by Jodi Picoult
Frump whimpers.
“What should you do with Seraphima?” Orville repeats.
Oliver frowns. “Am I the only one here who doesn’t speak Dog?”
“I suppose I’d just try to keep her from getting into too much trouble,” Orville continues, and he grins at Oliver. “I believe you have a bit of experience doing just that, Ollie, don’t you?”
Oliver gently closes the book as Frump scratches at the door to get out, no doubt so that he can take up guard duty outside the bathroom. “Oliver,” I say, “we can’t do this. A strange girl—emphasis on the strange—can’t just show up in my room without raising some suspicions. And what am I supposed to tell Jules’s mom?”
Oliver reaches for Jules’s iPhone, plugged in and charging. “Why can’t Jules tell her?” he asks. “Do that thing you do, with this.”
“You’re brilliant.” I grab the phone from his hands and text Jules’s mom.
Can I stay over at Delilah’s for the whole weekend?
I hold my breath, waiting for a response. A moment later, there’s a ding.
Did you finish all your hw?
YUP, I type. J
DON’T STAY UP TOO LATE.
“There,” Oliver says. “One problem solved.”
“Only temporarily. I bought us two days. But what if Jules isn’t back by then?”
“She will be,” he says, reassuring me.
“And Seraphima? How am I supposed to explain to my mother why Jules and some delusional princess have exchanged places?”
Suddenly an idea dawns. It’s a long shot, but maybe I can convince my mother—and everyone else—that Seraphima is a visiting exchange student. It would go a long way toward explaining her lack of knowledge about, well, everything in an American household.
I turn to Oliver. “We’re going to tell everyone she’s from another country.”
“Which one?”
I think for a moment. What language would people be least likely to know? The last thing I want is someone attempting to communicate with Seraphima in her so-called mother tongue. “Iceland,” I decide.
Oliver nods. “That almost sounds real.”
“That’s because it is.”
From the hallway comes a bark, and then, “Yoo-hoo! Delilah! I’m ready to be toweled dry!”
I glance at Oliver. “I’m not doing it. I absolutely, categorically refuse.”
He bites his lower lip. “Of course. Well, I suppose I could help her—”
I shove him so hard he staggers backward. “Not on your life,” I answer. At the threshold, I turn around. “She’d better be gone by Monday.”
When Oliver leaves for the night to go home, my mother is still out on her date with Dr. Ducharme, buying me a little more time to perfect my story before I have to introduce Seraphima to her. I’ve let Seraphima borrow my robe to wear over her thin shift, and I’ve had the dubious pleasure of brushing her hair one hundred strokes with what I insisted was definitely a 100 percent boar-bristle brush like the one she has in her tower, and not a one-dollar comb from a drugstore.
“All right,” I announce. “It’s time to go to bed.” I lift the sleeping bag Jules brought over and hand it to her, but it falls right through her arms. With a sigh, I unroll the sleeping bag perpendicular to my bed. “There you go,” I say, gesturing to the makeshift mattress.
Seraphima delicately lifts her cotton gown, stepping gingerly onto the purple sleeping bag as if it’s a red carpet. She walks the length of it and then promptly crawls into my bed. “This is lovely,” she says, pulling the covers to her chin.
“Lovely,” I mutter. I slip into the sleeping bag just in time for Frump to use me as a springboard to jump onto the bed beside Seraphima.
“Try to get a good night’s rest,” I say.
“Oh, I always do,” Seraphima replies earnestly. “Beauty sleep is critical. You sleep well too,” she says, glancing at me. “It looks like you’ve missed a few hours.”
Frump yowls, curling at her feet.
“You’re so sweet,” Seraphima says to him. “But I’m sure I could be more beautiful if I tried.”
There’s another yelp, and a soft bark. Seraphima giggles.
“Of course I remember. You had the fairies spell my name in the sky. And you had Queen Maureen make my favorite apple tart, but you didn’t tell her you’d stolen the apples from Rapscullio’s orchard.” She reaches down and absently starts patting Frump’s head. “What about the time I made you that biscuit for your birthday but I overcooked it into a pile of ash, and you still ate the whole thing because you didn’t want me to feel bad?”
