Between the lines

Delilah

WE ARE SO CLOSE-THERE IN FRONT OF ME in the quiet corner of my old tree fort, I can see Oliver’s face appearing. But before he is more than just a misty hallucination, he’s gone.

While I’m still trying to figure out what happened-and what didn’t-I hear my mother call my name.

“Now?” I mutter. “Really?”

“Delilah?” Her voice is getting closer. She’s standing at the base of the tree fort. “What are you doing up there?”

I quickly close the book and shove it between the old newspapers. My mother’s head bobs at the top of the ladder. “I’m cleaning it out,” I announce. “Turning over a new leaf. No more fairy tales, no more tree forts.” She looks at me dubiously. “Dr. Ducharme thought it would be a good idea for me to have some more age-appropriate things to do.”

The words have the intended effect. “Well, then,” my mom says, surprised. “Good!” She shakes her head, as if she cannot quite believe me, and why should she? “Jules is here. She’s upstairs in your bedroom.”

“Jules?”

The last thing I want to do is hang out with Jules when what I really need is to speak to Oliver. I’ve realized something: he’s not the one who can rewrite the ending. I have a new plan, and I am desperate to share it with him.

I take the fairy tale and tuck it under my arm, heading back to the house. When I get to my room, Jules is lying on my bed, listening to my iPod. I slip the book quickly between others on a shelf so that Jules doesn’t start asking questions about why I’m still reading a kids’ fairy tale. Then I sit down and pull the headphones out of her ears. “I wasn’t expecting you,” I tell her.

“Since when do I have to make an appointment to be with my own best friend?” Jules asks. “And since when do you listen to Justin Bieber?” She shakes her head. “Maybe you do need psychiatric counseling. I don’t have any problem with you breaking Allie’s nose, but if you keep downloading songs like this, I may have to kill you.” She flops over onto her belly and looks up at me. “So how did it go?”

“How did what go?”

“Your shrink appointment?”

It seems like that happened a thousand years ago, not three hours. “It was a nonevent,” I say.

“Good, because I need you to have all your brains in place to help me get out of the worst situation ever.” She sits up, crossing her legs. “Remember my aunt Agnes?”

“The one who smells like beets?”

Jules winces. “Oh, God, why did you remind me of that? My parents said they’re sending me to her place for the summer to get a taste of the country. Can you imagine me in East Nowhere, Iowa, milking cows?”

“They have cows?”

“No, but they might as well. That’s not the point. The point is that I’m being shipped off like a FedEx box to the loneliest town on Earth.” She hesitates. “They still have dial-up, for God’s sake.”

I want to feel bad for Jules, seriously. But my head is filled with thoughts of Oliver and what we are going to do next.

“Maybe it won’t be that bad,” I say. “Summer’s over before you know it.”

She stares at me. “Wow. Zero sympathy whatsoever.”

“I don’t mean it like that-of course I feel bad for you-but I mean, it’s not the end of the world, Jules.”

“Can you tell me something? Where’s Delilah? Because the friend I used to know would actually care.”

“That’s a little dramatic,” I say, forcing a laugh.

“Is it? I came over here because I wanted someone to commiserate with me. To tell me that my summer’s going to suck and that you’re sorry. To take my side. I’ll probably still have to go to Iowa and it’s going to be hell, but it sure would be nice to go knowing that there’s someone here who doesn’t want me to leave.”

I can feel my cheeks heating up. I’ve been so obsessed with Oliver, I haven’t had time to spend with Jules. And the fact that she can’t hear him only makes her seem even more distant from me right now.

It will be different, I tell myself, when we get Oliver here. Then Jules can meet him, and get to know him, and be happy for me because I’ve finally got a boyfriend. These arguments we keep having are little roadblocks; eventually we’ll find a way around them. “I’ve just got a lot on my plate right now.”

Jules stands up. “I used to be on that plate,” she says. “I used to matter.”

“Jules, don’t say that. You’re still my best friend-”

“You know what? You don’t get to decide that. It takes two people to make a friendship work, and these days, I’ve been doing more than my fair share.”

“Jules,” I say. “Come on.” I reach toward her, but she steps away.

She looks at me. “Just remember-I had your back when the whole world hated you. I thought that counted for something.”

She walks out of my bedroom and slams the door behind her. I let out a defeated sigh. I’ll make this right again, I swear I will, but first I have to finish what Oliver and I have started.

My mother sticks her head inside the door. “Is everything all right with Jules?”

“Fine…”

“Funny, she didn’t look fine when she ran out the front door.”

My eyes fill with tears. “I don’t want to talk about it,” I tell her. I’ve lost two friends in one day.

My mother sits down beside me on the bed. “Well, if it’s not fine, it will be,” she says. “And when you’re ready to talk about it, I’m here.”

