Between the lines

arms and try to curl into the smallest ball possible, so that I won’t get hurt when it happens.

“Oomph!” With a blow that knocks the breath out of me, I land on a hard stack of something. A pile of books scatters, and a cloud of dust puffs up around me. I gingerly get to my feet, taking inventory of my bones to make sure nothing’s broken. From the corner of my eye, I see movement, and I whip around with my arms in a karate pose, as if I might be able to intimidate whoever else is here.

The intruder makes the same exact movement.

I take a step forward, and realize that I am looking into a mirror. At least, I think it’s a mirror-even if the reflection I’m seeing isn’t quite me.

Once, my mother took me to Montreal. We went to a town square, which had come alive at dusk with street performers and vendors. Artists sat beneath umbrellas, drawing sketches of fidgeting children. My mother had a portrait drawn of me just for fun. You could certainly see that there was a resemblance, but to be honest, the picture kind of freaked me out. It made me look flat and two-dimensional, not really me at all.

The image I’m staring at in the mirror looks exactly the same way.

Slowly, I reach out a finger to touch this odd girl who might or might not be me-When there is a high-pitched shriek to my left. I am knocked off my feet and pinned down by a scarred, goateed man I’d recognize anywhere.

“You thief!” Rapscullio cries. “If you’re as awful as the prince says, you’ll be a dragon’s meal before nightfall.”

* * *

I am making this all up. That’s the only explanation I have for the fact that I am being dragged along by a fictional character through the Enchanted Forest. But if I am making this all up, then how come the rope Rapscullio has wrapped around my wrists is rubbing them raw? How come I can smell woodsmoke coming from Orville’s cabin and feel the fairies-the size of mosquitoes on steroids-tugging at my hair and pulling at my clothes?

I know I should be freaking out, but I’m too busy looking around at this world I’ve dreamed of for so long. Above me, where there should be sky, are distant, dangling bits of letters. Beyond them, I can barely make out colors and shapes, as if I’m looking at the sun from the bottom of a pool.

“Oh my gosh.” I gasp. “Is that the royal castle?”

“No, it’s a loaf of bread,” Rapscullio mutters. “Oliver told me you were a felon, but he didn’t mention that you’re feebleminded…”

If this is the castle, then I’m about to see Oliver.

Really see him, for the first time.

I dig in my heels, stopping Rapscullio. With my bound hands, I try to smooth my hair and adjust my shirt in a way that doesn’t show the rip from the letter J. “Do I look all right?” I ask my captor.

“I suppose, if you’re into that starving-androgynous-plebeian look.” He tugs me forward, and as if by magic, the metal portcullis rises and four heralds trumpet my arrival. Rapscullio unties my wrists and shoves me forward, so that I land on my hands and knees in the middle of a circle of nobles and ladies-in-waiting.

“What do we have here, Rapscullio?”

I look up to find Queen Maureen staring at me. Her crown glistens with diamonds and sapphires and rubies, blinding me. There are braided gold threads in the fabric of her gown. Soft ermine fur lines the inside of her majestic purple cape. The details I can see here, up close, are nothing like the illustrations in a book. This looks so real… because it is.

It’s like a dream. Haven’t you ever had one of those, where you are utterly and thoroughly convinced that you are awake and alive? That everything surrounding you is so detailed you could draw it from memory? That what’s happening is real?

Queen Maureen gasps. “Get the poor girl a blanket. She’s practically in her undergarments!”

A nobleman throws a horse blanket at me, and I wrap it around myself, although I’m fully dressed in a T-shirt and shorts. Thinking fast, I wonder what explanation I can possibly make for myself. The book is clearly closed, as nothing like this happens in the story. Which means everything that Oliver told me was true: there is a completely different world that happens between the lines.

“Your Majesty, I bring to you a despicable, detestable, reprehensible thief!” Rapscullio says, smiling sheepishly at the queen. “I’ve been using that thesaurus you bought me for Christmas.”

I stand up, hands on my hips. “For your information, I’m not a thief. And I’m not despicable, detestable, or reprehensible. In fact, some people would call me astute, intuitive, and perspicacious.” I lift my chin a notch. “English. Straight As.”

“Astute-Intuitive-and-Perspicacious,” Queen Maureen repeats. “That’s quite a mouthful, dear. Have you got a nickname?”

“No-my name is Delilah-”

“Then why didn’t you say so?” the queen asks.

“Because”-I jab a finger in Rapscullio’s direction-“he was too busy accusing me of being a thief.”

“I have it on direct authority from His Royal Highness Prince Oliver that this girl is a criminal.” Rapscullio sniffs.

Queen Maureen stares down at me. “She hardly looks like a felon. More like a vagrant.”

“I’m neither,” I say. “Go ask Oliver. He’ll explain everything.”

“You know the prince?” Queen Maureen asks. She looks me over from head to toe, in utter disbelief.

“Your Majesty?” a familiar voice says. “Did I hear you calling for me?”

And then, suddenly, I am only three feet away from Oliver. My heart starts hammering beneath my ribs. He is taller than I thought he’d be, and his eyes-well, they’re not the color of the ocean at all. They’re more like the sky at twilight. But his voice, it’s exactly how I’ve heard it. And the way his smile tips up on one side, that’s how I know it’s really him.

“Oliver!” I cry, and I lunge forward with my arms outstretched-

Smack.

I find myself flat on the ground, with three guards sitting on me.

“That’s quite enough,” Oliver says, pushing the guards out of the way and rolling me over. “Are you all right?” he asks, reaching to pull me up.

But I can’t say anything. And not because those guards knocked the wind out of me either.

Because for the first time, we are touching. Holding hands.

I think Oliver realizes this at the same moment, because we wind up staring at each other, transfixed.

A line from the fairy tale pops into my head:

This was why there was music, he realized. There were some feelings that just didn’t have words big enough to describe them.

“I’m afraid there’s been a misunderstanding,” Oliver manages, getting to his feet. “Delilah here is an old friend.”

“Then why did you need me to sketch a Wanted poster for-”

“I thought she was lost!” Oliver says, and then he grins widely. “And look at how well it worked, Rapscullio, since here she is! You deserve a reward. Queen Maureen, didn’t we get a rare Japanese water caterpillar as a state gift last month?”

“Oh, yes.” She claps her hands, and one of her footmen runs off to fetch it. “Funny,” she says, scrutinizing me. “I make it my business to know all the characters in the book, and yet I don’t think we’ve ever met. How could that be?”

“This is Delilah,” Oliver says, quickly glossing over her question. “Delilah, Queen Maureen.”

I stick out a hand, only to have Oliver elbow me in the side. “Curtsy,” he coughs.

Right. I sink into my best curtsy, which isn’t very good, given that I’m wearing a horse blanket.