by Jodi Picoult
“What do we have here, Rapscullio?”
I look up to find Queen Maureen staring at me. Her crown glistens with diamonds and sapphires and rubies, blinding me. There are braided gold threads in the fabric of her gown. Soft ermine fur lines the inside of her majestic purple cape. The details I can see here, up close, are nothing like the illustrations in a book. This looks so real… because it is.
It’s like a dream. Haven’t you ever had one of those, where you are utterly and thoroughly convinced that you are awake and alive? That everything surrounding you is so detailed you could draw it from memory? That what’s happening is real?
Queen Maureen gasps. “Get the poor girl a blanket. She’s practically in her undergarments!”
A nobleman throws a horse blanket at me, and I wrap it around myself, although I’m fully dressed in a T-shirt and shorts. Thinking fast, I wonder what explanation I can possibly make for myself. The book is clearly closed, as nothing like this happens in the story. Which means everything that Oliver told me was true: there is a completely different world that happens between the lines.
“Your Majesty, I bring to you a despicable, detestable, reprehensible thief!” Rapscullio says, smiling sheepishly at the queen. “I’ve been using that thesaurus you bought me for Christmas.”
I stand up, hands on my hips. “For your information, I’m not a thief. And I’m not despicable, detestable, or reprehensible. In fact, some people would call me astute, intuitive, and perspicacious.” I lift my chin a notch. “English. Straight As.”
“Astute-Intuitive-and-Perspicacious,” Queen Maureen repeats. “That’s quite a mouthful, dear. Have you got a nickname?”
“No—my name is Delilah—”
“Then why didn’t you say so?” the queen asks.
“Because”—I jab a finger in Rapscullio’s direction—“he was too busy accusing me of being a thief.”
“I have it on direct authority from His Royal Highness Prince Oliver that this girl is a criminal.” Rapscullio sniffs.
Queen Maureen stares down at me. “She hardly looks like a felon. More like a vagrant.”
“I’m neither,” I say. “Go ask Oliver. He’ll explain everything.”
“You know the prince?” Queen Maureen asks. She looks me over from head to toe, in utter disbelief.
“Your Majesty?” a familiar voice says. “Did I hear you calling for me?”
And then, suddenly, I am only three feet away from Oliver. My heart starts hammering beneath my ribs. He is taller than I thought he’d be, and his eyes—well, they’re not the color of the ocean at all. They’re more like the sky at twilight. But his voice, it’s exactly how I’ve heard it. And the way his smile tips up on one side, that’s how I know it’s really him.
“Oliver!” I cry, and I lunge forward with my arms outstretched—
Smack.
I find myself flat on the ground, with three guards sitting on me.
“That’s quite enough,” Oliver says, pushing the guards out of the way and rolling me over. “Are you all right?” he asks, reaching to pull me up.
But I can’t say anything. And not because those guards knocked the wind out of me either.
Because for the first time, we are touching. Holding hands.
I think Oliver realizes this at the same moment, because we wind up staring at each other, transfixed.
A line from the fairy tale pops into my head:
This was why there was music, he realized. There were some feelings that just didn’t have words big enough to describe them.
“I’m afraid there’s been a misunderstanding,” Oliver manages, getting to his feet. “Delilah here is an old friend.”
“Then why did you need me to sketch a Wanted poster for—”
“I thought she was lost!” Oliver says, and then he grins widely. “And look at how well it worked, Rapscullio, since here she is! You deserve a reward. Queen Maureen, didn’t we get a rare Japanese water caterpillar as a state gift last month?”
“Oh, yes.” She claps her hands, and one of her footmen runs off to fetch it. “Funny,” she says, scrutinizing me. “I make it my business to know all the characters in the book, and yet I don’t think we’ve ever met. How could that be?”
“This is Delilah,” Oliver says, quickly glossing over her question. “Delilah, Queen Maureen.”
I stick out a hand, only to have Oliver elbow me in the side. “Curtsy,” he coughs.
