by Jodi Picoult
“I love biscuits,” Humphrey sighs as he walks beside me, practically vibrating with joy. “Delilah gave me biscuits. They’re my favorite food. Do you like biscuits? We should get some biscuits.”
“Is there a mute button for you?” I ask.
I walk a little faster, trying to put some distance between us. “How about we play a game,” I suggest.
“Games? I love games!”
“Shocker!” I say, sarcastic. “This one is called Count Every Room in the Castle.”
“Oh, that sounds fun. Can we use a Frisbee? I really like Frisbees.” He sits back on his haunches, his tongue wagging. “Once,” he says, “I ate a shoe.”
“And?”
“I threw up.”
I nod slowly. “Okay, then. So that game . . . ? On the count of three, I want you to go find every room in the castle, and then you come back here and tell me how many there are. Ready? One . . . two . . . go!”
Humphrey doesn’t move.
“What are you waiting for?”
“You didn’t say three.”
“For God’s sake. Three,” I sigh, and he takes off like a shot up the stone staircase, his toenails scabbering as he rounds the corner.
Immediately I head in the opposite direction and slip into a broom closet. In the dark, I try to figure out how long I’ll have to stay here until Humphrey loses interest in trying to find me. His attention span, from what I can see, is less than a nanosecond—but I can’t be too careful. I swear, that stupid animal has some kind of radar, because every time I think I’ve escaped, he turns up out of thin air, wagging his tail.
As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I see a shelf of folded sheets and towels. The sheets on the bottom are printed with small purple flowers. Just like the ones that are always on my mother’s bed.
The door to the closet opens, and my heart sinks when I think Humphrey has found me. But it’s only Queen Maureen, who blinks at me, and says, “Oh, hello, dear. Could you pass me that mop?”
I hand it to her, expecting her to ask me why I’m hiding in a broom closet in the middle of the day, but either she doesn’t care or this is just something people do here. “Have a nice time,” Maureen says. “Let me know if you get hungry. . . .”
“Shhh,” I warn her. “I’m trying to hide from Humphrey.”
“Ahh. I see,” she answers. “Well. Carry on, then.”
Before she can shut the door, however, there’s a crash so loud that it shakes the timbers of the castle. I step out of the closet to find Humphrey sitting in the hallway with his tail between his legs. “Something happened in the kitchen,” he whispers. “And I love you so much.”
It’s easier to come up with battle tactics to defeat Zorg than to distract Humphrey long enough for me to get a moment alone. “Humphrey,” I say, waving a toy the fairies made out of sticks, acorns, and straw. “Fetch!”
I throw it as hard as I can, practically into the margins.
“Oh boy oh boy oh boy!” Humphrey cries, dashing after it. A moment later he returns, the toy clamped between his jaws. He shakes his head vigorously and then drops the toy between his paws. “I love this toy with all my life,” he snuffles, biting at it. “I love it so much that I want to eat it.” He pulls and chews. “I love it. . . . I love it. . . . I love it. . . . Oh no, it’s dead.” Humphrey steps back from the scrap heap that seconds ago was his toy and looks up at me in distress.
“Okay,” I sigh. “That took thirty seconds.” Maybe I can tire him out. “How about a run?”
“I’m the fastest runner ever,” Humphrey says, and he bolts into the next chapter. I jog after him as he dashes ahead and then loops back just to make sure I’m still here. He tracks a scent, nose down, through the Enchanted Forest, weaving through the trees. He dog-paddles across the ocean and runs circles around Orville’s lab. Finally, at the base of Timble Tower, he skids to a stop, panting. “That was so fun. Let’s do it again. I can totally keep my eyes open. I’m not falling asleep at all.” And then he conks to the side, snoring.
I sigh. “Finally.” I probably have less than a minute till he wakes up again, and I will have to find yet another way to distract him. My gaze falls on the tower rising before me.
Dogs can’t climb.
I grab on to the stone cliff that leads to the tower, fumbling for a hand- and foothold. Hoisting my weight, I start to inch upward, swallowing the nausea that hits me like a wave when I look down at the churning ocean.
