by Jodi Picoult
Marina nods. “When ships don’t make it around the Cape of Passing Tides, we collect what’s left behind.” She picks up a diamond tiara. “You just never know when the stuff is going to come in handy.”
Kyrie dives into a pile of gleaming coins, sending them spinning in slow motion in the water. She emerges a moment later, holding a swath of indigo velvet. “I think this one will bring out her eyes,” she says, shaking out a gown with lace at the neckline and sleeves. Golden embroidery crisscrosses the bodice. It’s prettier than anything I’ve ever seen.
Ondine unlaces the back of the gown as Kyrie helps me out of my clothes. I step into the puddle of billowing fabric. The mermaids pull it up around me and tie me in tight. They swim back, examining me.
“What?” I say. “Is it awful?”
“There’s something missing…” Marina muses. She reaches into a wooden chest beside her and pulls out a rope of pearls, fastening it around my neck. “There. Perfect.”
“You think?” I ask shyly, and in response, they reach for my arms again and swim me out of the watery cave, up to the surface. I find myself balanced on the same rock where I’d been sitting earlier, crying.
I look at my reflection in the water. I’m stunning. If a little damp.
The mermaids bob in the waves, the sleek caps of their hair glistening in the sunlight. “This time,” Marina says, “that guy will never let you out of his sight.”
That’s what I’m hoping. I want to go home, but I want Oliver to come with me. Which means we both owe each other an apology.
I look at each of the mermaids in turn. “I can’t thank you enough,” I say.
They all sigh, or maybe that’s just the sound of the ocean crashing against the rocks, because when I look back they’ve disappeared, and if not for the fact that I’m wearing a very pretty, very soggy gown, I would think I’ve imagined the whole thing.
* * *
I am halfway back to the castle when the ground beneath my feet starts rumbling. I look overhead, expecting a thunderstorm, but all I can see are the dangling bits and pieces of words. Suddenly, there is a cloud of rising dust and a distant whinny, and I can make out the figure of Oliver riding his horse at a breakneck pace in my direction.
When he sees me, he pulls back on the reins, and Socks rears, his front legs pawing at the air in front of him. Oliver dismounts and rushes toward me. Before I can even apologize, he grabs me and hugs me tight. “I’m so sorry,” he says. “I wasn’t thinking of how much you had to lose. Only of how much I had to gain.”
I hug him back. “I know. We’ll find a way to get me home. But you’re coming with me.”
Behind me, I hear sniffles.
“That”—Socks gulps—“is just so romantic!”
Oliver clears his throat. “Socks? I think you know the way home?”
“That I do,” Socks says proudly.
“Good. Then why don’t you go there. Now.”
“Oh! You mean… Yup, right, third wheel. Got it.” Sheepishly, he bows his head and trots back along the path he rode in upon.
“I don’t think I really understood how you felt until now,” I admit. “To want so badly to be somewhere else.”
“I should never have assumed you belonged only to me,” Oliver says. “I wish there was a way to tell your mother you’re all right.”
At the mention of my mother, a cloud passes over my features.
Oliver touches my cheek gently. “Is there anything I can do to make you happy?”
“You can hold me,” I say, and in that instant, I am pulled into his arms again. I can feel his heart beating against mine, and the heat of skin. I can feel his fingers spread across the small of my back. He is every bit as real as I am. “Oliver,” I repeat slowly, the magic of this miracle truly sinking in. “You can hold me.”
“That’s not all I can do,” Oliver says. He frames my face with his hands and gently, tenderly, presses his lips to mine.
This is so not like Leonard Uberhardt, the first boy who kissed me, or rather swallowed half my face. This is sweet and soft. It’s like there is a whole story Oliver is telling me without words, as if what he’s feeling can’t be described, and has to be experienced instead.
When we break apart, I am breathing hard, and I cannot take my eyes off his.
“You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to do that,” Oliver says.
I wind my arms around his neck. “Let’s do it again,” I suggest.
