by Y. S. Lee
“Whisper your message into the heron’s ear, and it shall be delivered as if it were written on the finest parchment. Herons are brilliant scribes, you know.”
Abby did so, and the heron took wing, flying off toward London.
Triton said, “With this mirror, Sire, I believe our visits between the worlds may become more frequent. We will leave it in your hands to keep safe once we arrive. As you saw, its magic is too unsafe for just anyone to possess.”
Syrus held out a hand to Abby. “You are free to do what you will. All doors are open to you.”
She stood and took his hand. The warmth in her fingers still surprised him. He realized he had expected the eternal chill of Olivia’s clockwork hand. “I just want to see that red sea, and hear these mermaids singing.”
Triton smiled. “That can be arranged, my lady.”
“Whatever you wish,” Syrus said. The glimmer in her eyes made him hope that her wish was the same as his.
Abby took a deep breath and tightened her grip. “Well, then. Off we go.”
They stepped forward until they disappeared like shafts of sun shimmering in water, into the Scientian day.
A Note From Tiffany Trent
Author’s Note: At one time in London, with the rise of the British Empire and its resulting shipping companies, Chinese sailors found safe haven in places like the Oriental Quarters, which was the name of a famous boarding-house for Chinese men. Many of them were run by British women who were or had been married to Chinese men, and they were often given nicknames like Canton Kitty, Lascar Sally, etc. Abby’s mother is based on those brave women.
About Tiffany Trent
Tiffany Trent is the author of award-winning young adult science fiction and fantasy novels, including the Hallowmere series and the Unnaturalists duology. She has published many short stories and previously co-edited a charity anthology for Gulf coast oil spill relief. When not writing or reading, she can be found in her garden covered in bees. Visit her at her website at www.tiffanytrent.com or on Twitter as @tiffanytrent.
A Brand New Thing
Jenny Moss
A Brand New Thing
A country estate in England
May 20, 1923
The ink curved into perfect shapes as Eve expertly wielded the pen, not minding the gathering stains on her finger. The daughter of…
“Eve! What are you doing?”
…Mr. and Mrs. Clifford Winklevoss…
An elegant hand whipped past her face and snatched the invitation off the table. Eve ignored her sister and picked up the next piece of beautiful ecru paper. She smoothed it down to feel the texture across her palm.
“Eve!” Edith yelled, thrusting the invitation before her eyes and pointing at a little drawing Eve had crafted in the corner. “What’s this?”
Their tall mother, as elegantly curved as Eve was awkwardly straight, swept into the drawing room.
Eve ducked her head to see her work better. Her hand felt the exquisite gentle push of the paper against the pen, and she smiled to herself.
“I knew she’d ruin them, Mother!” Edith was yelling, still. “Why did you let her write my invitations?”
Edith’s (and Eve’s) mother took the offending item and peered closely. “Eve, is this…a button?”
“Yes,” Eve said, continuing to write. “A button because we call Edith ‘button.’”
Edith gave a frustrated shout. “No one has used that ridiculous nickname since I was ten years old. How dare…how dare…” Poor Edith was so upset she couldn’t get out the words.
Eve felt her mother’s hand stopping her own. “Eve.”
Looking up, Eve asked, “Yes, Mother?”
“No more buttons.”
Edith grabbed the stack of Eve’s completed work. “She’s done them all that way, Mother.” Eve watched, crestfallen, as Edith tore each one into tiny pieces while their mother wore a dignified frown.
“You didn’t have to utterly destroy them, Edith,” Eve said, staring at the scattering of confetti now on the table. “I would’ve kept them.” She scooped up the bits of paper and let them waterfall through her fingers. “Although the confetti is rather pretty. We should throw it at you and William at the wedding.”
“Mother, why did you let this fool write my invitations? My wedding will be the event of the Season. And you let…you let…”
“You know why, Edith.”
