by Alex Flinn
“Jack?” Her voice follows me to the door.
“Shhh,” I say. “Don’t wake my parents.”
“Sorry,” she whispers, a really loud whisper.
“What is it?” I say, coming closer to her so she won’t have to yell.
“I am sorry,” she whispers again.
“You said that already.”
“No. I mean about tonight. About drinking too much and going off with that boy, Robert, and allowing him to…almost allowing him…”
“That wasn’t your fault. He’s a sleaze.”
“And what sort of party was that, anyway? There was no food, no dancing! When Father gave parties, there was a feast! I do not like your sort of parties.”
I laugh. “Me neither.”
“But I like your French fries. Are they really French?”
“I don’t know.” I lean to kiss her on the forehead. “I’m sorry about tonight, too.” I start to leave the room.
“Jack?” She stops me again. “Do you love Amber?”
“No.” I know that for sure. “No. I am totally over the Amber thing.”
“Good. She is not a nice young lady.”
I open the door, then start to close it again. That’s when I hear her voice, real small, like she’s trying to be good and not wake my parents. “Do you love me?”
But I pretend not to hear her, because I really don’t know.
Chapter 18:
Talia
I am asleep on a mattress of Jell-O shots. It jiggles and wiggles, but when I try to bite it, it tastes most unpleasant. Still, I see it, orange, red, yellow, and blue, and it begins to break into individual Jell-O shots, which dance before me, laughing and singing.
Princess, in your dreams we creep,
To dance by light of moon.
Though we may disturb your sleep,
You’ll sleep forever soon!
Over and over, louder and louder, dancing dangerously around me. I wish to open my eyes, to run from the room, to stop them. But my eyes remain stubbornly shut. The Jell-O mattress holds me fast. Their whirling motion mesmerizes me, turning to a blur of light and color.
And through it all, I see Malvolia.
I know it is Malvolia because she appears exactly as I saw her three hundred years ago, a humpbacked old woman in robes of black, holding a spindle in a gnarled hand.
But gradually her spine straightens and she is young. The spindle fades, and the room around her changes. It is not a castle but a peasant’s cottage made of stone with a thatched roof. Through the windows, I see woods and one lone holly bush. I know that holly bush! I know where she is, deep in the Euphrasian hills, where Lady Brooke and I used to picnic when I was small. Could Malvolia have been so close by? Could she have been watching me all those times?
“Ah, Princess, we meet again! You are well, if intoxicated?”
I do not, cannot, answer. Is she real or merely a dream?
“Cat got your tongue, Your Highness? No matter. I am aware that rudeness runs in your family.”
For this, I have no answer, either. The woman, Malvolia, looms closer until her face is the only thing I can see.
“You were wondering if I watched you when you came to picnic with your governess near my cottage on the tallest hill.” She laughs at my surprise. She is real, not a dream. I am certain of it, for I can feel her warm, sour breath on my face. “Of course I did, Princess. I watched you from the windows under the eaves. Those who place curses are always curious to see if the accursed one is turning out well. But that was not the only time I watched. I also watched when you were in the castle. I watched you as you studied naked drawings behind your art master’s back. I knew from that that you would not be immune to temptation—to the spindle’s lure—and on that fateful day, when you came to me in your quest for more and better dresses, I knew you would be alone.”
I gasp. It was my fault for tricking Lady Brooke away. But still, I can say nothing through my sleep, intoxication, and despair. It is as if I have died and am merely a ghost, watching those still alive.
“Do not worry, Princess.” The witch’s voice is soothing. “You will not have to return to your cruel father. I shall be there soon.”
And then she is gone. The whirling, singing Jell-O demons, the shaking Jell-O bed, return. I cannot move. I can barely breathe. In the light from the window, I try to examine my arms and legs. Have the Jell-O demons tied me up? Will they take me away?
Then, suddenly, there is a knock on the door.
It is Malvolia!
No. It is not Malvolia. Malvolia would not knock.
“Talia, are you okay?”
Jack!
The Jell-O demons vanish, wishing to be seen by no one but me.
“Talia?”
I will my lips to form words.
“Yes?”
“Can I come in?”
I straighten the T-shirt and pants I was given in which to sleep. “Yes, please.”
The door opens. It is still dark in the hallway, dark everywhere. What time is it in Euphrasia? When Malvolia appeared, it seemed like morning. I could see the sunlight.
“Did I wake you?” he asks.
“No. I mean, yes, but I am glad you did.”
“Yeah?” He lights a lamp. I try to turn away from him, that he may not see my face, but it is too late. He does. “Hey, what’s wrong?”
“I saw her again!”
“Who? Amber?”
“Worse. Malvolia. The witch Malvolia. She was in this very room.”
He kneels beside me and takes my hand. “Nah, that’s impossible. My parents have alarms and broken-glass sensors, the works. Not a single witch is getting in this room, no sir.”
I have no idea what a broken-glass sensor might be, and the word alarm means the palace guards telling of the presence of an intruder. There are no guards around Jack’s house, though. “It matters not. Malvolia can get past anything. She has done so already. It was her. She is coming for me!”
“It was your imagination.”
