Twixt

by Sarah Diemer

  It’s as if, for a heartbeat, time stands still, because she looks almost like…like she knows me, recognizes me. The tension is palpable, the air charged. Her eyes grow too large, then narrow and shrink until she’s regarding me distantly, shrewdly, lips clasped together, chin poked high, as if nothing’s happened, as if she didn't just greet the sight of my face with open shock.

  “Where’s Florence?” Charlie demands, sprinting right past the counter toward Edgar’s back room. The older woman splutters, chasing after Charlie, though her steps are slow, and then Charlie is throwing open the door, staring down, shoulders shaking.

  Violet and I walk together down the hall, with Edgar behind us.

  And there’s Florence on the floor, stiff and cold, back arched, stilled. A scattering of black feathers litters the boards around her, gleaming like dark snow, and there's a pair of large shears spread out in her hands. Her eyes are rolled back in her head.

  She's Memming.

  Charlie crouches down beside her, raking her hands through her hair in frustration, tugging, and then she gathers up the feathers, one by one, snatching them and stuffing them into the crates. Florence’s breath comes in short, shallow pants, and she shakes as she lays there, arms spread to the world, back flat against the wooden floor. I notice, then, that she’s terribly thin, thinner than she was even the day before; it's as if she’s shrinking inward, as if her physicality is being stolen away from her with each pained breath.

  “Fuck,” Charlie whispers in a small, broken voice, the word cracking as she breathes out, leaning down gently, scooping Florence up in her arms. She hugs the girl to her chest tightly, bows her head over her. Then, in one turn, she’s out of the room, pushing past us all, aiming for the front door, her movements jerky but purposeful, jaw set.

  “You can’t just take a paying customer, one who paid good hair for—”

  "Matilda." Edgar steps forward, between the old woman and Charlie, shaking his head. He glowers over her, wetting his lips. “Don’t.”

  Undeterred, she snarls in his face. “I’ll tell the Sixers about this. See if I don’t,” she hisses, but she’s not watching him now; she’s staring at me. I stare right back, hands balled into fists at my sides as she sneers, scratching her too-long fingernails over her cheeks, raising red welts. It makes me shudder, the way she’s staring at me, the way she can’t take her eyes off me as she cuts herself with her nails like claws.

  I'll tell the Sixers…

  I swallow and turn on my heel, and then Violet and I are following after Charlie, running down the steps, through the Wanting Market, over the street, leaving Edgar and Matilda and the Need Shop with its shelves full of Nox behind us.

  We return to Mad House, stopping just beside the porch, where Charlie has brought Florence. Charlie’s tears course down her cheeks, plinking gently against Florence’s upturned face. The girl hasn’t woken from the Mem yet. Still and panting, she remains tangled in the Mem, cradled in Charlie’s arms, eyelids quivering, as if she’s searching the depths of her own darkness for something just out of reach, out of sight.

  Abigail hobbles back onto the porch, peering out at us beneath a shading hand and grimacing. She totters down the steps toward us and places a hand alongside Florence’s sunken cheek as Charlie lifts her gaze toward the old woman.

  They say nothing for a long moment, but when Abigail looks up, locking eyes with Charlie, her expression is grim. “Too late,” she says, her naturally sharp voice gentle now, soft. “She’ll likely Fade today, Charlie.”

  A strangled sound escapes Charlie’s throat, and then she’s collapsing down on the porch steps, holding Florence across her lap tightly, eyes squeezed shut. She breathes out raggedly, breathes in again, out again, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes.

  “I knew it was coming,” Charlie whispers, as Violet and I and Abigail stand around her, watching her with red faces and trembling chins. “I just didn’t think it’d be so soon. I thought… I thought I could help her. I thought I was helping her.” She bites her lip, stares up at the sky, blinking away her tears. “I was so wrong,” she says, and then she repeats the words over and over: “I was so wrong.”