He puts his hands on my wrists and pulls me away. “I should think you, of all people, would realize we’ve got other things we need to do first.”
He’s right, of course. I want to go home. But that doesn’t mean I’m not disappointed, just a little.
Oliver seems to notice, for the first time, what I’m wearing. “What happened to you?”
“Mermaids,” I explain.
“I’m surprised they didn’t try to convince you to stay away from me,” he says. “They’re generally not too fond of men.”
“So what’s your plan? How do we get back home?” I ask.
“Well,” Oliver says, his face flushing. “I’m still trying to figure it out.”
“But you always know what to do. No matter what situation you’re thrown into, or whatever scrape you wind up in, you figure a way out.”
“That’s just the way I’m written,” Oliver confesses. “If I were truly clever, I’d be out of this book by now.”
“But in the book you always—”
“In the book I also fall in love with Seraphima every time,” Oliver interrupts. “And believe me, that’s an act.”
I feel chilled all of a sudden. The enormity of my situation is becoming more clear. I’m stuck in a fairy tale that may never be opened again. After reading the story so many times, I’ve confused bits of the true Oliver and the fictional Oliver. I’m just not sure anymore what’s real.
I don’t realize I’ve said it aloud until Oliver reaches for my hand. “We are,” he says. “This is.”
By now the sun has slipped lower in the sky and has painted the horizon a vivid orange. “We’d best be getting home,” Oliver says, and I sit up a little straighter. “And by home,” he says, wincing, “I meant the palace.”
He tugs me to my feet and leads me down a beaten path through the field. I can feel the warmth of his shoulder against mine, and I can smell the scent of pine, which clings to his tunic. In front of us, fairies dance like fireflies, writing our initials in the dusky violet sky. I find myself smiling at their acrobatics, amazed to see the tiny creatures right before my eyes. As much as I want to leave this world, it’s breathtaking.
I am so wrapped up in the moment, in fact, that I don’t even see Seraphima until she is three feet in front of us. She stands with her eyes wide, her pale blond hair cascading down her back, her perfect features frowning in confusion. “Oliver?” she asks.
“Oh, um, hi, Seraphima,” he says. “Have you met… my cousin Delilah?” Oliver turns to me, whispering. “It’s not her fault she’s clueless. I don’t want to hurt her. Just go along with me.”
Seraphima bestows the sweetest smile upon me. “Delilah!” she says, grasping my hands in her own. “I just know you and I are going to be the best of friends!”
I muster a smile in response. “I bet,” I manage.
“It’s getting late, and my mother’s expecting us,” Oliver says.
“Of course!” Seraphima replies. She gives me an impromptu hug. “Maybe we can go shopping tomorrow in the village square?”
“Um…”
“Delilah’s got a full schedule tomorrow,” Oliver interjects. “But maybe the day after.” He tugs me away and starts walking down the path.
“Oliver!” she calls out. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
He stops, turns toward her again. “I don’t think so…” he says, grinning through clenched teeth.
Seraphima runs the short distance between them and throws her arms around his neck, kissing him full o
n the mouth. Pulling away, she bats her eyelashes. “Dream about me,” she says shyly.
The minute we turn a hairpin bend in the road I elbow Oliver in the ribs. “Your cousin?” I say.
“It was the first thing I could come up with,” he says. “I feel bad for her, okay?”
“Still, you didn’t have to kiss her!”
“She kissed me!” Oliver argues.
“You didn’t exactly fight her off,” I point out.
Oliver beams. “Someone’s a bit jealous.”
I toss my hair. “You wish.”
He twines his fingers with mine. “I did,” he says. “It came true.”
* * *
By the time we reach the castle, night has fallen. There are torches lining the drawbridge that leads to the doors, and the knights that stand at attention on either side like statues bow as Oliver walks by. “I can see how you might wind up with an inflated ego,” I murmur.
“I prefer to call it confidence,” Oliver says.