Right. I sink into my best curtsy, which isn’t very good, given that I’m wearing a horse blanket.
“Where do you hail from, Delilah?”
“Oh, I live in New Hampsh—”
“Page twenty-two,” Oliver interrupts. “Delilah works in the butchery.”
“Butchery?” I whisper under my breath. “Really? That’s the best you could do?”
“How… intriguing,” Queen Maureen says. “You must come see our cattle sometime.”
“That would be… great,” I reply.
“Well, we’d better get going,” Oliver interjects. “Delilah was planning to show me how to trim out a roast.”
Queen Maureen shudders delicately. “I didn’t know you were interested in the trades, dear,” she says. “Have a lovely afternoon.”
Oliver grabs my hand (again!) and pulls me through the courtyard. We pass gardens filled with lady slippers and bluebonnets, a small sitting area with stone benches, and the royal croquet court. Finally, we come to the entrance of a maze. Oliver leads me into the center, where the boughs of trees form a tangled roof over our heads.
“It’s you,” he says. “It’s really you!” He pulls me into his arms and hugs me tight.
I thought I knew Oliver from reading this book over and over, but here are the things I didn’t know: that there is a spot near the hollow of his collarbone where I seem to fit perfectly. That he smells of freshly cut hay. That when we are touching, I can’t seem to hold a single thought in my head.
“I don’t know what happened,” I tell him. “I was reaching up in my closet one minute, and the next, I was falling through the pages.” I pinch my own arm. “Am I dreaming this?”
“No,” Oliver says. “You’re really here. Isn’t it remarkable? I can’t believe it worked.” He smiles at me. “Your freckles seem a lot smaller when your face isn’t the size of the whole sky.”
Embarrassed, I cover the bridge of my nose, and then I replay his words. “You can’t believe it worked,” I repeat slowly. “What do you mean by that?”
Oliver leans his forehead against mine. His breath smells like maple syrup. “When I tried to write myself out of the book, it failed. Since it didn’t seem like I was going to be able to leave any time soon, I had Rapscullio draw you into the book instead.”
I push away from him. “You did what?”
“I thought this way, we could be together. I knew you wouldn’t get hurt. I’ve seen him paint butterflies that come to life right off the page.”
“Wasn’t the whole point to get you out of the book? Now we’re both stuck here. Not to mention the fact that you didn’t even ask me before ripping me out of my life!”
Oliver shakes his head, confused. “But you told me you wanted to be with me.”
“Not like this,” I say, as the enormity of this situation washes over me. “What if I never get to leave?”
“As soon as the book’s opened up, it will correct itself,” he says, thinking out loud, but I can tell he hasn’t considered this beforehand.
“And who’s going to open that book, since I’m inside here?” I point out. “It’s jammed in a bookshelf at home with dozens of others. Plus, even if someone did find it and open it, how do you know I’ll wind up back in my world, and not disappear completely?”
“Then stay with me.” Oliver grips my arms. “Forever. Would that be so bad?”
“I’d never see my mom again,” I say, tears springing to my eyes. “She’d wonder what happened to me, and she’d never know the truth. And I’d never be able to tel
l Jules I’m sorry—” I break off, thinking of the fight we had. “It takes two people to make a friendship work, Oliver,” I say, repeating Jules’s words to me. Now I get it. Now I understand how devastating it is when one of the parties is thinking only about himself or herself. “Did you ever consider how I’d feel, being dragged here, to a place you’re dying to escape? Did you ever consider asking me for permission? Did you even think about me once before you went to Rapscullio?”
Oliver’s eyes are fierce, locked on mine. A muscle works in his throat. “You were all I was thinking about.”
I have never felt so alone, even with Oliver standing in front of me. “You wanted to leave your life,” I say. “I never wanted to leave mine.”
Tears stream down my face as I blindly run through the maze. I don’t know where I’m going, but it doesn’t really matter. Nothing does, if I can’t get back home.
I don’t let myself turn around to see if Oliver’s following me. I’m afraid he will be.