  Abigail folds her arms in front of her, shakes her head. “Charlie, my girl, you did the best you could by her. That’s all anyone could have ever asked for—”

  “It was all useless." Charlie chokes on a sob. "You don’t understand.” She stares down at the fragile girl in her arms. “Florence wanted Nox too much, was addicted, and maybe I did her a disservice by trying to keep her from it. If this was always going to happen, if it was inevitable…” She staggers to her feet again, holding Florence before her, a doll with tightly shut eyes, breathing too fast, jagged ribs rising and falling beneath her thin dress.

  Charlie looks past us without really seeing, turns on her heel, and walks up the porch steps slowly, carrying Florence with her. Head bowed, she moves into Mad House through the open door.

  Violet scrubs at her eyes, stares heavenward as Abigail sighs heavily, shaking her head.

  “She cares too much. She’s always cared too much,” Violet’s saying, and then she heaves out a single breath, curling her small hands into fists. “I’ve got to help them.”

  “How,” says Abigail, not a question, her mouth drawn flat, an unamused line. “The only way you can help Charlie is if you’re there for her when Florence Fades away, which might happen any moment now. I've seen Sleepers like this before… Too many of them." The line of her mouth trembles. "I doubt she’ll last until sundown.”

  Violet weeps into her cupped hands as Abigail glances up at the sky, squinting. “Charlie loved that poor, troubled girl like a little sister. Always took care of her, she did. You’d have never come to Mad House, Violet, if Charlie hadn’t been so worried about Florence taking Nox." She nods, blinking fast. "So no matter what, it was a good thing Charlie did,” says Abigail, still nodding, folding her arms and waddling back up the steps toward the door. “You all needed to come to Mad House. And now here you are.”

  She goes in, the door creaking shut behind her, and Violet flops down on the porch steps, running her fingers through her dark hair. “It wasn't supposed to be like this,” she whispers, staring up at me, eyes bright. “Charlie brought Florence here so that we could save her. She wasn’t supposed to…Fade, not ever.”

  Violet looks down for a long while at her hands, at the black lines slashed across her palms, and then she stills, and then she’s standing, straightening her hoodie, clearing her throat. "Lottie…"

  "What is it?" I ask her, resting a hand on her arm.

  “I’m going to go to the Harming Tree,” she tells me—firmly, clearly, her voice only shaking at the end, and then only a very little. “I could help Florence, save her, if I run there and back.”

  “The Harming Tree?” I repeat, remembering Charlie's disdain for it. “Charlie said that's just a superstition.”

  "No," Violet insists. “It’s a tree, at the edge of the Red Line.” She's breathless, stepping forward, cheeks flushed. “If I run all the way, I'll be able to reach it in time, I think.” She slides her hands into her hoodie pocket and brings out a tiny lock of hair. “I stole it from Matilda’s counter,” she whispers then, swallowing, pocketing the lock of hair once more. “If I can get to the tree and tie the hair on, Florence won’t Fade. She'll be fine, good as new. It'll work, Lottie. Everyone says so.” She’s searching my eyes now with her own, pleading, as if she's begging me to agree, to support her plan.

  I glance up at Mad House, black curtains drawn over the windows, and I remember Charlie’s hand at my elbow, at my back—strong and firm, safe. I remember the fear in her eyes when she found out about the courtyard game…and I remember how she swallowed that fear, stepped forward and embraced me, anyway, even though the Snatcher refused me. Even though I'm...

  I don't know.

  I don't know what I am.

  I glance down at Violet, small, cowering Violet, who’s shaking now as she gla
nces toward the wall that surrounds Abeo, holding back the clawing, bony forest.

  Violet, who would risk her life for Florence, dare the night and the Snatchers…

  “If you give me the lock of hair,” I whisper, swallowing, “I’ll go. Let me do it.”

  Violet jerks her head around, staring at me with wide, unblinking eyes. “You?” she murmurs, and I know before the word is out of her mouth that she’s relieved, though it hadn't occurred to her to ask me. She was going to go, she truly was, despite her deep and rational fear.

  "Lottie, are you sure? You hardly know Florence—"

  “It makes the most sense. You know it does. The Snatcher didn’t want me,” I grimace, reminding her of something she’s surely not forgotten. “I can run all the way. You just have to tell me where to go.”

