Twixt

by Sarah Diemer

  “It would be a dull day without one, wouldn’t it?” Charlie counters, brow raised. She places her jar of Wisps upon the porch step, and Violet does the same.

  Abigail watches the two of them, blue-veined hand pressed over her mouth. It’s when she turns that I realize she’s positioned herself to hide the indulgent smile teasing her lips, even as she shakes her head and huffs out a longsuffering sigh.

  “Watch Florence, all right?” Charlie says, as she ascends two steps, taking one of Abigail’s hands and squeezing it.

  Dropping the stern façade, Abigail squeezes Charlie's hand back and, stooping over a little, winks. “Don’t you worry your pretty head. Florence will be fine. Now go have fun with the bastard.”

  “That’s not even nice.” Charlie's tone is admonishing, but she’s grinning, too. Abigail shuffles back into the house, muttering to herself, like always, as we turn around to walk again down the street.

  Though I’ve only been to the Wanting Market and the Need Shop once, I remember the way this time. Walk down the one main street, make those two turns, and then there it is, crumbling before us, the center of Abeo City, with the Wanting Market and its piles of junk, its shuffling and trading Sleepers. And there, on the edge of it all, is the Need Shop.

  “Edgar told me that Matilda wouldn’t be in again today,” says Charlie, glancing to Violet, “so we won’t have to deal with her.”

  “Thank goodness.” Violet shudders, and says in a loud voice, “She’s as bad as the Sixers—”

  Charlie presses a finger to her lips, shaking her head, turning to glance toward the Wanting Market. “Vi, you can’t go on like that. No one can hear you talk like that. You don't want…” She swallows, words trailing away.

  Violet seems to shrink into herself, nervously scanning the crowd, her Wisp-catching smile gone.

  You don't want…

  I think about the girl who was dragged away by the Sixers.

  I think about the girl who was dragged away by the Snatchers.

  I wring my hands together, breathe out.

  It’s an impossible situation. We’re supposed to live, carry on with daily activities, and yet there’s so much that's unknown, and so much that might go wildly wrong at any moment…

  Charlie, noticing my mood, turns toward me, resting a hand against the small of my back.

  “No dark thoughts,” she whispers in my ear, her mouth a little upturned, a little hopeful. “It’ll be a good day, Lottie.”

  I look up at her; my doubts melt as I gaze into her warm brown eyes. And then, surprising myself, I reach behind my back, take Charlie's hand. Her eyes widen, and her lips part, but then she ducks her head, smiling as the three of us travel the narrow lane between piles of garbage, aiming for the Need Shop.

  Edgar’s sitting outside on the front steps, arms folded, watching the people in the Wanting Market with his top hat tilted down over his eyes. Charlie toes his leg with her shoe, and he startles, blinking, gazing up at us.

  “I thought you’d never get here,” he says, grinning broadly, and then he’s standing, taking off his hat, running a hand over his carefully styled hair and smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from his too-clean shirt. “Charlie, Lottie, lovely to see you." He nods at us, and then his eyes linger on Violet. "Sweet Violet, you’re looking particularly fetching this morning.”

  She blushes, looks down at the ground, says nothing, and a long, silent moment passes by. Edgar deflates a little, clutching his hat, glancing away.

  Someone snickers.

  Ahead, down the narrow lane, four people stride toward us. Three teenage girls and a boy. The young woman at the front of the group wears a blue dress, as immaculate as Edgar’s shirt: no holes, no loose threads. It's made of clean, shiny cloth that bells around her hips, the lace-edged skirt grazing against her calves. Her hair isn’t tangled, either, but curled into brown ringlets that sweep over her shoulders as she turns her head.

  I feel gray and dingy in comparison.

  But the pretty picture is marred by the ugly sneer on the girl's face, directed, very obviously, at Charlie.

  “Edgar, you mustn't be seen with…" Her mouth curls, as if in disgust. "People from Mad House.” Stepping forward, she crooks one long-nailed finger toward him. “There might be talk.”

  “As ever, Isabel,” Edgar says, curving into a stiff bow, “I couldn't give a shit less.”

  Charlie laughs and rolls her eyes.