Edith knew why. First, they were saving on expenses, but they couldn’t speak of that. Second, Eve had beautiful handwriting, but they tried not to compliment Eve. Because Eve’s eccentricities outweighed her assets. Their mother hoped by withholding praise they’d encourage Eve to be more normal.
“Eve,” Mrs. Winklevoss said. “Now that you’ve ruined the invitations, you’ll go to the post office and buy more stationery.”
Eve continued to write.
“Eve,” Mrs. Winklevoss said firmly.
“I need to finish this one. I can’t leave it half done.”
“That’s enough, Eve.”
But Eve kept writing until she’d written the very last letter. Her fingers itched to add the button, but she resisted. “I’m done for now.”
Grabbing her novel off the table, feeling comforted by the presence of her friends within its pages, Eve left the drawing room as her sister complained, “Mother, how did you and Father have such a strange bird? Nanny must’ve dropped her on her head when she was a baby and then hid the secret.”
“Edith,” their mother admonished gently.
“I’m filled with gratitude you didn’t make me wait until Eve married because, really, Mother, no one will ever marry her. No one.”
I’m not opposed to marriage, Eve wanted to say, pausing at the foot of the stairs, but young men don’t appear to be interested. The Winklevoss’s declining fortune was an open secret, so there was no money to tempt them.
Edith didn’t bother to lower her voice as she prattled on, “When will you and Father realize she’s mad like Aunt Dorothy and will only be a nuisance? She’s not pretty enough to have men overlook her oddities. And where is Father? Is he hiding again?”
“He’s in his study, of course. He has work to do.”
“Oh, what work does he have to do?”
Eve took the steps quickly, her sister’s words lingering in her mind. She’d heard people say—usually Edith and her friends—that she had funny looks, with her pale skin, wispy blond hair, and eyes a blue so light they looked ethereal. But Eve thought she looked all right.
A lovely thing about people in novels was being able to stop reading if they were too cruel. She wanted to shut the book on Edith today.
Eve left their beautiful house in the front seat of the car driven by their chauffeur—dear, ancient Holden, who’d driven their carriages before he’d driven their cars. The Winklevoss estate wasn’t magnificently large, but it was enough to be acceptable. Quiet. They even had their own sheep. In the back of the car sat Eve’s lady’s maid, prim-faced Glenda, her mouth turned down even more than usual because Eve had insisted on sitting in front with Holden. He looked uncomfortable but was used to Eve’s stubborn nature.
Glenda reminded Eve of Lucy Honeychurch’s cousin in A Room with a View. She wasn’t exactly like her, but Eve liked to imagine that she was, so she could better imagine herself to be in the novel. Especially when Lucy was kissed in a field of violets. Eve had never been kissed and probably never would be, but when she read the scene she felt it was happening to her exactly as it’d happened to Lucy Honeychurch.
As they bumped along the long driveway to the front gate, Eve’s eyes went to the lake, her special spot.
“You need to stay away from that place,” Glenda warned from the backseat.
Eve wasn’t surprised. Glenda, who’d grown up in the village they were headed to, had voiced her suspicions before.
“Why does a small lake frighten you so?” Eve asked for the hundredth time.
“When I see danger, I know to stay away
.”
Holden kept his eyes on the road, but was tension pulling at his mouth?
Eve turned around. “What danger do you see?”
Glenda’s face drew into itself, even tighter. “That dark water traps restless souls.”
“Well, why don’t they just get out?”
“They’re afraid.”
“Of what, swimming?”
Holden’s mouth curled into the tiniest of smiles.
“Of living,” Glenda snapped and then would say no more.
Eve’s family, the Winklevosses, had moved to the estate when Eve was three. Her father was not from money. He’d made his fortune and wanted to play English gentleman. He’d bought an estate that had plenty of acreage but a dilapidated house, and renovated it into something rather grand. But society barely accepted Mr. Winklevoss, especially since his fortunes had turned. Edith had been very fortunate to make her match. But then again, Edith was a beauty, just like their mother.