He waddles up the mattress until he is closer to Seraphima’s face and licks her cheek. She blushes fiercely.
“You’ve always been so good to me, Frump,” Seraphima whispers. “How come I didn’t see it until you were gone?”
Frump whimpers softly, and she shakes her head.
“The way you looked never mattered to me. I always knew, you know. That it was you who lined my slippers up at the edge of my bed, and who made me breakfast, and who tidied my closet and washed my linens. So you’re a dog. So what. You make me feel like the princess I always wanted to be.”
Although I probably shouldn’t be eavesdropping, I can’t help but smile. They sound the way Oliver and I did, when he was still trapped in the book, and I would talk to him for hours beneath my covers. To anyone else listening it might have sounded like a one-sided conversation, but we knew better.
I fall asleep to the thump of Frump’s tail, the sound of pure happiness.
The sun has barely broken over the horizon when I’m awakened by the sound of someone singing in an earsplitting soprano.
“Welcome, welcome, big bright sun. . . . Oh, this day will be such fun. . . . Come to sing me their hellos . . . little birds with little toes!”
I crack open an eye to see Seraphima dancing—literally dancing—around my bedroom. “What are you doing? It’s six-thirty freaking a.m. On a Sunday.”
“Oh, good morning, serf. I was just greeting the new day!” She flutters to the window and presses her palms to the glass. “It’s the loveliest morning!”
I put a pillow over my head. “It’s still night. Go back to bed, Seraphima. Let’s do this all over again in four hours.”
“You are wrong. A lady rises with the sun. . . .” Seraphima sits down at my desk, trilling her lips in rising and falling scales. It is quite possibly the most annoying sound on the face of the earth.
“What. Are. You. Doing,” I grit out.
“If I don’t warm up, how do you expect me to sing all day?”
“I don’t expect you to sing all day!” I yell.
When I raise my voice, Frump growls, and Seraphima nods. “I know. She is being excessively loud.”
“I’m being loud,” I repeat.
She puts her hands under the curtain of her pale blond hair and fans it out over her shoulders. “So I’m thinking I’d like a bun, wrapped in a braid. Maybe accented with a few flowers.”
I slip out of the sleeping bag and gather her hair in my hands. “Ponytail it is,” I say.
“This is completely unacceptable,” Seraphima says. “I’m telling Oliver you’re poorly suited as a housemaid. You’d do much better in a stable.”
That’s it. I lunge for Seraphima, and for a second I think I might get a slug in, but Frump grabs the back of my T-shirt with his teeth and hauls me back.
Seraphima throws the window sash up and leans halfway out. “Welcome, welcome, big bright sun—”
I slam the window shut. “No! You might have grown up in a tower, but us peasants? We have neighbors.” I sigh. “Let’s get you dressed.”
Frump is suddenly alert. I exchange a look with Seraphima and then drag Frump by his collar out the bedroom door, leaving him in the hall. I open my dresser and pull out a bra and underwear. “Try these on,” I suggest.
Seraphima looks at me and then reaches for the bra, draping it over her ponytail and latchi
ng it under her chin like a bonnet.
“Not quite.” I wrestle it off her head, and hold it up to my T-shirt to show her how it’s done. “Take off your gown, and put these,” I say, “over those.”
For once, she does as she’s told. Then she turns around, smiling. She’s absolutely busting out of my bra.
I sigh. “Of course your boobs are bigger than mine.”
I reach into my closet for the biggest sweatshirt I can find, the one I wear on my fat days. “Take off the bra and put this on,” I say. “And cross your arms when you walk.”
Then I Skype Oliver, hoping the chimes on his computer will wake him up. He stumbles, bleary-eyed, hair askew, in front of his screen. “Why are you awake?” he asks.
“Because Little Miss Sunshine here is an early riser. If you come over, I’ll cook you breakfast.”
Suddenly Seraphima leans close to my laptop, pressing her hand against the screen. “Oliver!” she gasps. “You’re so flat!”
“Hurry,” I say. “Please?”