  "Careful, Edgar." Isabel's mouth downturns into a pout, and she folds her arms in front of her, raises her voice: “When I am in charge of Black House, I won’t allow you to consort with riffraff from Mad House—”

  “You and what flouncy army?” Edgar regards her coolly, one brow raised. “Careful, Isabel. You're making an unfortunate impression." He gestures toward me. "We wouldn’t want our newest Sleeper here to get the wrong idea about you.”

  She laughs as her gaze rakes over me, lips drawn above her teeth, exposing their sharp tips. “She looks like she belongs in Mad House.”

  I narrow my eyes, and beside me, Charlie says nothing, but she stiffens, and her hands ball into loose fists.

  “Charlie,” Isabel says, stepping forward like a dancer, all grace, her feet clad in black slippers with white bows. “Charlie,” she whispers, drawing out the word, hooking her arm through Charlie’s as if they're friends, familiar. “Let’s declare a truce. Come by tonight, Charlie. Come to our Memming party. I'm giving you a special invitation. You know how Edgar would love to see you there, and I would, too, and…" She squints at me, her mouth drawn tight. "You can bring your drab little friend, if you'd like—”

  Charlie shrugs out of her grasp. “Isabel…” There's warning in her voice, a sharp tone I've never heard Charlie use before.

  Isabel glowers at me, stepping nearer. “Has she even Memmed yet?” she snorts, looking me over again, head to toe.

  My own hands are curling into fists as she tosses her glossy curls over her shoulder. “Why don't you give her a choice, instead of shoving your mad shit down her throat?” Her eyes flash at Charlie. “Who knows? She might choose Black House over Mad House. Who wouldn't?”

  With a wave of her hand, she turns on her heel, the others—spitting at Charlie's feet—following close behind her, like shadows.

  “Open invitation!” Isabel calls, arcing her arm over her head, and then she’s moving toward the Wanting Market, the blue of her dress lost in the grime-colored crowd.

  Edgar steps behind Charlie and begins to rub her shoulders, shaking his head gently, his eyes unfocused, staring toward the ground. After a moment, Charlie blinks, softens, though her fists are still clenched.

  “That—" He shrugs. "Forget that. She enjoys irritating you. She likes to get under your skin.” Edgar, leaning close to Charlie's ear, lowers his voice. “You’ve got to ignore her. Don't give her what she wants—”

  “But she’s right, Edgar, and you know it.” Charlie moves away from him and seeks out my gaze, exhaling a heavy sigh. “Lottie should get the choice. Didn’t we all? If she wants to stay in Mad House, she needs to understand why we do what we do. Why we don't take Nox.”

  “But why Black House? There are Memming parties at all of the Safe Houses.” Edgar sighs. “Don't misunderstand—I’d love to have you come tonight, but you wouldn't love another run-in with Isabel.”

  “She doesn’t bother me,” Charlie whispers, voice hoarse. A lie. She turns to me. “I want to give you choices, Lottie. It's only fair. Do you think that you want to try to Mem?”

  Mem. The word births a shiver, a delight, a fear. “I don’t know,” I tell her honestly. “I think I’d like to try. But after all you've said…I don’t know.”

  “I don’t want to go,” Violet whispers, then, her eyes dark with fear. “Charlie, she’s probably going to do something terrible, like last time. You know you’re not her favorite person anymore, and what if…” Charlie looks at her with hooded eyes, and Violet trails off, swallowing, fidgeting with the edge of her hoodie.


  There’s such sadness in Charlie's gaze that my breath catches in my throat.

  “What happened?” I ask, placing my fingers on Charlie's wrist. She stares at my hand for a moment, biting her lip.

  Then she jams her own hands into her pockets, leans against the wall of the Need Shop. “Isabel and I were together," she begins, her tone begrudging. "For a little while. When I was the Fetcher—with Edgar—for Black House.”

  Edgar doesn't glance up at this, his gaze pointed down the lane, toward the Wanting Market.

  “She was only with me because I was the best Fetcher." Charlie shakes her head. "You heard her. She aims to own Black House when Miss Black Fades or is Snatched. So she was only with me because she thought it might—I don't know—raise her status, because I was the best, and don’t the best always own the houses? When I began helping Florence…” She breathes out. “Isabel got angry. She wanted me to forget about Florence, said she was a lost cause."