But I’m even more afraid he won’t.
* * *
My exit from the castle is much less eventful than my entrance. Several ladies-in-waiting nod at me as I pass through the courtyard, and the same guard who was sitting on my butt to restrain me wishes me a nice day as I leave. I find myself in a kingdom that’s not mine, in a world that’s not meant for me.
As soon as I am outside the castle walls, I start to run. I pass scenery that I recognize, but I don’t stop to take a second look. All I can think about is my mother, who is waiting for me downstairs with a bowl of popcorn. I wonder how long it will take her to figure out that I’ve gone missing. If she’ll call the police, what sort of explanation they will make for my disappearance. I wonder who’ll be there for her when she is devastated. Without me, my mom has nobody. It’s always been just the two of us.
The one ally I have in this place is someone who betrayed me. And if I can’t trust Oliver, then there’s no reason to be here. I suppose it’s stupid to think that anyone could be as incredible as I’ve made Oliver out to be in my mind. Clearly, that’s just been a figment of my imagination.
Here’s what no one ever tells you about love: it hurts, having your heart broken.
I find myself sitting on a rock at the edge of the water, where other jagged rocks stick up like sharks’ teeth. In the distance, Captain Crabbe’s boat bobs along the horizon. Timble Tower looms on the cliff overhead.
I hug my knees to my chest. What seemed exciting—trying to get Oliver out of the book—is absolutely terrifying now that I’m stuck inside it myself.
I reach beside me and pluck a dandelion, then close my eyes to make the wish: I just want to get out of here.
A little voice inside me says, That’s all Oliver ever wanted too.
This makes me cry harder.
The only person who understands how I’m feeling right now is the very same person I yelled at and ran away from.
“I’ve got to go back and talk to him,” I say out loud. But just as I am about to stand up, something grasps my arm at the wrist and yanks me headfirst into the ocean.
Panicked, I start splashing and striking out, trying to get to the surface, but I am wearing clothes and sneakers and sinking fast. I cry out and swallow water. What if I drown? What if I die here? I thrash even harder, desperate to get free.
A shark is swimming toward me. I go very still as I see its silver body cut through the water like a knife through butter. Its black eyes fix on me as I try to remember everything I learned from watching the Discovery Channel. Am I supposed to punch it in the nose or poke it in the eye?
The shark snaps its jaws so close to me that the water is sucked in like a vacuum, stirring the hairs on my arm. Before it can swim past me again, something wraps around my wrists and waist, restraining me. I struggle, only to hear a voice in my ear. “Don’t fight it,” a woman hisses. I realize that my bonds are tendrils of her hair, long and silver. Her face, close to mine, is sunken and terrifying, pocked with scales. Gills ripple on her neck and her ribs. Her entire lower half is a thick, muscular tail.
Right now I should be watching Ariel and Flounder dance happily across a television screen. I open my mouth to scream, but the mermaid grabs my face and plants a kiss square on my lips.
“What was that for?” I sputter, pushing away from her. I realize two things at that moment: The shark has drifted away. And I can breathe.
It is as if I have an astronaut’s helmet surrounding me. I take a few tentative breaths and then a bigger gulp. “How did you… I mean…”
As my vision clears beneath the water, I realize that all three mermaids are swimming nearby. Among the most unsettling parts of the fairy tale, when I first read it, were these women, with their tangled seaweed hair and emaciated bodies, the spiny fins on their forearms, the bloodred ridges of their gills flaring with each breath. Little girls dream of being mermaids, but not ones like these. They are, I realize, even more terrifying up close and personal than in an illustration. I have to keep reminding myself of what Oliver has told me: the characters in the story are nothing like the people they are when the book is closed. Maybe this means that the mermaids don’t intend to kill me.
“Where did you come from?” asks Kyrie, the mermaid who saved me from the shark.
“That’s a very long story,” I say.
“Oh, tell it,” cries Ondine, clapping her hands. “We haven’t had a new story in the longest time.”