At first Seraphima refuses to leave my bedroom, because she doesn’t believe leggings are actually acceptable clothing for women. I manage to entice her downstairs with promises of food. By seven a.m. I have cooked her an omelet, pancakes, bacon, and oatmeal, all of which she has devoured. I’m convinced she is hollow.
My mother comes into the kitchen wearing her Sunday clothes—a flannel shirt and pajama pants. “You’re up early,” she says, surprised to see me. Then her gaze falls on Seraphima. “I thought Jules was sleeping over.”
“Um, no, remember? I told you about Seraphima,” I lie. “She’s the exchange student who’s living with us for a couple of days. We talked about this last week when you were getting ready for your date with Greg. God, you don’t even listen to me anymore!”
“Um—of course I remember,” my mother says. “I just forgot it was this week.” She smiles at Seraphima, speaking slow and loud. “Where . . . are . . . you . . . from . . . dear?”
“She’s Icelandic, Mom, not deaf.”
Seraphima turns to her. “Are you the innkeeper?”
“Innkeeper . . . head of household . . . The words are almost identical in Icelandic,” I interject.
Seraphima holds out her hand. “You are pleased to make my acquaintance.”
My mother laughs. “I am,” she says. “Welcome to America.” She sees Frump curled up at Seraphima’s feet, with his snout resting on her thigh. “Humphrey, shoo!”
“It’s quite all right. Frump and I are old friends,” Seraphima says.
“It’s crazy,” I jump in. “Apparently in Iceland, all dogs are called the same name: Frump. Seems like it would be confusing, but hey. To each his own!”
“How long are you over here, Seraphima?” my mother asks.
“First we have to find a way back into the book—”
“—a ticket,” I finish. “Book a ticket.” I pull Seraphima up from her chair. “We’re off to the mall today. Getting some souvenirs.”
Once I say it, I realize this is a brilliant idea. Seraphima can’t go around in my giant Nantucket sweatshirt forever, and we don’t know how long she’s going to be here. If I want to prevent as many questions as possible, the first step is to at least make her look like she fits in.
My mother pours herself a cup of coffee and sits down across from Seraphima. “I’ve always wanted to go to Iceland. I’ve heard it’s beautiful. What’s it like where you grew up?”
“Well, I lived alone in a tower overlooking the ocean,” Seraphima says. “But I could see everything from there—the pirates, the dragons, the mermaids—”
We are saved from imminent disaster by the ringing of the doorbell. My mother answers the door, and Oliver comes inside, his cheeks red from the wind. “Hello, Mrs. McPhee,” he says. “I daresay you look younger every time I see you.”
My mother—my mother—blushes. “Lila, where’d you find this one?” she asks, shaking her head. Still carrying her coffee mug, she walks upstairs.
“Thanks,” I say, kissing his cheek. “You saved me from having to explain to my mother why Iceland has apparently become a scene from Game of Thrones.”
“Why have we not played this game? It seems like a missed opportunity. I’d surely trounce you.”
“Never mind,” I reply. “Let’s go see if they’ve found Jules in the book.”
To my great relief, the minute I open the book, Edgar is front and center on Everafter Beach. And standing beside him is Jules.
At least, I think it’s Jules.
She doesn’t look like my best friend ever looks. For one thing, she’s wearing a ball gown. She’s traded her signature Doc Martens for ballet slippers—Jules, who says ballet is just an excuse for an eating disorder. And her blue hair has a streak of silver running through it. “Jules?” I whisper.
“Okay,” she says, pointing to Oliver. “Suddenly he makes a lot more sense.”
Seraphima stamps her tiny foot. “That is my gown!”
“Cool it, sister,” Jules says. “That’s my friend.”
Orville steps forward. “Edgar’s been telling us where he’s been, Oliver. I think you’ll find it quite interesting.”
Edgar looks up at us. “Seraphima took me to the copyright page, to escape for a little while.”
“I’ve never been to the copyright page,” Oliver murmurs.
“Exactly. But that’s beside the point. While we were there, something happened.” He hesitates. “There’s a portal. Seraphima and I fell into one of those in the book, and from what I can tell, it’s like a secret place between the words that’s like a giant warehouse of ideas. Thoughts and images and characters that never made it into this book but that were in my mom’s head.”