It feels good to have her arms around me, to pretend, for a little while, that what she’s saying is true. To believe that in the end, everything works out. She drops a kiss on the crown of my head. “I have an idea,” she says. “Why don’t we watch a movie?”

I look up at her. “Like old times?”

“I’ll make the popcorn,” my mother says. “You get The Little Mermaid.”

If I have any thoughts about why my mother would have a philosophical problem with me reading a fairy tale but be perfectly fine with me watching a Disney cartoon, they vanish in the anticipation of an evening spent believing that dreams can come true. “Okay,” I whisper, and she hugs me a little tighter.

When she leaves, I go to the bookshelf to retrieve the story. I plan to just quickly pop to page 43 so that I can tell Oliver my brilliant idea. But then I think of my mother, downstairs, of how hard she’s trying to make me happy. For right now, anyway, Oliver can wait.

I keep the Disney movies in a cardboard box in my closet, on the upper shelf. I can’t quite reach it, so I drag my laundry basket closer, overturn it, and use it as a foot-stool. Reaching up, I grab the edge of the box. But suddenly everything around me grows brighter and silvery, the way the world looks when it snows overnight. I find myself squinting against all this light, and then suddenly I am falling, tumbling head over heels through a big, wide wasteland of nothing.

I start to scream. I’m falling so fast that I can hear the wind in my ears, and my eyes are watering. It’s as if I’ve been pushed out of a speeding plane. I can dimly make out black shapes as I streak by them. Then I am abruptly yanked to a halt. My T-shirt has caught on a hook, and I find myself bobbing, the wool bunched up around my shoulders.

Except it’s not a hook. When I look around, I realize that I am hanging from a gigantic letter J.

Until the curl of the J snaps beneath my weight and sends me free-falling once again.

As I tumble, color begins to bleed into the space around me-faint at first, and then growing darker and more full of pigment, until I am sure I’m going to smack against the ground at any moment. I cover my face with my arms and try to curl into the smallest ball possible, so that I won’t get hurt when it happens.

“Oomph!” With a blow that knocks the breath out of me, I land on a hard stack of something. A pile of books scatters, and a cloud of dust puffs up around me. I gingerly get to my feet, taking inventory of my bones to make sure nothing’s broken. From the corner of my eye, I see movement, and I whip around with my arms in a karate pose, as if I might be able to intimidate whoever else is here.

The intruder makes the same exact movement.

I take a step forward, and realize that I am looking into a mirror. At least, I think it’s a mirror-even if the reflection I’m seeing isn’t quite me.

Once, my mother took me to Montreal. We went to a town square, which had come alive at dusk with street performers and vendors. Artists sat beneath umbrellas, drawing sketches of fidgeting children. My mother had a portrait drawn of me just for fun. You could certainly see that there was a resemblance, but to be honest, the picture kind of freaked me out. It made me look flat and two-dimensional, not really me at all.

The image I’m staring at in the mirror looks exactly the same way.

Slowly, I reach out a finger to touch this odd girl who might or might not be me-When there is a high-pitched shriek to my left. I am knocked off my feet and pinned down by a scarred, goateed man I’d recognize anywhere.

“You thief!” Rapscullio cries. “If you’re as awful as the prince says, you’ll be a dragon’s meal before nightfall.”

I am making this all up. That’s the only explanation I have for the fact that I am being dragged along by a fictional character through the Enchanted Forest. But if I am making this all up, then how come the rope Rapscullio has wrapped around my wrists is rubbing them raw? How come I can smell woodsmoke coming from Orville’s cabin and feel the fairies-the size of mosquitoes on steroids-tugging at my hair and pulling at my clothes?

I know I should be freaking out, but I’m too busy looking around at this world I’ve dreamed of for so long. Above me, where there should be sky, are distant, dangling bits of letters. Beyond them, I can barely make out colors and shapes, as if I’m looking at the sun from the bottom of a pool.

“Oh my gosh.” I gasp. “Is that the royal castle?”

“No, it’s a loaf of bread,” Rapscullio mutters. “Oliver told me you were a felon, but he didn’t mention that you’re feebleminded…”

If this is the castle, then I’m about to see Oliver.

Really see him, for the first time.

I dig in my heels, stopping Rapscullio. With my bound hands, I try to smooth my hair and adjust my shirt in a way that doesn’t show the rip from the letter J. “Do I look all right?” I ask my captor.

“I suppose, if you’re into that starving-androgynous-plebeian look.” He tugs me forward, and as if by magic, the metal portcullis rises and four heralds trumpet my arrival. Rapscullio unties my wrists and shoves me forward, so that I land on my hands and knees in the middle of a circle of nobles and ladies-in-waiting.

“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 tell 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 him 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.

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 on 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.