When we walk inside, we are in a huge stone hall. Tapestries line the walls, woven with pictures of princesses and knights from the past. A crystal candelabrum ringed with burning candles hangs overhead, casting long shadows on the floor. A footman approaches, dressed in dark blue velvet, with the royal crest embroidered over his chest. “Your Highness,” he says. “Queen Maureen has retired with an ache of the head, but she wishes your guest to know she’s welcome to stay in the north turret. The chamber’s been prepared.”
“Thank you,” Oliver says. “I’ll see Lady Delilah there myself.”
“As you wish,” the footman says, and he offers the candle he’s holding to Oliver.
My stomach rumbles. “Is there any chance I could just make a quick peanut butter and jelly sandwich before we go upstairs?” I whisper.
“What’s a sandwich?” Oliver asks.
“A snack,” I correct. “I’m sort of hungry.”
He grins. “If I know Queen Maureen, you won’t have to worry about that.” The footman has vanished, leaving us alone in the Great Hall. I follow Oliver, holding on to his hand so that he can guide me through the dark. As we start up a spiral stone staircase, the candlelight jumps on the walls, revealing our silhouettes.
We climb seven stories. Finally, Oliver pulls me onto the landing and stops in front of a heavy wooden door. “I know it’s not home, but I hope this will do,” he says, and he pushes it open.
The chamber has high, vaulted ceilings and an ornately carved four-poster bed draped with gauze netting. A fire blazes in the hearth. Two red velvet chairs are arranged in front of the fireplace, and on a low wooden table nearby is a feast: a roast chicken, a bowl of fresh fruit, a platter of tiered cakes, two loaves of bread, and dishes piled high with vegetables. “Oliver,” I say, “how much does she think I eat?”
He smiles. “Cook tends to go a bit overboard.”
“Well, I’m not going to let it go to waste. Come on in and grab a fork.”
He looks horrified. “I can’t come into your chamber.”
“Why not? You’ve been in my room dozens of times.”
His face reddens. “It’s different in here, somehow.”
“No, it’s not. Besides, we’re seven stories up in a tower. Who’s going to know?”
For the next few hours, Oliver and I sit in front of the fire making a small dent in the sumptuous meal. He regales me with stories of practical jokes he’s played on Frump, and gives me brief verbal sketches of each of the characters I am likely to meet. I tell him about my fight with Jules and how my mother tried to cheer me up. Then our conversation turns to a brainstorming session as we try to figure out what we can do to force an exit from the story.
“As soon as the book is opened,” Oliver says, “you’ll disappear, because you aren’t part of the story.”
“Even if that’s true—which you don’t know for sure—you wouldn’t go with me. We’d be right back where we started.”
“But isn’t it better to have at least one of us on the outside, instead of neither?”
I can’t answer that, not honestly. Before, I wanted Oliver by my side, but I didn’t really know what I was missing. Now that I understand what it feels like to be near him, it’s going to be that much harder to have it taken away.
“The book is stuck on a shelf in my bedroom. No one’s ever going to notice it, much less open it.”
“Then we have to force its hand,” Oliver says. “There must be a way to get a book to open itself.”
“Magic,” I suggest, joking.
Oliver looks up at me. “Of course,” he says, raising his brows. “We need to start with Orville.”
I stifle a yawn with my hand, but Oliver sees me do it. “You,” he says, getting to his feet, “have had a very long day. It’s time for you to go to sleep.”
He takes the candleholder he used to lead us upstairs and walks to the door. “You can’t just leave me here alone,” I say, panicking. What if I go to sleep, and when I wake up, this is all gone? I don’t know the rules of this world. I don’t know what’s likely to happen.
“I’m right downstairs,” Oliver says. “One flight. Stomp on the floor and I’ll come running.”
We are standing at the threshold to my chamber. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” I say, repeating Seraphima’s words.
He grins, then leans down and kisses me good night. We are both still smiling when we break apart. Oliver starts down the stone steps. “Dream about me, Cousin,” I call out.
