by Sarah Diemer
“What…what are they?” I grip her arm tightly, my fingertips pressing hard into her skin.
Charlie breathes out, stares down at her feet. “They’re just women…”
But Violet shakes her head, almost too softly to notice, her eyes round and wide. “They’re more than that,” she tells me.
“What do you mean?”
“They’re monsters,” Violet whispers, coming up behind Charlie and me and planting her head between our shoulders. “Just because they don’t Snatch us up into the sky doesn’t mean they’re not monsters, too.”
“Violet,” Charlie says. “Keep your voice down. And don’t spread rumors. You have no proof—”
“It’s not a rumor.” Her eyes are as large as bowls, as blue as water.
Charlie rakes a hand through her pale hair, then tightens her grip on my waist, urging me forward.
“She’s going to learn all of this soon enough, anyway, Charlie." Petulant, Violet follows after us.
“The thing about Twixt,” says Charlie over her shoulder, with finality, “is that there are as many stories as truths. And you have to figure out which is which. We’ll do our best to help you, but even we don’t know everything, and even we—" she adds pointedly, glaring at Violet, "—can get it wrong.”
Violet shrugs her shoulders and points her gaze toward one of the tents as we pass by.
In the middle of the square is a dried-up fountain. The statue at its center is that of a man, headless and armless, torso and legs blackened by dead moss. A real man stands beside the statue, perched on the lip of the fountain's bowl, watching us as we move past him. He’s older, with a tangled beard and little hair remaining on his head. He exhales loudly as we walk by, stands up straighter, and then he shouts so loudly that I start: “The Snatchers are coming to get you! They'll get us all!”
“Shut up, Carl,” Charlie mutters, but he shakes his head at her, bellows, “Snatchers!” and “All of us!" at the top of his lungs. A small crowd of thin, hairless people gathers at his feet, hands clasped together, eyes closed, bodies shaking.
I remember Abigail's words, then: Most of what you have to look forward to is fear.
Everything here, everything, is so drab and gray and dirty and tattered and shabby and broken and falling apart and fearful and terrible, and I stop for a moment, press my fingers to my eyes, press so hard that purple circles spiral out, warping my vision. All I can see is spheres in darkness…spheres that eat each other, devouring. Devouring…
I feel a hand on my shoulder, and I open my eyes, turn back, look at Charlie and Violet. They watch me, both of them, with drawn, sympathetic expressions.
“It’s hard in the beginning,” says Violet, voice soft. “It gets better if you try.”
“Try?” I ask, the word breaking. “Try what?”
She shrugs, bows her head, looking very sad and very small. “This. Us.”
I rub my cold arms, stare across the Wanting Market, at the piles of refuse, at the dirty, scrounging people, scavenging after garbage. It turns my stomach, how filthy and little and desperate it is.
“What’s beyond Abeo City?" I ask, surprising myself. "What’s in the woods out there, where I came from?”
"Where you came from…" Charlie breathes out, and her eyes flit over my face. “Just the woods, the stream. And the Red Line. It’s a spot out in the woods to mark time… If you started toward the Red Line at the earliest point in the morning, and you don’t turn back when you reach it, you won’t make it back to Abeo City and the Safe Houses before dark. And the Snatchers will get you.”
“You can’t leave here?” I hate how my voice cracks, how anxious it sounds, betraying me.
"No." Charlie looks away.
Violet stares down at the ground, at her dusty sneakers on the broken street.
The enormity of this revelation presses down upon me until I feel so trapped, so weighed down that I can’t breathe, but instead of fear…anger rises within me, white and hot and potent.
“Has anyone ever tried to get past the Red Line?” I ask. My words are sharp. Violet’s eyes—already wide as moons—widen further, and Charlie studies me for a long moment before she answers.
“Yes," she says finally, evenly. "And they’ve never come back.”
I look at the trees that tower over the wall edging the city. They’re almost twice the size of the wall, taller than all of the buildings. It feels as if we’re in a bowl, a valley surrounded by woods, with gray clouds crouching over everything, enclosing us, too close, reflecting Abeo City's colorless hues.
Charlie reaches forward, takes my arm.