In a kind moment, Mrs. Winklevoss had told Eve that her skin was like white silk. But then she’d looked at—not into—Eve’s eyes and said, “But your irises are so light they’re almost not even there. Like they don’t exist at all. Just like Aunt Dorothy’s.” Her father’s spinster sister who’d disappeared and never returned. Because that’s what happens, Mrs. Winklevoss claimed, when you do things you’re not supposed to. You disappear.
Eve thought it a tragedy her mother didn’t read. One could have adventures in novels and disappear. Safely.
Mrs. Winklevoss thought Eve’s reading was unhealthy and in some way contributed to her paleness. There really was so much about her daughter she didn’t understand. She’d often remind Eve, although she wouldn’t say it unkindly, of all the talents she lacked. Mrs. Winklevoss recited the list as if it must be said, must be heard. Eve couldn’t sing or dance. She couldn’t play the piano. She didn’t know how to make polite conversation with young men. She didn’t know how to sit quietly like a young lady and be normal.
But Eve’s eyes were still on the lake and her horse chestnut tree beside it. She wished she were lying there reading a book. She could do that.
They rolled into the village, stirring up dust. Eve watched as they passed the blacksmith on the outskirts of town and the humble cottages and then more fashionable homes and the grand new hotel. Even her mother conceded the hotel was quite wonderful, although she said it wasn’t enough to make up for the dreary entrance into town.
After parking in front of the post office, Eve said to both Holden and Glenda, “Don’t get out.”
Holden nodded, but to Eve’s dismay, sour-faced Glenda was out of the car, taking her long strides to the post office, reaching it before Eve could even open her door.
Eve stepped out and slammed her door, then hesitated. Through the open window, she looked in at Holden. “I’m sorry. I was overcome.”
“Understandable,” Holden said with a wink.
Eve glanced at Glenda, gleeful to see her scandalized face at Holden’s impropriety. She and Holden exchanged a conspiratorial smile. Eve turned away but felt compelled to hold onto the door handle for a long count of three. She didn’t know why these rituals had her in their grasp, but there was such compulsion in her she couldn’t fight it.
“Miss Eve,” Glenda said impatiently.
But Glenda shouldn’t have spoken because now Eve had to reach out for the handle one more time.
Her objective met, she whirled around before the urge swept over her again, knocking against someone and losing her balance. A strong grip on her arm steadied her as she saw a skeleton key fall to the ground. She leaned down to scoop it up, throwing her rescuer off balance too, their arms clutching one another as they tried not to fall. She found herself looking into the mesmerizing eyes of a young man.
“I believe this is yours,” he said, their fingers touching as they both clutched the key.
“Miss Eve!” Glenda called out.
“No,” Eve said, “it’s not.”
“Do you dance?” he asked.
Startled, she laughed. “I’m no good at it.”
“Miss Eve!” Glenda yelled out again.
“Neither am I,” he said lightheartedly, “but I feel we’re dancing.”
Glenda was now beside her. “Miss Eve, what are you doing?”
The young man tipped his hat and left them, walking down the street. Eve felt compelled to follow him, but Glenda was pulling her away.
Eve looked over her shoulder at the young man and was rewarded with him turning around and giving her a wide smile and a wave. She was still looking at him when Glenda shut the door of the post office. By the time she realized she was still holding the key, he was gone.
Eve delivered the stationery to Mrs. Winklevoss and climbed the stairs. She paused to watch her mother playing with Edith’s hair and heard her say, “How will you adorn your hair for the wedding? It’s so beautiful.”
Edith laughed gaily. “We have the same hair, Mother.”
Arm in arm, they went into the drawing room as Eve tried to imagine squishing into the small space between them. But there was no place for her there. She tried to picture herself on her mother’s other arm at least, but she only saw herself falling behind.
Eve tapped the railing three times before going upstairs.
Eve’s eyelids were drooping. She put down her book—a fantastical tale about a girl finding herself in a land filled with things that shouldn’t be—splayed across her chest…for only a moment, closing her eyes…and then woke to shadows.