I can hear him laughing all the way down the stairs.
page 44
Oliver could feel the mortar of the stone tower beneath his fingernails. He didn’t know how much longer he was going to be able to hold on. But then again, below him there were only crashing surf and jagged rocks. One false move, and he would surely be dead.
With a mighty heave, he hoisted himself onto the wide stone ledge of the tower window.
But instead of seeing a beautiful princess, the girl of his dreams, the one he’d traveled far and wide to find—he saw a tall, caped man pacing back and forth. “Well?” the man demanded.
His voice was like fog crawling over the horizon. His hair fell like a raven’s wing over one brow, and a scar that ran the length of his face curved his mouth downward. His fingers were long and bony, tapping impatiently on his arms.
“I don’t have all day,” he said.
No one had told him to expect anyone other than his true love in this tower, but in retrospect, Oliver knew that he should have anticipated this. If it had been easy, someone else would have rescued Seraphima by now.
Before he could begin to wonder how he—a boy who didn’t even carry a sword and who had promised his mother he wouldn’t fight—could defeat a villain who was at least six inches taller and forty pounds heavier, Seraphima emerged from behind a folding screen.
She was wearing a dress so white it was dazzling, beaded and jeweled at the bodice, and with sleeves that tapered down to her fingers. On her head was a gossamer wedding veil.
Immediately, over Rapscullio’s shoulder, she saw Oliver.
Oliver’s eyes lit upon her silver hair, her violet eyes, her heart-shaped face. And just like that, something inside shifted very subtly, so that all the empty spaces in him suddenly disappeared, so that his breath was timed to hers, so that his blood sang.
This was why there was music, he realized. There were some feelings that just didn’t have words big enough to describe them.
Seraphima’s lips parted. “Finally,” she whispered, as if she had known he was coming all along.
But that one word was enough to make Rapscullio turn around, his cape billowing like a cloud of smoke. “Well, well,” he said, every word a whipping, “look who’s crashed the party.”
OLIVER
THE NEXT MORNING, I ARRANGE FOR A PICNIC breakfast with Delilah in the tower where I rescue Seraphima. I figure that before we start out to Orville’s cottage, we should be fortified.
And I kind
of want to spend a few more minutes alone with her, instead of letting Queen Maureen grill her over the banquet table.
I thought I’d memorized everything there was to know about Delilah—from her freckles to her favorite blouse to the way she always gives her goldfish an extra helping of food—but as it turned out, there was so much left to learn. Like the fact that her skin is as soft as a feather, and that her hair smells of apples. Her hand fits mine like the last piece of a jigsaw puzzle.
Delilah scrambles up the tower steps ahead of me, kicking her skirts out of the way. “Stupid dress,” she mutters.
“It may be stupid,” I reply, “but it looks quite nice on you.”
She looks over her shoulder at me. “I bet you’d feel different if you were the one wearing it. Have you ever traipsed through a meadow in heels? I think not.…”
“I don’t traipse. Men don’t traipse. We… swagger.”
Delilah bursts out laughing. “Swagger? You?”
Affronted, I pause on the steps. “What? What’s the matter with the way I walk?”
But before Delilah can answer, she reaches the top of the tower and gasps. “Oliver,” she says, “when did you do all this?”
“Every now and then, having a castle full of servants is a real perk,” I say. I peek over her shoulder and see that they have exceeded my expectations. A sheepskin blanket has been draped over the middle of the floor, and a feast is spread across it. There’s an entire roast turkey, and apricot chutney, and stuffed figs. There are olives and grapes and plums piled high in the queen’s best china bowls. A carafe of blackberry cider sits beside two golden chalices.
“I’m going to gain ten pounds before I leave this place,” Delilah mutters. “A piece of toast would have been fine.”
Doves coo in the rafters above us as she sits down on the blanket, her loathed dress whispering around her. She pops a grape into her mouth and sighs. “This is so unreal. I feel like a princess.”