“Let’s go see Edgar,” she says gently. “Like I said, time is hard to keep track of here, and darkness comes before you expect it." Her eyes stare before us, hollow. "We can’t be out after dark.”
I stumble alongside her, eyes scarcely seeing.
But I glance up, curious, at the edge of the Wanting Market’s city square, because ahead is a house that looks solid, low-roofed and built of dull-colored bricks. It's not as dilapidated as the buildings surrounding it, and a scrawled sign hung over the front door reads The Need Shop: Purveyors of Nox. The x in Nox has more lines through it than necessary, giving it the appearance of a rough black star.
Charlie ascends the four crumbling stone steps to the door and pushes it open with her shoulder, glancing back at us. I follow with Violet behind me, her hands stuffed in her hoodie pockets, a frown pinching her pretty face.
The interior of the shop is so dark that, even though it is an oppressively gray day outside, it takes a few long moments for my eyes to adjust to the dimness. There are lanterns full of Wisps lining the walls, but their light seems to be swallowed up into the cubbyholed walls. Tall, rickety shelves sway from floor to ceiling, their surfaces covered with small, lidded boxes and baskets full of shadows.
Charlie moves down one of the aisles, ducking into a small back room and speaking with someone there in an eager tone. I begin to follow her, but Violet rests a hand on my arm, pausing and removing the lid from one of the boxes on the shelves.
“This is Nox,” she says quietly, drawing out a long, thin bit of darkness. She holds it up to me, and we both watch as the translucent black feather moves in the gust of her shallow breath, arching away from her, toward me. I stare at it, transfixed. It’s small, dainty, and lovely, really, as it shines—a deep, dulled shine, like stars in water—against her fingers.
“Vi,” Charlie calls, and Violet drops the feather to the floor, stooping to pick it up hastily, her eyes brimming with guilt as she places it back in its box.
We walk the cramped hall lined with shelves until we enter the little room in the back. It holds a single wooden desk and chair, along with crates piled on top of crates, all filled, I can see, with Nox. The darkness is absolute in those crates, like ink, like a mass of captured night. It’s as if tatters of night sky have been gathered and stuffed into boxes far too small to contain them. I can’t make out individual feathers; the black is too much, too deep.
In the center of the room, a young man stands with his thumbs in his pockets. He wears a stained waistcoat and a pair of grubby pants, but his white collared shirt is spotless and stiff looking, as if it’s been starched. He sports a wickedly sharp, thin black mustache over a mouth angling up, and his green eyes flash brightly in the yellow glow from the lantern on his desk.
Charlie stands beside him, her hands on her hips. They look so different, the pair of them, but comfortable together, like a brother and sister, I imagine, might appear.
“This is Edgar,” Charlie tells me, smiling a little and gesturing me further inside. "Don't worry. He's a friend." And then to him, in a lowered tone, she says, “Edgar, this is the Sleeper I was telling you about.” She points her chin toward me. “Have you ever found a Sleeper outside of Abeo? And before midnight?”
Edgar clasps his hands behind his back and circles me, shaking his head. “No. But I'm not surprised. Stranger things have happened.”
Violet snorts, folding her arms and leaning against the wall.
"Once," Edgar tells me, his eyes aglow, "while I was Fetching, a Snatcher swooped down and stole a Sleeper from my arms, and I swear it was trying to talk to me. I'd never heard a Snatcher make sounds like that before, almost like…words."
I take a step back from him, bending away.
“Lovely to meet you,” Edgar says, then, performing a sweeping bow. I swallow, working my jaw, then nod to him stiffly. He laughs a little at that, at me, running his slender fingers through his hair.
“It was likely a hiccup, her showing up when and where she did,” he tells Charlie, turning to face her and shrugging. “Don’t worry your pretty yellow head.”
Charlie sighs, rolling her dark eyes to the ceiling. “Don’t worry, he says. Right.”