A full moon shone through an uncovered window. Most likely, Glenda had found her asleep and shooed the chambermaid away.
Eve thought she heard music. Sleepily she went to the window, greeted by stars so alive and twinkling in the night sky she wondered if they’d been singing. But no, the music was coming from the lake. Her lake. The one she loved, and Glenda feared. Pressing her face to the glass, she saw the water dazzling with light as if the lake had swallowed the stars.
She slipped on her shoes and sneaked down the stairs and across a lawn covered in night dew. With damp shoes and cold feet, she arrived at the large statue of Neptune on his throne, a marble monstrosity that’d been on the estate long before the Winklevosses. Looking up, Eve was slightly disturbed by the lone red robin perched on Neptune’s head. The eyes of the robin, as well as the sea god, watched her as she passed by. Her steps slowed as she neared the lake’s edge.
A fire of light and music rose up. Trumpets and trombones. A saxophone. A lively piano, a jazzy singer’s voice. The lake erupted with life.
Eve hesitated, a pit of fear deep in her stomach. This wasn’t one of her novels. Or was it? She couldn’t just turn the page. Or could she?
She threw off her shoes and her dress. Down to her step-in chemise, she dove into the cold spring water, swimming into the light and music, desperate to find its heart. The lake seemed to stretch on and on. Still she swam, kicking, kicking, and seeing a dome before her. Finally, she was close. Reaching out, her fingers touched glass alive with a vibrancy she’d only imagined.
She grabbed a statuette at the top of the dome to steady herself, blinking at another Neptune on a throne – this one small and metal, but otherwise identical to the one on the grounds.
She peered in at a ballroom. Red gowns and black tuxedos circled around and around a band in the middle of the room, a pinwheel of color and movement.
How did they get in?
Longing twisted inside her.
Swimming alongside the surface, she searched for a window or door, but the dome was sleek and sealed. With bursting lungs, she pushed off the glass and headed for the surface, frightened it would all disappear. Her delight was now a desperate need. With a deep gulp of air, she returned to the magic, desire racing inside of her as she felt time slipping away.
Her hands were frantic against the glass as she searched the faces, trying to catch someone’s eye. If they saw her, they’d let her in. They had to.
A
nd there, amongst the tuxedos, as if emerging from a dream, was the young man from the village. He looked up as if he knew she was there and gestured for her to join them, his eyes bright and welcoming.
Again, she needed air. As she broke the surface, her thoughts swirled around the young man. Who is he? Is he here for me? Did he know I lived here when he saw me in the street?
Eve swam to the lake’s edge. Shivering in her wet chemise, she paced back and forth along the grassy bank, searching the ground for a hidden passageway, tapping the statue of Salacia with her seaweed hair three times, then to Venilia the nymph, then back to Salacia. How am I to get in? she asked them. Her pleas moved neither.
Then her eyes went to lonely Neptune, banished away from the water while his twin lived below its surface.
She dashed across the wet grass and crawled up the sleek marble base, standing before Neptune’s throne and startling a robin into flight. Searching by the kind light of the moon, she found a cleverly hidden door with no handle. She ran her fingers along its edges and into a lock.
The skeleton key!
She raced to the house, coming to her senses when she arrived at the door. She looked down at her bare feet and wet chemise. If anyone saw her like this, Mother would be scandalized. She hesitated, and in that hesitation, she felt it slip away.
Pressing her head against the door, she heard nothing and wanted to weep. She returned for her clothes, staring into the black, silent lake.
The next morning at breakfast, Eve stared into her cup.
“Something fascinating in your tea, Eve?” Mr. Winklevoss asked, tapping his reading glasses on his plate.
“Father, please stop,” Edith said.
“Stop what?” he asked, now using his glasses to scratch the top of his bald head.
“Don’t encourage Eve. She’ll be seeing fairies swimming in her cup.”