Finally I reach the open window of the tower where Seraphima is imprisoned in the story and hurl myself inside headfirst, landing unceremoniously in a heap on the floor.
Thank God, I think. Peace and quiet.
“What are you doing here?” A muffled voice comes from a pile of quilts across the room.
I squint. “Seraphima?”
I’ve never seen her like this. She’s wearing a nightgown and mismatched socks. Her hair looks like there are small woodland creatures hiding inside it. And I’m pretty sure it’s been days since her last shower. “Um,” I say, “are you feeling all right?”
“No,” she wails, bursting into tears. “I don’t know what is happening to me. No one’s left chocolates on my pillow at night. I can’t find my slippers anywhere. There’s been no breakfast waiting outside my door. And I can’t even remember the last time someone told me I was pretty.”
I suddenly remember Frump telling me once that he had to go make Seraphima’s bed, as part of the continuing ruse that let her believe she was a true princess. I wonder if that’s what love is: giving in to someone’s delusions, just because you know it makes them happy.
“You know what you need?” I say. “A change of scenery. I’m trying to get rid of a dog—”
Seraphima wails even louder. “I miss Frump!”
“Believe me,” I mutter. “You’re not the only one. Listen, do you know any good hiding places in this book?”
She stops crying and blinks twice. Then she lifts the hem of her sheets and blows her nose into them. “Let me think,” she says, sliding off the bed and behind a folding screen. I turn away, reddening, as she takes off her nightgown and I see her naked silhouette. A moment later she emerges, in a wrinkled, stained gown, sporting one blue shoe and one green one. Her hair has been yanked into a messy bun that sits off-center on her head and only contains half her hair. “Do I look all right?” she asks.
“Um. Sure.”
Her shoulders sag. “It doesn’t matter anyway. It’s not like I have anyone to impress.”
I glance out the window and see Humphrey starting to stir. “We have to hurry,” I say. “Please tell me I don’t have to climb back down?”
“I usually just jump.”
“Are you insane?”
“Even Rapscullio can do it,” she says, “and he’s a big baby.” She hikes her skirts up and hooks one leg over the windowsill. With a smile, she hurls herself out.
“Seraphima!” I yell. I hesitate for only a moment, glancing down at the waves breaking over the rocks below, and her body, which grows smaller and smaller as she falls. Then I dive after her.
This hero thing sucks.
The ground is rushing up at an alarming pace. I find myself thinking: This is how I die. Flashing before my eyes are all the things I will miss the most: my mother, the new Star Wars movie premiere, meatballs and spaghetti . . .
As if I’m attached to a bungee cord, I stop in midair an inch before my body is smashed on the rocks. But unlike on a bungee cord, I don’t snap back up. Instead I hover, turning my head to see Seraphima suspended the same way. She delicately arches her foot and tiptoes a few steps down to the ground. “Well?” she asks, looking up at me. “Are you waiting for an invitation?”
I take a deep breath and jump, landing squarely on both feet, safe and sound. “Now what?”
“Follow me,” Seraphima replies. She grabs my hand and starts to run, flying through the pages until we come to a stop on a tundra made of snow. Or that’s what it looks like, anyway. It’s
nothing, as far as the eye can see, but it’s not cold.
“Where are we?” I ask.
“Past the title page,” Seraphima says. “I’ve only been once.”
I take a step forward and my entire body leans to the right. The only way I can walk is on a slant. I look up, my head brushing against the low-hanging letters.
Of course. Italics.
Seraphima too is struggling to keep her balance. The silence is shattering, an utter vacuum.
“This is perfect. Humphrey will never find me here,” I say, my voice echoing as if it’s fallen to the bottom of a canyon. “How did you ever find it?”
“By accident. Once, I had a . . . a blemish,” Seraphima confesses. “I couldn’t bear for Oliver to see me that way. So I wandered as far from him as possible, and this is where I wound up. It’s not easy being perfect all the time, you know.” Her attention is distracted by a small pulsing circle some distance away. “What’s that?”
