I pull away just far enough for a promise to fit between us. “Oliver,” I say, “I love you too.”
How come love sounds so violent?
You fall head over heels.
You’re struck by Cupid’s arrow.
You take the risk of having your heart broken.
From an outside perspective, it sounds impossibly painful, not worth the trouble. And yet we do it every day. We keep coming back for more.
Why?
If it weren’t so perilous, maybe we wouldn’t crave it so much.
Maybe it has to be brutal, in order to work. People come in so many shapes and sizes that it takes a bit of force in order to fit together perfectly.
But you know what they say about a break that heals: it’s always stronger than before.
EDGAR
I didn’t notice the first time I saw it, but now I realize Orville’s cottage is familiar.
It’s almost an exact replica of a cabin my mom and I rented one summer in Maine. There was no electricity, and a spider the size of my fist lived in the shower with us the entire week we were there because neither one of us wanted to touch it. The splintered wood of Orville’s door has a knot in the middle that kind of resembles Gandhi, just like the door in Maine. And like the roof of that cabin, Orville’s roof sags a little on the left side, possibly about to fall right in.
I think of them as déjà vus, these hidden details of my mom’s life that she’s sprinkled through the fairy tale. I have to admit—I kind of like seeing them. It’s like when she used to put notes in my lunch box, just to let me know she was still thinking of me when she wasn’t there.
I’m just leaving the page with Orville’s home and crossingonto the beach, when suddenly Socks gallops into sight and comes to a halt in front of me.
“This is a disaster!” he wails. “This is catastrophic. The world might as well be ending.”
Without even glancing at him, I say, “You look fine, Socks.” I’m used to these dramatic displays of low self-esteem from the horse, when he is reduced to Jell-O by the appearance of a nonexistent wrinkle or a dimple of cellulite.
“I’m not talking aboutme,” Socks scoffs. “Jeez, do you really think I’d besoself-centered?” He pauses. “Wait—are people saying that about me?”
“I don’t have time for this,” I tell him. “Where’s Frump? Everyone’s here waiting for him.”
Everyone is gathered on the beach once again for our morning run-down—except our ringleader is a no-show.
Socks rolls his eyes. “That’s exactly what I’ve been trying to tell you. Frump won’t leave his doghouse. I suppose Imayknow a thing or two about locking yourself in your barn stall because of an issue with your appearance . . .”
Captain Crabbe sidles closer to us. “Beg pardon for eavesdropping, but if it’s fleas again, I’d ask the mermaids to whip up a lovely kelp salt scrub before you release him back into the public.”
Socks sighs. “It’s going to take more than a spa remedy to fix this.”
I exhale heavily. “All right. Where is he?”
“Excuse me?” I turn when I feel a tap on my shoulder. Queen Maureen smiles apologetically. “Sorry to bother you, dear. Butis there any chance my fellow characters and I might get a little update? It’s awfully hot to sit in this galactic armor, and people are getting a wee bit antsy.”
I hop up onto the stump that Frump uses to address the cast. “Ladies and gentlemen . . . and, uh, trolls. We’re experiencing some technical difficulties. Please stand by.” With that, I leap down and climb onto Socks’s back. “Let’s get this over with,” I say.
Behind the castle are the royal stables and pens for the peacocks, as well as the dovecote used during the wedding on the final page of the fairy tale, where the birds rested up between readings. Tucked against the rear door of the kitchens is a tiny purple structure with white trim, a miniature Victorian house complete with shutters and flower boxes. The only element that hints at its original use as a doghouse is the swinging flap it has as a door.
When I first came into the book, Queen Maureen offered to give Frump his own bedroom in the castle. After all, he’s human now. He stayed a couple of nights, moving from the mattress to the floor, and finally decided he got a better night’s rest in his own home.
“Frump,” I call, knocking on the wall of the doghouse. “What’s wrong?”
“Don’t come in, Edgar,” he yells. “I just need to be alone right now.”
