“Past the title page,” Seraphima says. “I’ve only been once.”
I take a step forward and my entire body leans to the right. The only way I can walk is on a slant. I look up, my head brushing against the low-hanging letters.
Of course. Italics.
Seraphima too is struggling to keep her balance. The silence is shattering, an utter vacuum.
“This is perfect. Humphrey will never find me here,” I say, my voice echoing as if it’s fallen to the bottom of a canyon. “How did you ever find it?”
“By accident. Once, I had a . . . a blemish,” Seraphima confesses. “I couldn’t bear for Oliver to see me that way. So I wandered as far from him as possible, and this is where I wound up. It’s not easy being perfect all the time, you know.” Her attention is distracted by a small pulsing circle some distance away. “What’s that?”
It looks like a manhole cover. Seraphima walks closer on the diagonal, tripping as she slides at an angle. Her princess slippers don’t offer any traction, and she skids down the slope of white toward this pinprick of ink. “Help!” she cries. “Edgar!” Her fingernails claw at the wide empty space.
I put one foot out gingerly, testing the ground before I inch closer, scared that at any moment I’ll slip as well. It’s like a world made of invisible slides. I manage to creep nearer and stretch out my hand. “Seraphima!” I shout. “Grab on!”
She reaches toward me, her fingers brushing mine, and that tiny movement sends me barreling head over heels. Seraphima, tumbling in front of me, is sucked through the whirlpool of black. I reach out my hand to brace myself and realize that the swirling vortex is the letterC,surrounded by a circle.
I fall right through the middle of the copyright symbol.
I land hard on my back, surrounded by piles and piles of random objects.
There are potion bottles and swords and armor. A statue of a golden leopard with jeweled emerald eyes. A baby carriage and a prisoner’s chains and a stack of mattresses, a glass slipper and a genie’s lamp and a red cloak. A spinning wheel and a beanstalk so high that I can’t see its top. There are heaps of coins and treasure maps, abandoned bicycles, a half-inflated hot-air balloon, and a black witch’s hat. Across one wall is a bookshelf that stretches for miles, stuffed with tiny bound manuscripts and labeled with a brass plaque that readsALTERNATE ENDINGS. I pull one out and read the last page:
And Rapscullio and Queen Maureen lived—and loved—happily ever after.
“Wow,” I breathe, craning my neck to look around.
“Edgar?” Seraphima’s voice emerges from a pile of plundered jewels. I haul a pirate’s chest out of the way and untangle her from ropes of pearls. “Whatisthis place?”
“It’s an Easter egg,” I say. “In video games, the creators sometimes leave behind inside jokes or messages for players to find. They can trigger a secret game level, or a hidden shortcut.” I glance around in wonder. “I think this is the portal to my mom’s imagination. These are all the stories she read that led her to create this one . . . and all the plots she decidednotto write.”
I know that if I try to sift through all this stuff, I will never find the end. This room, wherever it is in the book, is as limitless as my mother’s dreams.
Seraphima reaches for a fur coat and slips it on. As soon asshe does, the hood tightens around her neck and two yellow eyes glow on the top of her head. “Take it off!” I yell, struggling to yank it off as it holds on to her, tight. We tumble backward, landing in an awkward heap, Seraphima’s knee firmly jabbed into my chest. “Don’t touch anything,” I grit out. “We don’t know what these things are, or what they’ll do to the story if we disturb them.”
She frowns, disappointed, and gets off me in a tangle of silk and petticoats.
I get to my feet, and that’s when I notice the painting.
The king wears a golden crown and an ermine-lined velvet robe. In one hand he carries a golden orb. In his other arm, he cradles a baby.
I know this picture. Except when I’ve seen it before, it’s been on my mother’s desk. The man is wearing not a crown but a baseball cap. His royal robes are a Boston Red Sox T-shirt and jeans. The golden orb in his hand is just a baseball, and the baby he holds is me.
I can’t stop staring at my father’s face, and maybe that’s why I don’t notice Seraphima moving toward another pile of knickknacks. “Oooh, pretty!” she cries, lifting a small, hinged enamel pillbox. Written in silver calligraphy on the lid are the wordsHeart’s Desire.
She flips it open to reveal a tiny pot of pink gloss. “Seraphima,” I call out. “Don’t!” But it’s too late. Dipping her finger into the dish, she touches the makeup to her lips.
Seraphima convulses and her lips part. Smoke snakes from her throat, spelling out five letters:
FRUMP
The smoke swirls, wrapping around her body from head to toe, consuming her whole. I scream her name and leap forward, trying to pull her free, and tackle her.
As the cloud around us dissipates, I climb off her. “Are you all right?” I ask, and then my jaw drops.
The girl staring up at me has blue hair, piercings, and combat boots. “Who the hell are you?” I say.
PART TWO