“Sisters,” Marina murmurs, swimming closer to me. “Don’t pressure the boy. Can’t you see he’s scared?”
A boy? They think I’m a boy? That is enough to panic me into speaking out loud, because I know too well what these mermaids do to boys who fall into the waters near their home. “I’m not a boy,” I say.
Ondine twirls around me in a circle. “You’re dressed like one.”
“This is how all the kids dress, where I live.”
“Which is where, exactly?” Marina asks.
“In New Hampshire.” I hesitate. “It’s a kingdom pretty far away.”
“What brings you here?” Kyrie asks.
There is no way to explain to three characters inside a book that a world might exist beyond their imaginations. It’s why people don’t believe in aliens, and why no one else believes in Oliver. “It wasn’t exactly my idea to come,” I mutter. “This guy sort of summoned me.”
The mermaids look at each other. “Of course he did,” Ondine says.
“Leave it to a man to mess things up,” Marina agrees.
Kyrie shakes her head. “Men. You can’t live with them… you can’t legally drown them.”
Marina slips her arm through mine. “Honey, you’ve come to the right place. Whoever this guy is, you don’t need him.”
My jaw drops open. These mermaids, who are man-crazy in the fairy tale, are… hard-core feminists?
“What did he do to you?” Kyrie asks. “Flirt with another girl?”
“Call you fat?” Marina suggests.
“Talk about his ex?” Ondine says, and the others groan.
“We’ve been there, sister,” Marina says.
“No, none of those things,” I tell them. “He dragged me here against my will. He didn’t even ask me first.”
“That’s positively barbaric,” Ondine agrees.
Marina nods. “Good thing you managed to get away from him.”
Hearing those words, I feel an ache in my chest. After all this time I’ve spent trying to be near Oliver, it hurts to have swung to the other extreme. “The thing is,” I say very quietly, “I sort of wish I hadn’t.”
Marina sighs. “Love’s a tidal wave,” she says.
“Because it sweeps you off your feet?” I ask.
“No. Because it sucks you under and you drown.”
“But sometimes,” I point out, “it’s the only thing that keeps you afloat.” I realize that as angry as I am at Oliver for doing this to me—ripping me out of my home and my life and away from my mother—I’ve hurt h
im just as much by saying to his face that I don’t want to be here. After all, on the outside, I have Jules and my mother. Oliver has nobody but me.
“I think this one’s a lost cause,” Kyrie says to her sisters.
Marina sniffs. “If you’re not going to turn your back on that jerk, as least don’t be a doormat.”
“I don’t understand….”
“Make him sweat a little,” Ondine says. “Make him realize what he’s got to lose.”
This reminds me of the end of my first conversation with Oliver, when he bossed me around because he’s a prince and simply expected me to be his subject and didn’t realize I could close the book on him at any time. But now I don’t have that upper hand… not that I’ve needed it. These days, we’re equals.
“Oh, Lord,” Marina says. “She’s gone all moony-eyed.”
I thought I understood Oliver, but I really didn’t—not until I found myself here against my will. Stuck in this world that he so badly wants to escape, I completely, viscerally see what’s at stake for him.
Maybe in his shoes, I would have been as desperate. Maybe I would have drawn him into the book too.
“I’ve got to find him,” I announce.
“Are you sure?” Kyrie asks. “There’s plenty of other fish in the sea.”
“But not like him,” I say. I look at the mermaids. “Thank you. For the hospitality, and the oxygen. But I have to get to the surface.”
Marina smirks. “Not like that,” she says. “You’re practically wearing undergarments.”
Why does everyone here keep saying that?
Before I can protest, Kyrie and Ondine link their arms through mine and swim me deeper into the sea, toward the mouth of an underwater cave. I recognize the small rounded driftwood door in the rear, behind which is a collection of skeletons.
They pull me through a crevice I remember seeing in an illustration—except there’s no picture of what waits on the other side. The small cubby is filled with golden doubloons, jeweled goblets, and heaps of shining gems. “This… this is worth a fortune!” I gasp.