“She was in her cottage. She said she would take me there. She has been watching me forever. She knew everything about me, and I could see her, even though she wasn’t here. She was communicating with me through magic.”
“She was in your head.”
“Exactly. She’s in my head!”
“No. I mean, she’s in your mind. It’s all in your mind. You had beer and Jell-O shots, so you’re dreaming about witches or fairies or whatever they were.”
“Jell-O demons!”
“Jell-O demons?”
I nod. “They seemed so real.”
“That’s because you’ve never been drunk before. Believe me, last year, Travis and I drank some tequila from his parents’ liquor cabinet, and I was seeing purple monkeys. That’s why I try not to drink much anymore.” He pats my shoulder.
“I suppose.”
Then Jack takes me in his arms, and although I am still distraught, I cannot help but notice how well I fit in them, my head perfectly right for the crook of his neck. I snuggle closer, enjoying his nearness in a way which would have been scandalous in my time. His arms are safe, warm, and strong, and he whispers, “I won’t let anyone take you away.”
“But your mother said I could only stay one week.”
“I’ll deal with my mother. We’ll find somewhere else for you to stay. You don’t have to go back to your parents if you don’t want to.”
But if he does not love me…I remember Malvolia’s words. “Do not worry, Princess. You will not have to return to your cruel father.” I feel a sudden chill from the air-conditioner blowing on me. I do not know what to do.
“We’ll figure out something,” Jack continues. “You could sell your jewelry and get an apartment. Or you could be a model, like on South Beach. You know, Stewy Stewart’s mom works at a modeling agency. Maybe I can get you in there.”
I grip him more tightly. “I do not wish to think about it.”
“Okay. It’s okay.”<
br />
He holds me for a long time before saying, “Hey, this air mattress could use some actual air, huh? It must have a leak.”
I laugh. “Is that it? I thought perhaps your parents had put me into a torture chamber.”
He laughs. “Like yours did? I wouldn’t put it past them, but no. It’s not supposed to be like that. I’ll get the pump.”
He retrieves the air pump, then installs it against the proper place in the mattress. It springs to life. He uses a pillow to muffle it. He turns to me.
“Look, about last night, I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For using you to try and make Amber jealous.”
Although I know this is what he was doing, I still feel a bit angry about it. “So, did it work?”
“Oh, yeah. And it was totally stupid. I don’t even know what I saw in Amber.”
I nod. “Nor I.”
“I should probably go. My mom would freak if she caught me in your room. But we’ll figure out a way for you to stay.”
After he leaves, I settle in on the air mattress. It is certainly nothing like what I am accustomed to, but it is not bad, and I am comforted to know that Jack cares about me. In any case, I manage to sleep a bit. The demons do not return.
Chapter 19:
Jack
I don’t actually know why I went down to check on Talia. I just had this sort of weird feeling that something was wrong—not that Talia was being visited by the witch Malvolia and her Jell-O minions, but just…something.
And I felt responsible for her being here.
I’ve never actually felt responsible for anyone before.
A lot of things have changed since I met Talia. I’m even working on that sketch of a garden, the one I started on the plane, to show her before she goes. But I don’t want her to leave in a week. I want her to stay.
Maybe—probably—that’s just the beer talking, but if so, it’s talking pretty loud.
It keeps right on blabbing away. I can’t sleep, so I take out my pad and start working on my garden design again. I even go online to see what kind of plants will grow in Belgium, since the garden’s for Euphrasia. It looks pretty good. Not that I’d ever show it to anyone, except maybe Talia.
It’s three o’clock before I go to sleep.
I wake in a state of total alarm shock to the sound of the cleaning lady vacuuming my room. The clock says eleven.
“Excuse me?” I pull the sheets up to cover my boxers and then realize I slept in my clothes. The events of last night swim before me—Talia, Amber, Jell-O shots, beer, French fries, thinking I was in love with Amber—I’m not in love. I’m also not hungover, but I feel like I am. I can almost hear Talia’s Jell-O demons laughing in my head.
But, of course, they weren’t real. They were figments of Talia’s imagination.
Talia!
She might not have slept as late as I did. After all, she’s way more well rested than I am, seeing as how she slept for three hundred years.
If she’s awake, she could be downstairs with my family. She might be telling them about her sixteenth birthday ball and the curse and the witch and how she saw that very same witch in our house last night.
And even though Mom pretty much ignores my friends, that she would notice.
Or she could be telling them about her Jell-O shot experience, which would get me grounded for sure.
Or how I left her to be pawed by that perv, Robert. Ditto.
By this time, I’m out of bed, running downstairs, buttoning my shirt as I go.
When I reach the landing, I stop.
“My governess would not let me read that book—can you believe it? Claimed it was unfit for young ladies’ eyes. But I sneaked it out of the library and hid it underneath the mattress. I was quite ill-behaved, I am afraid.”
“Ill-behaved?” My mother’s voice, the voice she uses on her Junior League friends. “Who would prevent a child from reading Don Quixote? It is a classic.”
“It had something to do with Dulcinea being…er…a woman of ill repute. Neither did she permit me to read Canterbury Tales. But I studied The Prince.”