  When Charlie looks at me, her eyes are shining. "She never really cared about me. It was very shallow, all of it.” She bites her lip, and Violet comes to her side, hugs Charlie's arm and rests her head on Charlie's shoulder.

  “You loved her,” says Edgar then, plainly, quietly. “And she ripped up your heart into neat little shreds, tidy monster that she is. And she can't seem to stop picking at the scabs she left behind.” He casts a mournful glance at me. “Isabel is a dedicated asshole, and has always been, and shall continue to be, an asshole.”

  “She wasn't always,” says Charlie, voice soft. “Things happen to us here in Twixt. This place changes us. You know that, Edgar.”

  He raises one brow and slowly shakes his head. “You’ve always been more forgiving than me.”

  “I’m sorry,” I breathe, because I'm desperate to ease Charlie's grief but feel helpless, unequipped. All I have are words, and they're not enough.

  Charlie shakes her head, rubs under her nose, sniffing. “It’s long past,” she tells me, straightening. She laughs a little, though it’s a weak sound, halfhearted, and she glances to the sky. “Soon this daylight will be past, too. We’ve got to get inside. We should probably start going—”

  “Going where?” asks Edgar, then, watching her closely. “Mad House? Or…" He quirks a brow. "Black House?”

  “Once we get where we’re going, we'll have to stay there for the night. Because of the Snatchers,” Violet explains to me, crossing her arms, shivering. “Charlie, I think—”

  “Let’s leave this one up to Lottie,” Charlie says, casting me a sidelong glance. “Abigail promised to watch over Florence, so we don’t have to go back." Her eyes search mine, and I feel my cheeks warm, even though I'm cold and shivering. "Do you want to go to the Memming party, Lottie? Do you want to try Nox?”

  That word—Nox—so short and sharp, does something to me, licks up my spine, sets my whole body trembling. I don’t know what to compare taking Nox to; I’ve never tried it. I know there are consequences, but I don’t know what they are, exactly. I know so little, really, hardly anything at all.

  But…

  What if I truly could have a memory? What if Nox could help me make sense of who I am, where I am? I’m so hungry for knowing in that moment that it’s an ache in my belly. I feel starved for it.

  I examine Charlie's face, but her expression betrays nothing. She wants me to try Nox, doesn’t she? Does she? A war wages within me, and I surrender, say the words that come naturally, unthinking, to my tongue: “Yes. I’d like to try it.”

  It.

  Nox.

  “You’re sure,” says Charlie, not a question, and I’m nodding. Edgar takes off his top hat, runs his hands through his hair, mussing it. And Violet carefully avoids my gaze.

  “Then let’s go,” says Edgar, words soft.

  “I’ll go with you,” Violet pipes up, her voice too high, her brows arched with surprise. “I don’t…" She clasps her hands before her. "I don’t want to be alone in Mad House.”

  She wouldn’t be alone, and I can see that Charlie is going to say something, make that point, but she stops herself, nods firmly, and pats Violet’s arm. “It’ll be all right, Vi. One night. And Edgar will be there with us. And Lottie can decide for herself. It’s the right thing, Vi. We can’t make this decision for her.”

  Violet searches my eyes, looking lost and frightened. She’s shaking a little.

  “Come on,” says Edgar, drawing the key to the Need Shop out of his pocket. “It’s almost sunset.”

  A chill shivers over my skin.

  With a click, Edgar locks the shop's door, and the four of us run down the alleyway as the light fades, seeping away.

  *

  Darkness oozes out of the sky, thick as blood, coating Abeo City slick with shadows. I watch this transformation from the open doorway, until Edgar shuts the door with finality, shrugging out of his coat and balancing his top hat on the wrought iron hook affixed to the wall.

  “Welcome to Black House,” he says, mouth sideways, gesturing toward the high-ceilinged hallway that seems to hold us within a cage of smooth marble pillars. He adjusts his collar, smoothes his hair. “You’re sure about this, Lottie?”

  “Yes,” I whisper, breathless, feeling the certainty move through me. Violet is staring very hard at the floor, and Charlie is watching me but not really watching me—she’s looking through me, hands lost in her pockets.

