Still, this looks awfully promising for a future outside this story.
Or so I think, until I see a girl walk in and wrap her arms around me. I can’t see her face from where I’m standing.
Orville suddenly rushes forward and waves his hands through the purple smoke so that the image dissolves. “Your Highness, this is obviously still in the testing stages,” he says nervously. “Still working out several glitches…”
I grab the wizard by the throat. “Bring it back!”
“I can’t, sire….”
“Do it now!”
Orville is trembling. “You won’t want to see it,” he whispers. “The person you’re with… is not Princess Seraphima.”
I pluck another hair from my head and throw it into the fountain. Again, the dome of smoke rises and the scene appears, exactly as it was a moment before. “If you touch it,” I mutter to Orville, “those frog eyes go straight down your throat.”
The girl in the purple mist wraps her arms around me. Slowly, she turns so that I can see her features.
Orville was right.
I didn’t want to see this at all.
Not because it’s not Seraphima, but because it’s not Delilah either.
***
I used to think that all I ever wanted was to get out of this stupid book. Now I realize that one must be careful what one wishes for. Getting out might not be my wildest dream—but my biggest nightmare.
I tried to write myself out of the book, and it didn’t work. I saw my future, and Delilah wasn’t a part of it. I can live without leaving this fairy tale, but I can’t live without her.
I need help. And I need it fast. And so, even with the uncomfortable knowledge that what I am about to do could hurt someone else, I begin to run toward Rapscullio’s lair.
By the time I arrive, I am sweating and out of breath. The lair is open, and there is a heavenly vanilla scent wafting out the door. I poke my way inside to find him baking sugar cookies in his kitchen. As he’s dusting the tops with pink sprinkles, I clear my throat to get his attention.
“Ah, Your Highness! You’re just in time to taste the first batch. They’re still warm!”
“Rapscullio,” I say, “this is no time for cookies. I need your assistance.”
Sensing my urgency, he puts down his spatula. “I have twelve to fourteen minutes before the next batch comes out of the oven,” he says solemnly.
I grab his hand and drag him into the library—the one where, not long ago, I tried to paint myself out of this book and failed miserably. “I need you to draw something for me.”
“Again?” Rapscullio says. “This is your emergency? You’re having an artistic epiphany?”
“Just do it,” I argue, frustrated. “I need a picture ofa young woman. I’ll tell you what she looks like, and you create it on that special canvas of yours.”
His eyes brighten. “You mean awantedposter!”
Well. Truer words were never spoken. “Exactly,” I say.
“I’ve done several, you know. My masterpiece is the one I painted of the Knave of Hearts after he stole the queen’s tarts. It’s still hanging in the castle jail.”
“Great.” I sit down on a stack of books, and a cloud of dust rises around me. “Now—she has dark hair that comes down to her shoulders. It’s straight, with a bit of a curl on the ends.”
“I’ll have to start with a sketch first.” Rapscullio takes a pad and begins to scribble. “How tall is she?”
I realize I have no idea. I have no reference point for that.
“Medium height,” I say, guessing.