“Machiavelli—an odd title for a young girl to read.”
“It was about diplomacy. And, of course, it helped me work on my Italian.”
“You read it in Italian?” Mom is impressed.
“Talia had an Italian art master, too, Mom,” Meryl says. “What was his name?”
“Carlo Maratti. It was nothing,” Talia says.
They’re talking about books. My mother loves to talk about books, but Talia’s so old that she wouldn’t have read most of the books Mom knows. The King James Bible was a new book in Talia’s time!
Mom sighs. “I was a lit major in college, but I can’t get Meryl to read anything but comic books—”
“Manga, Mom.”
“—and Jack reads nothing to speak of.”
“Well, Jack…he’s more of a vigorous outdoorsman, isn’t he?”
“Oh, I don’t know.”
“Yes. Well, he told me how he likes…plants.”
I clear my throat, the better to drown out Talia telling my mother my deepest, darkest secrets.
“Good morning, sleepyhead,” Talia says.
“Jack, you’re awake.” My mother smiles tightly. “Did you know that Talia speaks four languages and has read Arabian Nights in French?”
Talia looks down, all modest. “It is naught. I was in training to be a diplomat.”
She is a diplomat, I realize, the way she’s schmoozing my mother.
“Hey.” I stand next to Talia. “I was thinking maybe after breakfast we could go to South Beach and check out modeling agencies.”
Meryl sort of snorts when I say that, and Mom says, “We had breakfast several hours ago, Jack.”
“Your mother made me something called pancakes. They were a bit like crepes, a dish from Brittany.”
“My mother hasn’t made pancakes since I was five years old. How’d you rate pancakes?”
Talia shrugs. “Sometimes, when one communicates with others, one produces results.”
Like I said, a diplomat.
“Like I’m going to get Talia to help me with my French,” Meryl pipes in.
“Exactement,” Talia says. “Or like I got you to bring me here and introduce me to your lovely family. You should try talking sometime.”
I shrug. “Maybe so.”
But it’s weird. Talia’s not a witch, and yet somehow it’s like she’s put everyone under a spell, her spell. Meryl’s talking in more than monosyllables. Mom’s making pancakes. And me, I’ve totally forgotten about Amber.
Chapter 20:
Talia
“So a model is someone who wears clothing and is photographed doing so?” I ask Jack as our car traverses a bridge. The water on both sides is deep blue, and for a moment it reminds me of Grandmother’s sapphires, then the view from the castle in Euphrasia. What is everyone doing there? And are they sorry I am gone? The light off the water gets into my eyes, and they sting.
“Yeah,” Jack says.
“And they receive money for this?”
“Lots of money, crazy money.”
“It’s degrading, actually,” Meryl says from the backseat. She has accompanied us on the car trip, apparently to serve as pseudo-governess, protecting my morals.
“It is not,” Jack says.
“I read this book about a girl who became a model, and she had to pose naked!”
“Truly?” I look at Jack.
“No one’s posing naked,” Jack says.
“No. No one is.”
Though I would rather not pose at all. But how else to stay here? If I wish to stay.
On the other side of the bridge, the streets are narrow and filled with people, and the buildings are each painted a different brilliant hue.
“So many colors! Signor Maratti would adore this!”
“Hey,” Meryl says, “did you know that Maratti is the name of a seventeent
h-century Italian artist? After you told me about your teacher, I Googled his name.”
I do not know what Google means, but I say, “Yes. Signor Maratti was—”
I stop as Jack elbows me in the ribs. Quickly, I say, “That was Signor’s brother, er, grandbrother…great-grandfather or some such.”
Finally, Jack finds a place for his car. “Guess we’ll leave it here.”
“I’ll stay with it.” Meryl eyes a handsome young man in a very small bathing suit. “I’m going to sketch.”
I giggle. “Will you be working on negative space? Or the positive space of that young man?”
“Both.” She settles onto the front of Jack’s car with her sketch pad.
We leave for the modeling agency. All the women in South Beach are enormously tall, impossibly slender. Perhaps there has been a famine or a scarlet fever epidemic. I search for the telltale rash on their chests and abdomens (all of which are exposed) but see nothing. Despite their sickly thinness, the young ladies seem quite pleased with their shapes, strutting like peafowl down the bright streets. Finally, we reach a door which says WINIFRED MODELING AGENCY.
“I had a cousin Winifred,” I say. “She was a viscountess.”
“Yeah. Don’t mention her, okay?” He opens the door.
Inside, there is a tree in a pot and a second door, one with glass windows. We step through that door. Jack presses a button, and it closes.
“This is a very strange room,” I say.
A moment later, the door opens. The potted tree is gone! The floor outside is a different shade!
“We have been transported to another place!” I clap my hands.
Jack laughs. “Relax. It’s called an elevator. It takes you upstairs. Look.” He gestures toward a window. I look out. Outside, the sky is blinding blue, and we are closer to it than before. I glance down, feeling suddenly dizzy.
Jack takes my arm and leads me to a door.
“We’re here to see Kim Stewart,” Jack says. “We have an appointment.” He tells her our names.