“Don’t you think I tried that?” Edgar says. “I’ve been to the copyright page a whole bunch of times, but the whirlpool that sucked us in before isn’t there anymore. I don’t know what made it open when it did.”
Oliver frowns. “So basically no one is going in or out.”
“That’s really not an option. I need to get home,” Edgar says. “It stands to reason that if there’s one portal in the book, there might be another one.” He reaches for Jules’s hand, and I watch her jaw drop. “We’re going to find it.”
Seraphima stands in the atrium of the mall, her hands clasped in front of her and her eyes wide. “I’ve never seen anything like this,” she breathes. Before Oliver and I can stop her, she dashes down the main corridor, bouncing from shop window to shop window like a pinball in a machine. She waves at the mannequins as she passes, and at Bath & Body Works, when an employee offers a spritz of perfume, she happily accepts. Thenshe looks down at the woman. “You may fix my hair now,” Seraphima orders.
“There’s an Ultima salon on the second floor,” the employee suggests, and I link my elbow with Seraphima’s to drag her away.
“Come on, Princess,” I say.
There are two types of little kids you see at the mall. The first kind shuts down from overstimulation, like when I brought Oliver to the mall and turned my back for a moment and found him crouching behind a bench where an elderly man had fallen asleep. The second kind of kid thinks she’s landed in Disney World—she runs straight for the gumball machine and asks for a hundred quarters.
That’s Seraphima.
“Where should we take her first?” Oliver asks.
“Victoria’s Secret.”
“You can trust me,” he says earnestly. “I won’t tell a soul.”
“No, it’s a store—” I glance around and realize Seraphima has wandered away. Through the milling crowd I catch a flash of silver-blond hair. “That way,” I say, and we rush toward her.
We round the corner and find Seraphima on top of the miniature plastic castle that’s part of the children’s play zone. She stands atop a turret, shoving away toddlers. “Begone, trolls,” she yells. “This is my kingdom!”
“Oh God,” I groan.
I step forward, but Oliver puts his hand on my shoulders. “I’ve got this,” he says. He falls to one knee, hand on his heart. “Princess, oh, Princess,” he calls. “Come down from your tower!”
Seraphima’s eyelashes flutter. “Oh yes, my noble knight. I’ve been waiting all my life for you.”
The mothers surrounding the play zone, who have protectively curled their toddlers close after the arrival of Hurricane Seraphima, start to clap. Tentatively at first, and then louder. Seraphima steps down from the plastic play structure and takes Oliver’s hand, curtsying to the audience. Then she spies something in the distance. “Oh, look!” Seraphima exclaims, and she’s off and running again.
She darts toward the food court, zipping through the crowds. We attempt to chase her, but we’re waylaid by lines of hungry shoppers and obstacle courses made of strollers and bags. “Delilah?” Oliver asks. “Why are we being followed?”
I glance over my shoulder and see a woman with a white apron and a visor running behind us. “I don’t know,” I say as we finally locate our prey, peering into the window of the Tiffany & Co. store. “Seraphima!”
She turns around, holding a full tray of kung pao chicken samples. The woman racing behind us skids to a stop, and I hand over the platter, apologizing. She shakes her head and walks away, muttering under her breath.
“I’ll wearthatone,” Seraphima announces, pointing to a glittering diamond tiara.
At this, I laugh out loud. “Not evenyoucan afford that, Your Highness.”
Oliver and I anchor Seraphima between us—like a toddler or a psychiatric patient—and steer her toward the lingerie store. As soon as we walk into Victoria’s Secret, however, Oliver drops Seraphima’s arm to cover his eyes. “Good God, Delilah,” he says, hoarse. “This isn’t decent!”
I lead him to a bench just outside the store. It is populatedwith dads, boyfriends, and husbands, who are all stuck in the purgatory of their significant other’s shopping.
“Please don’t go anywhere,” I beg. “I can’t worry about both of you.”
Seraphima and I head inside. I walk straight past the angel wings and lacy garter belts and sexy maid outfits to the more serviceable underwear in the back. As I sift through the sale section, trying to estimate Seraphima’s bra size, she flits from table to table, burying her hands in the piles of rainbow satin. She dances around me, holding up a pink corset trimmed with white lace. “Isn’t this perfect!” she cries.
I snatch it from her hands. “First off, this is a hundred dollars. Second, if we wanted a corset, we’d use the one you brought with you.” I hold up a white cotton bra. “This is what you need.”
Seraphima frowns. “I like this one,” she says, pulling out the least functional bra I’ve ever seen. It is hot pink, with a tulle ruffle at the bottom, and it is bedazzled with gemstones that spellVon one boob andSon the other.
I rip it out of her hands. “No,” I say. “Just . . . no.” Dragging her into a dressing room, I shut the door behind her and toss the white bra over the door. “Put it on.”
A moment later the door opens and there stands Seraphima wearing nothing on top but the white bra—and a gigantic smile. “It’s sofree!” she gasps. “Watch how much I can move!” She twists from side to side, bends over, and then swings back upright.