“Listen. The important thing is that this lovely lady wasn’t Snatched right from your grasp.” Edgar winks at me. “But of course she wasn’t. Has Charlie told you that she’s the best Fetcher? She’s terribly humble and hasn’t brought it up, I'm sure, but if you’d been Fetched by me, you wouldn’t be here right now, I can promise you that. I don’t keep a good head under abnormal circumstances.” He hooks the chair out from the desk and perches on it backwards, shrugging his shoulders in an exaggerated way.
Charlie smiles down at him, folding her arms and shaking her head a little, laughing to herself.
“So have you given the pretty thing a name, Charlie?” he asks, steepling his fingers in front of him and examining me.
Charlie sighs. “Stop flirting,” she admonishes, though she’s still grinning. “You’d warm up to a stump if you thought it might present a challenge.”
“I’m an equal opportunity master of smoothness.” Edgar winks at me again. I venture a small smile, glancing uncertainly to Charlie.
Then Violet rolls her eyes, says, "Oh, Edgar," and the three of them laugh together—freely, without restraint. My smile widens, though I can't force out a laugh, not yet.
“To tell you the truth, I haven’t been able to think of any name that seems right for her.” Charlie's eyes find mine and linger upon them for a long heartbeat. My lips part, and I feel stilled, calmed, wrapped in the warmth of her clear, brown gaze.
Then, with a furtive glance at Edgar, she turns her eyes to the floor.
Edgar raises a single eyebrow, watching Charlie for a moment before looking to me again.
“Ah,” he says simply, cocking his head to the side. “I see.” This earns him a toe-poke from Charlie, who, I realize, is blushing. I watch her, brows furrowed, as warmth begins to creep over my own face.
“Charlie, Charlie…” murmurs Edgar, tapping his fingers on the back of the chair. “I’ve always told you that the prettiest of names is wasted on you. Charlotte is lovely, and you chose the boyish part of it, the common nickname.”
“It suits me,” says Charlie, brow up.
“Definitely. You’re no Charlotte.” He grins at her, then glances to me. “But what if she…is?”
“Charlotte,” I whisper, tasting the word. It’s light, airy, like dust in my mouth.
Charlie gazes at me for a little while, then clears her throat, tilting her head toward me. “What about Lottie? We’ll share the name, if you like. You take half, and I'll have the other.” She’s smiling softly at me, hopefully.
“Lottie.” My tongue trips over the syllables. The word is sharp and soft at the same time, and I think… I think that describes me well enough. I stare down at my hands, at the healing wounds there. “Lottie. Yes. Lottie.”
“Good!” Violet hooks an arm through mine and squeezes tightly, grinning. “I love it. It fits you.”
I smile at Violet and then glance at Charlie, and I feel warm again, all over. She rakes a hand through her hair, pushing it away from her eyes, and she watches the ground, mouth curving up.
“It’s a lovely name,” she says softly, nodding. “For a lovely girl.”
Edgar snorts, rolling his eyes. “And now who’s flirting?”
They laugh again, and it's such a happy sound, and for a moment, I think I hear a sound like it come from my own mouth. Small and soft, but still…a start.
I realize something, then. Something important that opens up within me, unfurling, like a leaf or a wing:
There’s no fear here, now.
Edgar cranks back one of the small shutters over his desk, and daylight spills into the dark little room. “Well,” he declares, drawing out the word. “I’m almost done for today. Walk you back to that Maddest of Houses?”
“Yes,” Charlie agrees, and as Edgar pats his pockets and tidies the pile of papers on the desk, she asks him, “Edgar?"
"Hmm?"
"Has anything…strange happened to you in the past day or night?” She bites her lip. “You haven't found any Sleepers in odd places. I know that. But has there been anything else that seemed unusual?”
He pauses for a moment, fingers lingering above the desktop before he shakes his head. “No. Matilda is her usual… Well." He chuckles. "She's a fright. High-and-mightiness all around. Thank the Snatchers she’s not here today.” He winks at me. “She’s a horror, truly. She runs the Need Shop for the Sixers.”
Again, that word…
I quell my revulsion, curling my hands into fists.
“Don’t get on her bad side." Edgar whistles, shaking his head. "Well, Charlie, there weren’t any new Sleepers at the crossroads last night. But that’s nothing to remark about. Things have been slowing down in my part of Abeo, it seems. And yours?”
