“Um. Yes. I thought it was a nice touch.” There’s no point in explaining to him why I really need the book to bethere. I continue to give instructions, making corrections when necessary:No, the magnet is shaped like a boot, not a circle. And the sheets are more fuchsia than pastel violet.
Finally, when Rapscullio is through, I look at the canvas and see a detailed replica of Delilah’s room. “Well?” he demands.
“Perfect,” I murmur. “It’s absolutely perfect.”
Now comes the hard part. Delilah and I have realized that if I’m to paint myself into this canvas, Rapscullio can’t be watching. It’s just too much to risk—what if I confide my plan to him and he tries to stop me, or tells Frump and the others that I’m attempting to leave the story? I could try to dupe him into simply painting me onto the canvas as part of the gift portrait, but what if he figures out, midway, what is happening and leaves me half in Delilah’s world and half in mine? I am not an artist by any means, but it’s all we’ve got.
Together we’ve devised a plan—with the help of something called Google and a search for rare species of butterflies. If I stick to the script we’ve written, Delilah is certain Rapscullio will leave me alone here—we hope long enough for me to pick up a paintbrush and create an image of myself on that canvas.
“Oh my goodness!” I cry, snapping my head toward the open window. “Did you see that?”
“See what?”
“I’m sure it was nothing. Just a butterfly.”
“Butterfly?” Rapscullio’s eyes widen. “What did it look like?”
“Tiny and electric blue… with a black-and-white border on its wings?”
He leaps toward the window. “An Adonis blue? You saw an Adonis blue? But they’re supposed to be extinct!” Rapscullio hesitates. “You don’t think it was just a Chalkhill blue, do you?”
“No, not a Chalkhill,” I say. “Definitely not a Chalkhill.” What the devil is a Chalkhill?
“Hmm.” He glances out the window again. “Are we all set here, then? Because if you don’t mind, I might take a poke outside with my net to see if I can catch the Adonis before we have to do our next book performance.”
“Go right ahead,” I say. “Perfectly understandable.”
I wave as he sprints out of the room. Then I look at the canvas again. It is a stunning, realistic representation of Delilah’s room. I only wish I had Rapscullio’s artistic talent.
“Here goes nothing,” I mutter, and I pick up the paintbrush that Rapscullio’s left on the palette. I catch my reflection in the window glass—Delilah and I both think with the subject right in front of my eyes, I may be able to at least make an adequate copy, even if I’m no artist. I touch the canvas, leaving a faint mark the samecolor as my sleeve. I rinse the brush and mix a new color, one that matches my flesh.
But then I hesitate. Putting the brush down, I walk into the adjoining room, where the butterfly is still beating senselessly against the glass jar. I twist the lid, and watch it fly out the open window.
Just in case something goes wrong, at least one of us will be free.