  What I don’t speak aloud is the compulsive thought that twists in my heart, lodged there like a splinter in skin: I need to get out of Abeo City. I need to see if there’s something more.

  “Ye-yes,” says Violet quickly, tripping over the word. “Look…” She points over the wall to the towering trees. “If you keep Abeo at your back—Do you see that tall tree, way out there?”

  A single tree scrapes the sky above the others, though it's far away, farther away than I can imagine.

  “That’s the Harming Tree,” Violet whispers, and then she’s taking my hand, pressing the warmed lock of hair into my palm. “Lottie, why are you doing this?” she asks, the question I hoped she wouldn’t voice.

  I stare down at my palm, curled in her small, shaking hands, with the wisp of fair hair nestled against my blackened lifeline.

  “For Charlie," I breathe, feeling tears spring to my eyes. "Because Charlie was kind to me, has been kind from the beginning, and even after, when…" I bite my lip, holding back tears, and shake my head. "She deserves kindness in return,” I whisper, curling my fingers over the hair. I swallow, blink, breathe out. “And because of Florence,” I add, not because it's expected but because it's true. If I can help that poor, suffering girl… If I am the only person who might walk through the night unassaulted by Snatchers, it's my duty to try.

  Maybe it's why I'm here.

  Violet’s brow is still furrowed, worried, but she nods, squeezing my hand.

  “Please hurry,” she whispers, and then I’m tucking the bit of hair into my pocket, leaving Violet by the porch.

  Just concentrate. I close my eyes as I approach the wall, move forward, holding my breath, holding out my hands.

  And then I open my eyes, and I’m on the other side, Mad House obscured from sight by the stony wall that surrounds Abeo City.

  Everyone I know is behind me now. I’m alone in the woods, and I stand there and breathe, my legs shaking. It's all so sharp: the trees, the metal stink of the snow in my nose, the curve of my fingernails against my palms. The branches outlined against the sickly gray of the sky look like jagged bits of broken wood, and snow lies over the fallen branches on the ground like a shroud.

  I shiver as I step forward, a twig breaking beneath my boot.

  No. I can’t walk. I have to run. I gulp in a great lungful of air, ball my fists, and then take off, weaving between the trees.

  I risk a glance over my shoulder, can hardly make out the shadow of the city behind me now, above the wall, but it’s still there. And even though I’m so small, so low in the forest, I can still glimpse the hulking of the largest tree, the Harming Tree, ahead. It's far, but it's there, a lure pulling me forward.

  I keep running.

  My skin pricks like I’m being watched. I try not to waste energy by glancing up at the trees, where the Snatchers had been perched that first night, when they came for Charlie and me.

  Or…maybe just for Charlie. Maybe not for me.

  Recklessness tugs at the corners of my heart as I sprint through the woods, the wind blowing my thick mane of black curls behind me, the branches tugging at my boots and my skirts and my arms and my face, but I ignore it all, keeping the towering tree in my line of sight.

  The Snatcher did not want me. It only watched me from the awning, wings clasped about it like a great black cloak, watching me with its hollows for eyes but seeing me, I believe, all the same. Its right wing was misshapen, as if something had broken it long ago, and that visual is so crisp within me. Even through the horror of that moment, it surprised me, fascinated me.

  The Snatcher was different from the others, and it had not taken me.

  Maybe the others won’t take me, too.

  I run, and I breathe in and out, and I don’t grow tired. The trees move and shift around me, slowly, softly, and the snow crunches beneath my boots, and I feel the false heaviness of the slight wisp of hair in my dress pocket. I keep the tree before me, and the shrinking shadow of Abeo behind me, and I dash through the forest, and I don't stop, no matter how my chest and legs begin to ache.

  As the gray light around me darkens, as the shadows of the trees reach sharp fingers toward me, as if to grasp me, snatch me up, I reach the tree and stand before it, panting.