Your mom’s head. Oliver and I exchange a glance, immediately thinking of Jessamyn.
Oliver clears his throat. “Edgar, there’s something you need to know. Your mother . . . she fell down. She had to go to the hospital.”
Edgar’s jaw drops. “Is she okay? What happened?”
“She fainted. She said she forgot to eat that day,” I say. “She’s much better now, really.”
But Edgar isn’t convinced. He starts pacing on the page. “I’ve got to get out. I have to make sure she’s all right.”
For Edgar to come out, however, means that Oliver must go back. Somewhere deep down, I knew that Edgar would want to be with his mother again, once he heard the news. But I hadn’t thought far enough ahead to realize what I’d lose in the process.
Oliver looks at me, and I know he’s thinking the same thing. “Maybe there’s another way,” he whispers to me. He turns to Seraphima. “Edgar said you came through a portal?”
She shakes her head. “It was just makeup.”
I raise my brows. “Edgar?”
“It really was makeup. But the container was labeled Heart’s Desire. Seraphima must have been wishing for Oliver, and that’s what brought her to you.”
I look at Seraphima, who is staring right at Frump. Oliver wasn’t who she was wishing for.
“That doesn’t explain Jules,” I say.
“Yes it does,” Oliver points out. “Humphrey swapped with Frump. I swapped with Edgar. The only way for the book to eject a character is to suck in something similar enough to replace it.”
That’s exactly why I’m going to lose him.
But even if Oliver and Edgar look alike, Seraphima and Jules couldn’t be more different. I glance at the silver streak in Jules’s hair. If the replacement isn’t similar . . . will the book change it to fit the mold?
“Why don’t you just go get the Heart’s Desire,” I ask, “and wish Seraphima back in?”
“Don’t you think I tried that?” Edgar says. “I’ve been to the copyright page a whole bunch of times, but the whirlpool that sucked us in before isn’t there anymore. I don’t know what made it open when it did.”
Oliver frowns. “So basically no one is going in or out.”
“That’s really not an option
. I need to get home,” Edgar says. “It stands to reason that if there’s one portal in the book, there might be another one.” He reaches for Jules’s hand, and I watch her jaw drop. “We’re going to find it.”
Seraphima stands in the atrium of the mall, her hands clasped in front of her and her eyes wide. “I’ve never seen anything like this,” she breathes. Before Oliver and I can stop her, she dashes down the main corridor, bouncing from shop window to shop window like a pinball in a machine. She waves at the mannequins as she passes, and at Bath & Body Works, when an employee offers a spritz of perfume, she happily accepts. Then she looks down at the woman. “You may fix my hair now,” Seraphima orders.
“There’s an Ultima salon on the second floor,” the employee suggests, and I link my elbow with Seraphima’s to drag her away.
“Come on, Princess,” I say.
There are two types of little kids you see at the mall. The first kind shuts down from overstimulation, like when I brought Oliver to the mall and turned my back for a moment and found him crouching behind a bench where an elderly man had fallen asleep. The second kind of kid thinks she’s landed in Disney World—she runs straight for the gumball machine and asks for a hundred quarters.
That’s Seraphima.
“Where should we take her first?” Oliver asks.
“Victoria’s Secret.”
“You can trust me,” he says earnestly. “I won’t tell a soul.”
“No, it’s a store—” I glance around and realize Seraphima has wandered away. Through the milling crowd I catch a flash of silver-blond hair. “That way,” I say, and we rush toward her.
We round the corner and find Seraphima on top of the miniature plastic castle that’s part of the children’s play zone. She stands atop a turret, shoving away toddlers. “Begone, trolls,” she yells. “This is my kingdom!”
“Oh God,” I groan.
I step forward, but Oliver puts his hand on my shoulders. “I’ve got this,” he says. He falls to one knee, hand on his heart. “Princess, oh, Princess,” he calls. “Come down from your tower!”
Seraphima’s eyelashes flutter. “Oh yes, my noble knight. I’ve been waiting all my life for you.”