill on my being off balance with one bare foot, or on my fear of getting those bare toes stepped on by someone wearing big boots or high heels, but really, I am just a bad dancer.
Well, I thought, this is one way to check out the room.
Craning my neck to scan the faces near and far for Emily's did nothing to improve my technique, but my partner was so fluid that he kept us from running down any innocent bystanders, and he never winced when my feet mistook his feet for the floor.
Despite my best intentions, despite—or maybe because of—my mind-numbing worry for Emily, despite my despising this silly, sappy game that worked under the assumption that little girls were all silly and sappy, it was kind of nice to be dancing with a cute guy, even a virtual cute guy. I was feeling ... well, not graceful, but not clumsy as a shree-legged hippopotamus, either. I realized I had sort of a death grip on my partner's hand, and I said, “Sorry”—I was saying that a lot, I noted—and loosened my fingers. My hands were sweaty, but he had white gloves on, so hopefully he couldn't feel that.
Hello, I told myself. He's a computer simulation. Concentrate.
There! For a second, I thought I'd found Emily, but it was only a trick of the mirrors, my own reflection glimpsed over my escort's shoulder as we turned around and around and around the room. Whoa! I thought, because never before had I realized that as I'd gotten older, I'd come to resemble Emily, at least a little bit. There was hope for me yet.
“Sorry,” I said once more as this thought caused me to nearly trip and my ever-vigilant partner held me upright. “I'm looking for Emily. Have you seen her?”
He didn't answer. He only looked at me with eyes that said his devotion to me was unlimited and unfailing. Which, believe me, does have its own charm.
“Emily?” I repeated.
My mind flitted back to the gondolier, who spoke no English. But he had known Emily's name. "Delfini?" I said, picking out the one Italian word I remembered.
This guy's smile stayed the same, and he never missed a beat of the dance.
Maybe Emily had populated her world with an international assortment of peoples. "Hola," I said, though I'd just barely squeaked through Spanish in seventh grade.
¿"Dónde está el baño?" That was the first phrase Señora Ramierez had taught us, as finding out where the closest bathroom is can be vital to one's survival, in a foreign land or not. What else did I remember? "Hasta la vista?" Okay, not Spanish. "Sprechen Sie Deutsch? Moo goo gai pan? Shalom? Kumbaya? Waltzing Matilda?" That about exhausted my knowledge of foreign phrases. I switched back to English. “Okay, let go.”
He wouldn't.
At least the gondolier had spoken Italian; this guy didn't seem to speak at all.
Just as that thought nibbled at the edge of my brain, there was a moment of relative quiet.
Harpsichord, violin, cello, and whatever the heck that other guy was playing paused as the musicians finished one piece and turned their sheet music to the next page. I could hear the rustle of the many-petticoated dresses, the clink of wineglasses, the soft murmur of conversation.
Of female conversation.
My back had been all sweaty, but now my dress clung cold and wet to my skin.
Only the women were talking. None of the men. Not. A. One. They just held their partners, looked good, and smiled.
I yanked my hand out of my dance partner's gloved grip and twisted away from the arm that encircled me. “Stop,” I commanded him.
He bowed. He backed away. Still smiling.
Creepy.
The music resumed. Alone, I stood in a sea of dancing couples who gracefully twirled their way around me. I was aware of my vulnerable bare foot, but they all knew what they were doing: no one stepped on me.
Another young man approached, offering his hand for this new dance, and I swatted his arm. Yes, I had to be heard over the music, but my voice was louder than it needed to be as I told him, “Leave.”
He did.
These guys might have been disturbing in their oddness, but the good thing was that they weren't threatening.
At least, not yet.
I made my way to a wall, where yet another young man—this one a servant, I was guessing—offered me a cup of punch.
Enough was enough. I upended the cup over his head.
He bowed, as though that were his whole purpose: Chief Servant in Charge of Having Drinks Dumped on Him.
With my back to the mirrored wall, and warning off any would-be dance partners or snack offerers with a snarl, I finally caught sight of Emily.
I elbowed my way to where she was dancing with a young man who looked pretty much like all the others: handsome and hollow. None of the dancers seemed to mind my crashing through them, doing my personal interpretation of a rampaging moose.
At this point in this particular dance, each man was holding his partner's hand in the air while the woman walked around him as though he were a Maypole.
“There you are,” Emily said to me as she continued to circumnavigate her partner. “Did you lose yourself in the maze?”
It was disconcerting to try to keep up a conversation with someone on the move—especially as I must have been the only one who didn't understand the rules of this stupid dance. Partners linked arm
s with new partners and twirled away in unexpected directions. But follow I did. I bit back my answer—that she was the one who'd lost me. Could I be mistaken? Had I simply taken a wrong turn?
But I shook off my doubt. She hadn't called for me when I hadn't returned. She hadn't answered when I'd called for her. The maze couldn't be so big that she'd been unable to hear me—definitely not in the few moments we'd been separated before I'd started looking for her.
“You ditched me,” I said.
I wasn't sure she heard me over the music. Emily completed a complicated turn with her dance partner before saying, not very forcefully, “Nonsense.”
Nonsense? She couldn't even summon up enough emotion or energy for more than a bored Nonsense?
This wasn't the Emily I knew. That Emily had refrained from snitching to our parents when she'd been walking down the hall of our elementary school and had seen Mrs. Cooper chewing me out for talking in line. That Emily had taught me how to bake chocolate chip cookies so that I would never go hungry. That Emily had sat up with me the night Grandma died, when Mom was overcome with her own sorrow and Dad was busy contacting all the cousins. That Emily would have told me “No way!” Or “Damn right, and I'll do it again!”
But not “Nonsense.”
At this point she and her partner were in a ring with four other couples, each pair of dancers twirling around, while the ring also went around and around. I felt like a little kid watching a carousel and trying to keep track of her favorite horse. “Emily, we need to talk.”
“Later,” she told me. “After the cotillion.”
“Yeah,” I said, “lemonade on the porch.”
Smiling dreamily into the face of her young man, she said, “You never showed up.”
Oops, another partner exchange. I had to scramble to keep up, and was talking to her back. She couldn't make me doubt myself again. “Neither did you. Otherwise when those homicidal sprites moved me halfway to you, I would have ended up in the garden that's between the maze and the porch.” In the mood I was in, I wouldn't have put it past her to have intentionally positioned herself somewhere that had the chasm as its halfway point.
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