OLIVER
“BEDSPREAD,” DELILAH SAYS.
“Um… pink.”
“Good. Number of stuffed animals on the bed?”
“Three.”
“Excellent. What are they?”
I close my eyes, trying to remember. “A pig, a bear wearing a strange little shirt, and a duck with quite a sassy look on its face.”
“And the book?”
“Purple leather, with gold lettering that readsBetween the Lines.”
It’s odd to think of my story as a physical entity, because obviously I’ve never seen the outside of thetome in which we all live. But Delilah has described it in excruciating detail.
In fact, she’s spent hours this Saturday evening giving me a thorough tour of her bedroom by carrying the open book from end to end. I have read fortune cookie messages tacked onto her mirror; I have met her pet fish—named Dudley; I have stared at a whiteboard she can write upon and erase, which is festooned with small favors from places she and her mother have visited: the Flume in New Hampshire, Ben & Jerry’s ice cream factory, Boston, the Statue of Liberty. We realized that the only error in our plan was that Delilah could not watch the painting actually happen—since that would have to occur when the book was closed and I could meet privately with Rapscullio in his lair.
To this end, Delilah insisted that I memorize every last detail of her room, so that it could be as accurate a representation as possible on that magic canvas. Like me, she doesn’t want to leave anything up to chance.
“How many lamps are in here?” she quizzes.
“Three. One on the desk, one clipped to the bed, and one on the dresser. And next to the lamp on the dresser is a music box you got from your mother for your fifth birthday; and there’s a sticker on your headboard of Curious George that you put there when you were three and could never quite peel off entirely; and right nowthere are three pairs of earrings that you haven’t put into your jewelry box yet, which are sitting next to your hairbrush.” I smirk at her. “Nowdo you believe I’m ready?”
“Very,” she says.
“Okay. I’m off, then.”
“Wait!” I turn back to find her staring at me, biting her lower lip. “What if… it doesn’t work?”
I reach up, as if I might be able to touch her, but of course I can’t. “What if itdoes?”
She traces one finger along the edge of the page close to me. The world beside me ripples. “Goodbye,” Delilah says.
***
Rapscullio’s lair needs a thorough cleaning. There are cobwebs in the corner, and I am pretty certain a rat runs over my shoe as I enter. “Anybody home?” I ask cheerfully.
“Over here,” Rapscullio calls out. I turn a corner to find him examining a butterfly that’s been trapped inside a glass jar. There are holes in the lid, but the insect’s wings are beating desperately as it tries to escape.
I know how that feels.
“Rapscullio,” I say, “I need your help.”
“Kind of busy right now, Your Highness…”
“It’s an emergency.”
He sets the captured butterfly down on a table. “Go on,” Rapscullio says, folding his long, bony arms.
“I was hoping you could paint something for me. A gift.”
“A gift?”
“Yes—for a friend of mine. A very special friend of mine.”
