Between the lines

have forever. Any minute now, Rapscullio was going to take her as his own bride.

Oliver felt something scramble up his boot and then along his leg. One of the rats. The rodent, hearing some movement, had decided to get in on the action. Amazed, Oliver held still while the rat chewed through the rope enough for him to use his own strength to burst free.

The tower was too old to have formal cells, so Oliver only had to hoist himself out of the dank, fetid pit where he’d been dumped. Silently, he climbed the circular stone stairs, listening for the sound of Rapscullio’s voice. When he reached the tower room and poked his head inside, however, it was empty.

Or so he thought, until someone leaped onto his back from behind and started beating him around the ears.

In a cloud of tulle and taffeta, he wrestled Seraphima to the ground, pinning her by her wrists. “You’re not Rapscullio!” she gasped.

He grinned. “Disappointed, are you?”

Seraphima shook her head and smiled. She was beautiful when she smiled. Then again, Oliver thought, she was beautiful when she didn’t smile too. “I knew you’d come for me,” she said.

Oliver stared down at her, suddenly convinced that he could slay a hundred men, if necessary. Was that all it took to be brave? Knowing that someone believed in you?

“I have a plan,” Oliver whispered, pulling her to her feet. “But I need your dress to make it work.”

OLIVER

I’M NOT SO SURE I AGREE WITH DELILAH.

In the first place, even if she manages to rewrite the story, that doesn’t mean the fairy tale won’t try to correct itself the way it’s done a hundred times before.

Second, I feel a little uncomfortable watching Delilah sit at this computer box looking for the story in its contents. It’s like sifting through someone’s mind. Like stealing.

“I think this is a bad idea,” I say out loud.

Delilah sighs. “Then tell me, Oliver-what are we supposed to do? We’ve tried everything else.”

“I thought you told us that the author herself said you can’t change a story once it’s been told-”

“Which is exactly why this makes sense,” Delilah says. “We’ll be the only ones with this edited version.”

I can feel this Edgar character staring at me intently. Every now and then he jabs a finger up against my face, bending my world, still finding it hard to believe what’s right before his eyes. “Did you see that?” he says. “He moved, right?”

Delilah swivels in her chair and, just like that, is out of my line of vision. “I can’t see you,” I holler, and she turns, exasperated.

“Edgar, can you prop up the book?” she asks.

I cling to the rock wall as Edgar tips me sideways, jabbing the points of a sagging letter k into my back before righting me again.

“Could we make this snappy?” he asks. “I kind of want to get back to my game.”

I know Delilah has a computer too-she’s mentioned this word to me before, and I’ve heard the faint clicking of her hands doing something computer-related, but I’ve never actually seen the instrument. There’s a huge window with pictures floating on it, and it’s attached by some sort of umbilical cord to what looks like an open book, with all the letters arranged in neat rows in a foreign language I cannot read.

Delilah’s hands move over this odd book, and letters appear on the window, as if by magic. “That’s amazing!” I cry out. “I must tell Orville about this!”

Delilah doesn’t seem to hear me. “The file won’t open. There’s a password. It’s five letters.”

“E-D-G-A-R,” I suggest.

Delilah types the word and hits another key. There is a high-pitched beep, but nothing changes on the big window in front of her.

“Can you think of anything else?” she asks Edgar. “Did you have a pet?”

“I’m allergic to everything but naked mole rats…”

“How about your dad’s name?” Delilah suggests.

Edgar looks down at the ground. “Isaac.”

I watch Delilah’s hands: I-S-A-A-C. Again, that high-pitched beep. Delilah bangs her fist on the computer table. “I can’t believe we’re this close,” she murmurs. “Is there any other password you can think of, Edgar?”

He throws out suggestions: the street address of the house where his mother was born, the name of his mother’s childhood pet, the title of her first published novel. But nothing works. With each failed attempt, I feel heavier and heavier, as if I am physically becoming part of the material of this book.

After a fruitless half hour, Delilah gets out of the chair and kneels down so that I can see her more clearly. “I’m sorry, Oliver,” she whispers, her voice thick with disappointment. “I tried.” She reaches her hand toward me, a five-fingered eclipse, and I raise my hand to hers. But it’s not like it was when she was inside the pages with me. Between our skin, once again, is the thinnest layer of paper.

Orville once told me that people never really touch. That’s because we’re all just a bunch of very tiny atoms surrounded by electromagnetic force. Even when we hold hands we’re not holding hands. The only things coming into contact are the electrons caught between us.

It didn’t make any sense to me at the time; it was more of Orville’s scientific mumbo jumbo. But now… well, now I completely understand.

“So that’s it?” Edgar interrupts my thoughts. “We just quit?”

“It was probably a stupid idea anyway,” Delilah murmurs.

“But what about him?” Edgar jerks a thumb in my direction. “Everyone deserves a happy ending.” He shakes his head. “I sound just like my mother. She used to say that to me every night before she tucked me in.”

Delilah slowly turns, counting on her fingers. She slips into the chair again, and her hands fly over the letters in front of the computer. “Everyone,” she repeats, and she types the letter E.

“Deserves.” D.

“A Happy Ending.” A-H-E.

And just like that, the window of the computer is filled with hundreds of words-words I have lived a thousand times, every day of my life.

Delilah scrolls down and starts to speak. Before I can even realize what she is doing, Edgar flips through the pages of the book to find the part she is reading aloud.

Tumbling head over heels, I am slammed into the margins. A fairy crashes into me so quickly I cannot recognize her; just when I think I’ve caught a glimpse of her silver hair, all the breath is knocked out of me as Trogg the troll rolls like a cannonball and hits me square in the chest. “Places!” Frump shrieks, and Queen Maureen floats past me, the bell of her gown acting like a sail as we whip through a dozen pages to the final scene.

The sand is hot beneath my boots. Seraphima is wrapped in silk and lace and smug delight, clasping my hand. But for the first time, she’s not looking at me. With a wistful expression, her gaze is following Frump as he waddles across the beach, the wedding ring tied to his collar. Socks waits and whinnies in the distance, with cans tied to his saddle and a big sash that reads JUST MARRIED fluttering out behind his hooves.

Delilah’s voice narrates, as if on a loudspeaker, and like a puppet, I do as I’m told.

“On Everafter Beach, as far as the eye could see, the entire kingdom gathered to witness the wedding of Prince Oliver and Princess Seraphima. Captain Crabbe and his mates had illuminated the beach with torches fueled by laughing gas and ignited with a gentle flame of Pyro’s breath. The mermaids had crafted a long aisle of crushed pink shells; the trolls had built a gazebo of twisted willow fronds, which Orville had decorated with magical flowers that glowed from within, and that sang as the bride approached. The fairies carried Seraphima’s silver train as she gazed up at the man she wanted to be with forever.”

I can feel them bubbling up inside me, the same words I have said so many times before.