It looks like a manhole cover. Seraphima walks closer on the diagonal, tripping as she slides at an angle. Her princess slippers don’t offer any traction, and she skids down the slope of white toward this pinprick of ink. “Help!” she cries. “Edgar!” Her fingernails claw at the wide empty space.
I put one foot out gingerly, testing the ground before I inch closer, scared that at any moment I’ll slip as well. It’s like a world made of invisible slides. I manage to creep nearer and stretch out my hand. “Seraphima!” I shout. “Grab on!”
She reaches toward me, her fingers brushing mine, and that tiny movement sends me barreling head over heels. Seraphima, tumbling in front of me, is sucked through the whirlpool of black. I reach out my hand to brace myself and realize that the swirling vortex is the letter C, surrounded by a circle.
I fall right through the middle of the copyright symbol.
I land hard on my back, surrounded by piles and piles of random objects.
There are potion bottles and swords and armor. A statue of a golden leopard with jeweled emerald eyes. A baby carriage and a prisoner’s chains and a stack of mattresses, a glass slipper and a genie’s lamp and a red cloak. A spinning wheel and a beanstalk so high that I can’t see its top. There are heaps of coins and treasure maps, abandoned bicycles, a half-inflated hot-air balloon, and a black witch’s hat. Across one wall is a bookshelf that stretches for miles, stuffed with tiny bound manuscripts and labeled with a brass plaque that reads ALTERNATE ENDINGS. I pull one out and read the last page:
And Rapscullio and Queen Maureen lived—and loved—happily ever after.
“Wow,” I breathe, craning my neck to look around.
“Edgar?” Seraphima’s voice emerges from a pile of plundered jewels. I haul a pirate’s chest out of the way and untangle her from ropes of pearls. “What is this place?”
“It’s an Easter egg,” I say. “In video games, the creators sometimes leave behind inside jokes or messages for players to find. They can trigger a secret game level, or a hidden shortcut.” I glance around in wonder. “I think this is the portal to my mom’s imagination. These are all the stories she read that led her to create this one . . . and all the plots she decided not to write.”
I know that if I try to sift through all this stuff, I will never find the end. This room, wherever it is in the book, is as limitless as my mother’s dreams.
Seraphima reaches for a fur coat and slips it on. As soon as she does, the hood tightens around her neck and two yellow eyes glow on the top of her head. “Take it off!” I yell, struggling to yank it off as it holds on to her, tight. We tumble backward, landing in an awkward heap, Seraphima’s knee firmly jabbed into my chest. “Don’t touch anything,” I grit out. “We don’t know what these things are, or what they’ll do to the story if we disturb them.”
She frowns, disappointed, and gets off me in a tangle of silk and petticoats.
I get to my feet, and that’s when I notice the painting.
The king wears a golden crown and an ermine-lined velvet robe. In one hand he carries a golden orb. In his other arm, he cradles a baby.
I know this picture. Except when I’ve seen it before, it’s been on my mother’s desk. The man is wearing not a crown but a baseball cap. His royal robes are a Boston Red Sox T-shirt and jeans. The golden orb in his hand is just a baseball, and the baby he holds is me.
I can’t stop staring at my father’s face, and maybe that’s why I don’t notice Seraphima moving toward another pile of knickknacks. “Oooh, pretty!” she cries, lifting a small, hinged enamel pillbox. Written in silver calligraphy on the lid are the words Heart’s Desire.
She flips it open to reveal a tiny pot of pink gloss. “Seraphima,” I call out. “Don’t!” But it’s too late. Dipping her finger into the dish, she touches the makeup to her lips.
Seraphima convulses and her lips part. Smoke snakes from her throat, spelling out five letters:
FRUMP
The smoke swirls, wrapping around her body from head to toe, consuming her whole. I scream her name and leap forward, trying to pull her free, and tackle her.
As the cloud around us dissipates, I climb off her. “Are you all right?” I ask, and then my jaw drops.
The girl staring up at me has blue hair, piercings, and combat boots. “Who the hell are you?” I say.
PART TWO
Reader, do you believe in Fate?
Do you believe that somewhere, there’s a grand plan for each of us? That our lives are written in the stars? That our lives are written for us?
