Maureen’s eyes light up. “It’s Ember, isn’t it? I’ve seen her looking at you from the corner of her little eye.”
“I’m not in love with a fairy—”
“It’s not Cook, is it?”
“Cook? She’s twice my age—”
Maureen frowns. “One of the mermaids? I should warn you that your dates would be impossibly soggy—”
“She’s not in the book,” I say.
Maureen just blinks. “Ah. Well, my boy, I don’t think I can help you there.”
“She’s not like anyone I’ve ever seen before. When I’m not with her, I want to be. And when she opens the book and I see her face, I can barely remember what I’m supposed to say, much less how to speak at all.” I test the words on my tongue. “I think I might be in love with her. But how can I really know, since the only love I’ve ever experienced was written for me?”
“Oh, darling, that’s what loveis.It’s some power greater than you and me, that draws us to one special person.”
Maureen sounds like she knows exactly what she’s talking about. As if she’s felt the same way I feel right now.
“I guess you really loved Maurice,” I say.
She laughs. “Sweetheart, he’s just a flashback.”
I press my fingers to my temples. It’s all so confusing—what’s real, and what’s only make-believe. In the story, I fall in love with Seraphima, but the way I feel when I’m with her is far different from what I feel for Delilah. With Seraphima, I’m going through the motions. With Delilah, everything is brand-new, brightly colored, always changing. “Then how do you know what love is?”
“Because so many stories are all about love, written by people who’ve felt it before. Rapscullio’s lair is full of books about characters who aren’t inthisstory but whoare mad about each other. Romeo and Juliet, Beauty and the Beast, Heathcliff and Cathy.”
“Who arethey?”
Maureen shrugs. “I don’t know, but our author wrote them onto the shelves on the illustration of page thirty-six. I’ve read a few, myself, during our off time. You know that anything that was in the author’s mind might exist in the book, even if it doesn’t show up in the proper story.”
This is true. The world we live in is bigger than just the fairy tale; in fact, it’s as spacious as the imagination of the woman who created us. It’s why Frump and I know how to play chess, and Captain Crabbe has a passion for creating crosswords. It is as if whatever the author was thinking when she created the spaces we are in was richly imagined, three-dimensional. The castle kitchen, for example, is fully stocked with grains and flours and dishes and tableware, even though in the fairy tale, Cook is never actually seen baking. Because of this, during our off time, Maureen pores through recipe books and bakes cakes and pies and biscuits for the rest of us.
“Can I ask you something else?” I say, turning to Maureen. “I know he’s just a flashback to you. But Maurice, he rode off to save you, and wound up leaving you behind forever. Is it really worth dying for the person you love?”
She thinks about this for a moment. “That’s not the real question, Oliver. What youshouldbe asking is, Can you live without her?”
***
Frump has called a meeting of all the characters, so we are gathered on the final page of the story, on Everafter Beach. He stands on his hind legs on a driftwood stump, addressing the masses. “It has come to my attention, friends,” he says—he’s truly the best orator of us all—“that we may be falling down on the job.”
“Falling downismy job,” says Pyro the dragon, who I must admit looks rather fetching with new fiery red rubber bands on his upper braces. “It’s on page forty.”
“I meant it more as a metaphor,” Frump says. “None of us have gotten a lot of face time lately, because the Reader seems to be fixated on a particular page.”
From my position, where I am sitting with my back against a palm tree, I freeze.
“Page forty-three,” Frump adds, staring at me.
I give a flat laugh. “Well,” I say. “Go figure.”
“Can you think of any reason, Oliver, that the Reader’s ignoring the rest of the story?”
“I’m, um, certain that it’s only a coincidence,” I stammer. “Perhaps she’s very interested in rock climbing?”
“She?” Rapscullio says, stepping forward with a frown. “How do you know it’s ashe?”
I swallow hard. “Did I sayshe?” I shrug. “Just a guess. I mean, aren’t most of our Readers little girls?”