  “We’ll go Fetching together tonight, Charlie,” says Edgar, moving forward. “It’ll be like old times, won’t it?”

  She stares up at him, mouth twitching, before settling on a feeble half-grin.

  “Sure,” she whispers, coughing, clearing her throat. “Like old times.”

  The front hall of Black House is wider and cleaner than the one at Mad House: there is no dust upon the banister bordering the spiral staircase, and the front windows have unbroken glass, with heavy drapes drawn back. We walk over the gold carpeting toward a sprawling curve in the corridor, toward an archway and glimmering lights and eager voices.

  A ballroom, I think, when we stand—Charlie, Violet, Edgar and me—beneath the arch. The space glows with warmth: the chandeliers dangling overhead are alive with Wisps, and there are stoppered jars of Wisps lining the walls, set upon shelves carved with spirals.

  Charlie takes my arm gently, walks beside me as we step into the room, beneath the sparkling light. Motionless beneath a chandelier, yellow stars dance over Charlie's face, and her eyes seem to change color: from brown to copper to shimmery gold. I gaze at her, smile at her, and, surprised, she blinks, smiles back.

  "All right, Lottie?" she asks.

  I nod, speechless, and move further across the floor.

  The people—some standing, some seated—seem strange to me, and it takes me a moment to realize that it's because they are all dressed well, cleanly and neatly, like Edgar, like Isabel.

  Isabel…who sits on an overstuffed chair by the fire, laughing behind her hand at something a slim, dark-haired boy just whispered into her ear.

  I remove my eyes from her, feeling Charlie's comforting warmth at my side.

  Unlike the many bald or nearly bald people I glimpsed wandering the Wanting Market, the people here tonight all have hair on their heads, though some have far less than others. Still, it isn't hacked or sawed off but evenly cut. Neat.

  Everything here is neat.

  And I dislike it, though I can't say why.

  Violet and Edgar are talking quietly behind us, and I hear snatches of conversation from the rest of the room, but the only sound that begs my attention is Charlie's voice, speaking softly to me, only me: "I should've asked you yesterday if you wanted to Mem, if you wanted to try Nox. I should've given you the choice from the start. I just… Well, I'm sorry I didn't—"

  "Just stay with me," I whisper back to her, squeezing her arm and smiling weakly. "Stay with me until it's over, the memory, the…Mem—please?"

  "I'll stay." Her eyes gleam. "I'll be there, and after, too."

  A
group of Sleepers brushes past us rudely.

  “Sorry,” laughs a woman, who bumps particularly hard against my shoulder—intentionally—then glares back at me.

  "Who—"

  “They know we’re from Mad House,” Charlie groans, rolling her eyes. “The Sleepers from Black House tend to dislike the Sleepers from Mad House, like I told you. It’s…stupid.” She shrugs, clearing her throat. “They think they’re better than us. But we think we’re better than them—or some of us do. So we're both to blame.”

  The woman, wearing a long black dress that looks tailored to her figure and freshly pressed, is leaning close to one of the men she strolled in with. “Do you think Alice will make it back from the Harming Tree?" she whispers, tapping her fingers nervously against her throat. “She should have been back by now. It's after dark, and if—”

  “You know Brown House is closer to the forest than Black House. She likely made it there and back and is just waiting until morning to return here, because she’s a sensible woman. Don’t worry,” he mutters, caressing the small of her back.

  The woman twirls a lock of her hair over her shoulder and around her finger. They move away from us, and I lean toward Charlie, one eyebrow up, questioning. She shakes her head once, quickly.

  “The Harming Tree is just a superstition. They say that if you tie a lock of someone’s hair to the tree, nothing terrible can ever happen to them. They can't get Snatched, or Fade… But it’s not true, only a myth. Still, people go out into the woods, try to find the tree and make it to the Red Line. And most of the time, they don’t make it back.”

  The Harming Tree.

  I tuck the thought away in my heart.

  Isabel rises, then, grinning smugly, striding toward us across the cold marble floor. Charlie stands her ground, feet hip-width apart, chin jutting out toward the approaching girl, eyes slitted: a warning.

  “So glad you came.” Isabel’s grin grows smugger the nearer she draws to Charlie. “Will you all be Memming tonight?”