Reader, do you believe in Fate?
Do you believe that somewhere, there’s a grand plan for each of us? That our lives are written in the stars? That our lives are written for us?
If so, then we might as well consider ourselves to be characters . . . and our lives a story.
Or maybe you believe that we fall into our future blindly, drifting from adventure to adventure, our journey zigzagging not according to plan but according to pure chance.
Or just maybe, as random and haphazard as our lives seem—maybe that’s exactly what the author had in mind.
DELILAH
When Jules disappears, there’s a bracing gust of wind that rattles my bureau, strips my sheets, and rips the posters from my walls. Something strikes me in the face and tumbles to the ground. I reach out to grab it: a jeweled tiara. And in the next breath, sprawled on the floor in a cloud of silk and tulle and long blond hair, is Seraphima.
I grab her shoulders and haul her upright. “What did you do with my friend?”
She stares back at me, wide-eyed. “I—I don’t know. I was putting on some lip gloss. And then all of a sudden I was here.” Her gaze travels past me to fall on Frump, and she bursts into tears. “It’s been so awful! Without your command, everything’s out of control. And the servants have left the castle. No one’s taken care of me!” Her voice drops to an embarrassed whisper. “I had to brush my own hair.”
Frump yelps in response and Seraphima nods. “That’s sovery kind of you to say, but I know I don’t look as flawless as I usually do.”
“Wait,” Oliver says, stepping forward. “You can understand him?”
Seraphima hurls herself into Oliver’s embrace, and both Frump and I stiffen. “Ollie!” she cries. “You’re here too? This is just the best surprise ever!” She clasps her hands and smiles. “I want to thank you all for being here. I had no idea you were planning this. It’s not even my birthday for another month—” She beams. “I will be accepting presents now.”
“This isn’t a party for you,” Oliver says.
Frump barks, and Seraphima blushes. “He said I don’t look a day over sixteen,” she translates.
“How can you talk to him?”
“Oh, Ollie, what did youthinkprincesses do in finishing school? I live in a tower. My best friend for four years was a bird. I’m fluent in Animal. Except Fish. They always sound a little muddled to me.” She glances at me. “Peasant? Might you draw me a bath? It’s been a very trying travel day.”
“No, Seraphima. This isDelilah.”
“Oh. Sorry.” She smiles at me. “Delilah? Might you draw me a bath? It’s been a very trying travel day.”
I fold my arms. “I am not her slave.”
Frump trots out of the bedroom, and a moment later I hear running water in the bathroom. He returns, his tail wagging. “Thank you so much, Frump.” She raises her brows at Oliver. “You really should train your servants better, Oliver.”
She sweeps out of the room. “Delilah, come attend to me.”
I glance at Oliver, furious.
“Please,” he begs. “Just this once.”
I follow Seraphima into the bathroom. She stands with her arms extended. I grit my teeth and unlace the back of her gown. “Are we good?”
Seraphima clears her throat. She is now wearing nothing but a thin cotton shift, which is apparently too heavy for her to remove by herself. I pull it up over her head, and she turns around, buck naked. “You’re a peach,” she simpers, and before I can step away, she throws her arms around me for a hug of gratitude.
Honestly, the last thing I need to know is that underneath all her clothes, my boyfriend’s ex is just as perfect as her face looks on any given day.
I leave Seraphima to her own devices in the bath (knowing her, she’ll probably drown) and head into my bedroom. Oliver has located the fairy tale, which exploded out of Jules’s hands the moment before she vanished. The book is already open. “I don’t understand,” he says. “What do you mean they’re missing?”
I peer over Oliver’s shoulder to see Orville shaking his head. “We’ve got a search party out for them now. But the fairies and Socks have already canvassed every page and every margin of this book, and we can’t locate them anywhere.”
“The book isn’t long,” I chime in. “And seriously, how hard could it be to find a punk-rock chick in a fairy tale?”
“Rapscullio’s paintingLOSTposters; the mermaids are doing a dive-and-rescue search. I promise you, as soon as we know anything, we’ll send a message.”