If so, then we might as well consider ourselves to be characters . . . and our lives a story.
Or maybe you believe that we fall into our future blindly, drifting from adventure to adventure, our journey zigzagging not according to plan but according to pure chance.
Or just maybe, as random and haphazard as our lives seem—maybe that’s exactly what the author had in mind.
DELILAH
When Jules disappears, there’s a bracing gust of wind that rattles my bureau, strips my sheets, and rips the posters from my walls. Something strikes me in the face and tumbles to the ground. I reach out to grab it: a jeweled tiara. And in the next breath, sprawled on the floor in a cloud of silk and tulle and long blond hair, is Seraphima.
I grab her shoulders and haul her upright. “What did you do with my friend?”
She stares back at me, wide-eyed. “I—I don’t know. I was putting on some lip gloss. And then all of a sudden I was here.” Her gaze travels past me to fall on Frump, and she bursts into tears. “It’s been so awful! Without your command, everything’s out of control. And the servants have left the castle. No one’s taken care of me!” Her voice drops to an embarrassed whisper. “I had to brush my own hair.”
Frump yelps in response and Seraphima nods. “That’s so very kind of you to say, but I know I don’t look as flawless as I usually do.”
“Wait,” Oliver says, stepping forward. “You can understand him?”
Seraphima hurls herself into Oliver’s embrace, and both Frump and I stiffen. “Ollie!” she cries. “You’re here too? This is just the best surprise ever!” She clasps her hands and smiles. “I want to thank you all for being here. I had no idea you were planning this. It’s not even my birthday for another month—” She beams. “I will be accepting presents now.”
“This isn’t a party for you,” Oliver says.
Frump barks, and Seraphima blushes. “He said I don’t look a day over sixteen,” she translates.
“How can you talk to him?”
“Oh, Ollie, what did you think princesses do in finishing school? I live in a tower. My best friend for four years was a bird. I’m fluent in Animal. Except Fish. They always sound a little muddled to me.” She glances at me. “Peasant? Might you draw me a bath? It’s been a very trying travel day.”
“No, Seraphima. This is Delilah.”
“Oh. Sorry.” She smiles at me. “Delilah? Might you draw me a bath? It’s been a very trying travel day.”
I fold
my arms. “I am not her slave.”
Frump trots out of the bedroom, and a moment later I hear running water in the bathroom. He returns, his tail wagging. “Thank you so much, Frump.” She raises her brows at Oliver. “You really should train your servants better, Oliver.”
She sweeps out of the room. “Delilah, come attend to me.”
I glance at Oliver, furious.
“Please,” he begs. “Just this once.”
I follow Seraphima into the bathroom. She stands with her arms extended. I grit my teeth and unlace the back of her gown. “Are we good?”
Seraphima clears her throat. She is now wearing nothing but a thin cotton shift, which is apparently too heavy for her to remove by herself. I pull it up over her head, and she turns around, buck naked. “You’re a peach,” she simpers, and before I can step away, she throws her arms around me for a hug of gratitude.
Honestly, the last thing I need to know is that underneath all her clothes, my boyfriend’s ex is just as perfect as her face looks on any given day.
I leave Seraphima to her own devices in the bath (knowing her, she’ll probably drown) and head into my bedroom. Oliver has located the fairy tale, which exploded out of Jules’s hands the moment before she vanished. The book is already open. “I don’t understand,” he says. “What do you mean they’re missing?”
I peer over Oliver’s shoulder to see Orville shaking his head. “We’ve got a search party out for them now. But the fairies and Socks have already canvassed every page and every margin of this book, and we can’t locate them anywhere.”
“The book isn’t long,” I chime in. “And seriously, how hard could it be to find a punk-rock chick in a fairy tale?”
“Rapscullio’s painting LOST posters; the mermaids are doing a dive-and-rescue search. I promise you, as soon as we know anything, we’ll send a message.”
“How?” Oliver points out, exasperated. “The magic easel is broken.”
“Good point,” Orville muses.
“We’ll keep checking in,” I suggest.