Between the lines

* * *

Delilah falls asleep with the book open, which means I can watch her. You may think there’s nothing very interesting about seeing someone sleep, but that probably means you’ve never found the girl of your dreams. With each breath, she stirs a lock of hair that’s fallen in front of her face. Sometimes she clutches the pillow and sighs.

Now that I know I can’t be with her forever, I don’t want to waste the minutes I’ve got. For this reason, I haven’t closed my own eyes to get a good night’s rest. I’m afraid that if I do, she might disappear.

That’s why I’m awake when the door to the bedroom where Delilah is staying creaks open. Immediately I leap upright, clinging to the rock wall the way I’m supposed to on page 43 when the book is wide open. But the face that peers down at me is one I recognize. “Shhh,” Edgar says, and he carefully lifts the fairy tale from Delilah’s loose grasp.

I start to panic. What if he’s come to destroy the story? He never really liked it, by his own admission. What if he’s jealous and wants Delilah to himself? What if he’s sleepwalking and throws me out with the rubbish?

But instead, Edgar brings me into his own bedroom and closes the door. He sits down on the bed and bends his knees, resting the book along the slope of his legs so that I can see him while he speaks to me. “I know why it didn’t work,” he says. “You can’t take a character out of a story. Every time the book gets opened again, he’s right back where he started. What you need-what the story needs-isn’t an escape but a twist at the end.”

I shake my head. “I don’t see the point, if it means I’m still stuck here-”

“But what if it wasn’t you?” Edgar says. “What if you told the wrong story? What if, at the end, everyone finds out that you were an impostor all along?”

“Not a prince?” I ask.

“Not even Oliver,” he says. “Just someone who looks, well, remarkably similar.”

I am stunned into silence for a moment. “You would do that? For us?”

“No, but I’d do it for me,” Edgar says. “You don’t realize how much alike we actually are. We’re both stuck in worlds we don’t really fit into. We both lost our dads. We both wish we could be someone we’re not. I’d trade places with you in a heartbeat.”

But if I have learned anything, it’s that saying goodbye to the people you love isn’t easy. And when I wrote Delilah into the book, she was desperate to come home to her mother. I haven’t had one myself, but if I did, I can’t imagine leaving her behind forever. “What about your mom?” I ask him.

“She created everyone in there. She’d be all around me. Besides, she always wanted a son like you. And after all, if I can hear you in there, you’ll most likely be able to hear me. If I want out, I’ll find a way to let you know.” He shrugs. “What have you got to lose, Oliver? For once, you get the right girl, and for once, I get to be a hero.”

He lifts a stack of papers I haven’t noticed before. Only now do I see how red his eyes are, how tired Edgar seems to be. Whatever he’s been doing, he’s been up all night. “I’m not much of a writer,” he says, “but this is a story I could live with.”

I wish I could shake his hand. I wish I could thank him properly. This may not work, but it’s certainly worth a try. Lifting my face, I nod at Edgar. “Well then,” I say. “Let’s hear it.”

Delilah

WHEN I WAKE UP, I HAVE NO IDEA WHERE I AM.

The sheets aren’t the ones on my bed at home; the walls of this room are painted a different color. I can’t hear my mother singing off-key as she fries bacon downstairs in the kitchen.

Then it all comes rushing back to me.

Running away from home.

Being grounded till I die.

Jessamyn Jacobs.

Edgar.

The revised story.

Failure feels like a punch. All I have to look forward to today is four hours of What the heck were you thinking? from my mother during a long, painful car ride back home, and the knowledge that I finally found someone who understands who I am and likes me for it-only to realize that he’s a figment of my imagination.

I pull the covers over my head, wishing I didn’t have to wake up. At least in my dreams I can be with Oliver.

Oliver.

I feel around under the pillows, but the book is missing. Jumping out of bed, I look beneath its frame, and on the dresser. I rip the blankets and sheets off. I know I fell asleep with the fairy tale in my arms last night. I just know it.

“Where is it?” I mutter, and at that moment there is a knock at the door.

It swings open, and Edgar is standing on the threshold, book in hand. “Looking for this?” he asks, grinning.

“Yes!” I grab it out of his hands, angry. “You shouldn’t steal other people’s property.”

“Well, it’s not technically yours, is it? You stole it from your school library.”

“I’m the only person who ever checked this book out of-” I break off, my eyes narrowing. “How do you know that?”

“Because I listen,” Edgar says, coming closer. He takes the book from me and sets it on the bed, then holds my hands. “I listen to everything you say, Delilah.”

He’s staring at me as if he can see right inside me, and that’s creepy, because this is Edgar, after all-Edgar, who locks himself in his room to play video games all day. Except his eyes are different. I can’t really describe it, but they look softer around the edges. Wiser. And maybe, a little amazed.

“Delilah,” he whispers. “It’s me.”

“Of course it’s you, Edgar. Who else would it be?”

“Oliver. It worked, Delilah. It actually worked.” He smiles, and for a moment, I almost believe him. The way his mouth tips up on one side. The way his voice has the gentlest hint of a British accent.

But it didn’t work. I saw that with my own eyes. I take a step backward, shaking my head.

“I can prove it,” Edgar says, and he picks up the book. Pinching one page with two fingers, he slides his palm across the sharp edge, giving himself an inch-long paper cut.

“Stop that!” I grab his hand, but it’s too late. The book drops to the bed again, closed, as I turn his palm over to see how deep the cut is.

He’s bleeding, but the blood isn’t red.

It’s black as ink.

***

***

page 60

Hurtling toward the churning seas, Prince Oliver closed his eyes and prepared to die. The wind and the spray lashed his cheeks; the shreds of Seraphima’s gown flew behind him like a banner. He heard