“None last night, either,” says Charlie, frowning. “But what if, like Lottie, they’re appearing in odd places and at odd times? Maybe they don't show up at midnight now. Maybe they're arriving during some other part of the night, or even the day?" Charlie's eyes meet mine, and there's a desperate gleam in her gaze. "What if they’re not appearing in Abeo anymore? What if they’re showing up out in the woods?”
“Well, now, I think we need to wait awhile before we start worrying about all of that.” Edgar shrugs into a long black coat. He picks up a top hat from a peg on the wall and plunks it atop his crown. “Now to escort the most charming of ladies—”
Charlie laughs, brow raised. “You know, I should really be escorting you.”
“Too true. You’re the only one I’d trust with my life around the Snatchers.” He tips his hat at her, winks at me, and shuts the door to the little room as the four of us walk down the hallway. We move together through the darkness until Violet opens the outer door and we step into the square of the Wanting Market.
Edgar locks the Need Shop door with a long, spiraled key and drops it into his waistcoat pocket.
“You locked it.” I glance back over my shoulder toward the brick walls of the Need Shop, and then stare at Edgar, confused. “But couldn’t anyone go through the walls? Couldn't they glide through the door, even if it's locked, and steal some Nox, if they truly wanted it?" I turn to Charlie, confused. "Didn’t we go through the walls last night, when the Snatchers were chasing us?”
“We did." Charlie nods, eyeing me softly. "And it's true. We can pass through walls, all of us, just as easily as if they were made of fog. But…" She tilts her head, lowering her voice, "No one would dare steal from the Sixers.”
“No, indeed. That would be a mistake,” Edgar states a bit too brightly, tapping the top of his hat and tossing me an unconvincing wink.
"Oh," I say, falling into step as Violet leads us out into the street.
We walk along the edge of the Wanting Market, and my eyes are drawn to its hulking piles of trash, to the tents crowded with haggling Sleepers.
“Why would anyone want all of that…garbage?” I watch a man, nearly bald, exchange a lock of hair with a tent owner for a misshapen lump of teddy bear. He turns quickly, holding the bear in front of him like a shield, then crushing it to his chest.
“Comfort,” Edgar replies simply, softly, following my gaze. “We’ve very little of that here in
Abeo, Lottie. Nox—that's comfort. Good company. That’s comfort. Safe Houses. And…" He gestures widely with his hands. "That's it.”
“Try a little harder, Edgar,” Charlie groans, casting her brown eyes skyward. “I swear, I'm surrounded by pessimists—”
“Reality is not pessimism, Charlie. And I prefer to be real with our dear new Sleepers.” Edgar tips his hat to me. “Present company not excluded. It’s difficult here, Charlie. And if you tell them otherwise, if you lull them to complacency, they won’t last long.”
“You sound like Abigail,” Charlie grumbles, eyes flashing stubbornly, shoving her hands deeper into her pockets. “Okay, I don't deny it: it can be awful here."
"Worse than awful," Violet whispers, bowing her head.
"But it’s not all awful." Sighing, Charlie takes up Violet's hand, squeezes it. "We have each other, after all.”
Edgar watches Charlie with a curl to his lips. “Okay. So there’s that. You see, she’s an optimist,” he whispers to me, elbowing my ribs gently. “There are few of them here, so they’re quite precious, really.”
“I’m so precious,” Charlie laughs—a bright, joyous sound that makes me feel bright, too, light. Like something different than I am, than how I feel...
A movement, just past Charlie's shoulder, catches my eye. A bulky shape, covered in dark furs, bounds in the direction opposite to the Wanting Market, toward the dilapidated houses down the street. There are still children climbing all over the mounds of rubble, but this person wasn’t a child. It looked…familiar. But nothing looks familiar here. How could it…
My skin pricks, and as I turn the corner with Edgar, Violet and Charlie, whoever it was has vanished, having leapt down an alley and into the shadows there.
I feel strange, suddenly, like my knees no longer want to obey me. I put out my hand against a brick wall to steady myself, but my fingers pass through the wall, and I nearly stumble but catch myself, shaking my head.