  It towers, endless, a stark, dark sentinel that points upward to the sky, as if in warning. On the lowest branches, tied with strips of cloth and ribbon and lace, are snips of hair, waving in the wind like leaves. There is red hair and brown hair, black and blonde and gray and white hair, and the locks flutter in the soft, cool exhalations of air that sweep through the surrounding woods.

  I pause, breathing out, watching the closest branch to me quiver, the countless scraps of hair and cloth tied to it causing it to bend gently beneath the weight, arching toward the ground as if bowing to begin a dance.

  I palm the wisp of hair in my pocket and bring it out, staring down at its smallness, a pale curl against the black line of my palm.

  I can’t linger, can't delay.

  I gulp down air, and I step forward, toward the trunk of this tree, the trunk that’s black, that should not be black but is, like a shadow, and I crouch down, tugging at the edge of my dress’s hem, worrying a small tear, pulling. The tearing sound is loud in the stillness as I rip a bit of the fabric free, and then I’m closer to the trunk, staring up at it.

  There's so much hair flicking back and forth along the branches, but the majority of the snipped-off strands are tied to the trunk.

  How much hair is there? How many Sleepers does this represent? Did the ritual work for any of them? Did it save any of them from Fading? I stare up and up, at all of the little flutterings, and I think of the people I’ve seen in Abeo City. There are always crowds in the Wanting Market, but the people number far fewer than the wisps of hair present here. How many Sleepers have journeyed out to this Harming Tree to keep themselves or someone they loved safe? How many?

  How many failed?

  My heart begins to knock against my ribs with a heavy, pulsing hand as I tie the wisp of hair to a bit of bark that juts out along the trunk, feeling suddenly not as if I'm saving Florence's life but, perhaps, marking a memorial for her. My fingers are shaking, and it takes me two tries to complete the knot. I back away from my handiwork, and three steps back, the wisp of Florence’s hair blends into the trunk, as if it’s always been there, companion to the nameless others.

  A movement beyond the tree catches my attention, then, because it’s a band of bright color in this shadowed world, the black of trees and the white of snow. I catch my breath, step past the great trunk.

  A red ribbon is tied around a little sapling. It twirls and spins in the breeze as I reach out and touch it. It’s as red as blood and as soft as hair. I pull my hand back and watch it twist back to its original shape against the little branch.

  Could this be the Red Line?

  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.

  I can hear Charlie’s words as if she’s right here beside me, and a shudder moves through me, remember
ing her soft eyes, our almost-kiss...

  I know she wouldn’t agree with my coming here alone. She called the Harming Tree a superstition, but if there's a chance, if it might work, and the Snatchers don't want me, anyway…

  I had to come.

  Despite my grim thoughts, why couldn’t the Harming Tree work? Aren’t there stranger things in Twixt every day?

  I turn to go. You have to head back when you reach the Red Line, Charlie said, and I didn’t even start out at the earliest point in the morning. I breathe in and out, trying to still the hammering of my heart, but I pause in my turning, my back still to the tree, eyes fixed.

  My gaze clung to the bright red of the ribbon before; all I could see was the Red Line.

  But beyond the Red Line…

  I stare, breath frozen in my lungs.

  The trees there look…strange.

  A line of gray stretches beyond the small sapling decorated with the red ribbon. It’s an actual line, for the snow beyond it simply…stops. And then, beyond that, the earth is gray, like charcoal, like soot. And the trees look like half-trees, half-imagined, half-real, scribbles in pencil on paper. I rub at my eyes, but the trees don't change, still look drawn, one-dimensional, so I step forward, putting a single boot past the sapling, a single boot still on the snow and just touching that gray line.

  I’m compelled as if by gravity, a tugging at the center of my ribs—where my heart is, I suppose. Something from within pulls me on, and I take another step. Another.

  I’m still half on the snow and half on the gray. I stare down at my boots but stop, gasp, breath coming faster as I stare down, disbelieving, at my hands.

  They’re not my hands.

  I lift them up, heart beating, beating, because my hands aren’t pale skin and thin, shaking fingers. Not anymore.

  I step back so quickly that I fall into the snow, catching myself with hands that are mine again, the nightmare disappearing as quickly as a breath is lost to the air.