by F. D. Lee
Her stomach lurched, but she couldn’t move. She was trapped in the crowd. She hadn’t noticed how far forward she’d pushed herself, and now she was stuck. She didn’t want to be here. She didn’t want to see the bravery and the sadness in the eyes of the gnome any more than she wanted to acknowledge the fact that there was a part of her, hidden behind the horror, that was ever so slightly jealous.
Just then the Redactionist stepped forward and addressed the audience, stating the words quickly:
“Once upon a time there was war, and starvation and death. Once upon a time we would kill our brothers and sisters, fearing for our own lives. Once upon a time the characters turned from us, and we wept. Now we do not war, nor do we fear, nor do we weep. We Redact. The Teller Cares About Us.”
“The Tellers Cares About Us,” Bea echoed with the crowd.
The Redactionist stood in front of the gnome and placed the white stone Eraser on her small forehead. Bea watched as the little body went rigid at the touch, and then limp. The white suit knelt down in front of the newly Redacted gnome and asked, “Sister, what do you know?”
The gnome blinked slowly. Bea was close enough to see the difference in her eyes.
“The Teller Cares About Me,” the gnome replied, her voice hollow.
“And what else?”
“i care about the teller is there something you would like me to do now”
The Redactionist nodded. He turned back to the waiting crowds, and announced that, due to the current situation with the Mirrors, the GenAm would only be providing beer and bread, but as many who wished were welcome to partake of the Teller’s kindness. The audience relaxed, and small bubbles of conversation began to rise from the general malaise. But it was not joyful or celebratory, as it usually would have been.
Bea shivered, and pushed her way out. The crowds milled around like a circle of spirits, observing a world they couldn’t affect, taking it all in, waiting.
Chapter Eleven
Bea hesitated outside the door to Mistasinon’s tiny office.
She was having doubts – not exactly surprising given that, if she wasn’t careful, she could very well end up losing her Plot. The possibility of the other thing, fresh in her mind, was one she was trying not to acknowledge. Oh, it sat there in her consciousness with all the subtlety of not just the hoolalump but the entire circus in the room, she was just working extremely hard at pretending it wasn’t. It would be hard to say at this stage whether she was succeeding.
She could also hear him talking to someone.
His office was little more than a broom cupboard and, though it was clear that he had attempted to lower his voice, the sound didn’t exactly have far to travel to reach her ears. As a result, although she couldn’t hear what he was saying, she could quite easily make out his tone of voice, which sounded worried and very tired.
As she stood and dithered outside the door she felt a wholly new pang of unease, one that hadn’t occurred to her until now. Mistasinon had shown a lot of trust in her. He had chosen her, despite her background, her experience and the general dislike towards the fairies, and she was about to lie to him.
You’re about to put him at risk of Redaction, she corrected, eyeing the door at the end of the corridor. If I lie now, there’ll be no turning back. I’ll have to finish the story Happily Ever After.
She started biting her thumbnail.
It was one thing to believe in yourself, but quite another to bet. Could she do this? Perhaps the truth was she simply wasn’t capable of managing a Plot. Maybe there was a reason why so many people didn’t trust the fairies.
Mistasinon’s voice drifted, too exhausted for anything more strenuous, through the door and down the hallway. Bea felt the soft resistance of flesh between her teeth and the metallic tang of blood filled her mouth. Startled, she looked down at her hand. She’d bitten her nail down to the quick. A small bead of heavy, black blood sat neatly on the tip of her thumb. She lifted her hand up and watched as the shiny bead began to trickle down her finger. It looked like a teardrop.
She heard the door open and swore under her breath.
“Hi there, Bea,” Mistasinon said, smiling conspiratorially as he said her name.
“…Hi.”
“Were you waiting to see me?”
Bea glanced at the exit, all the way down the corridor. Beyond that door was safety. Beyond that door was her regular life, with her friends and her little room and every single day being exactly the same as the last. Beyond that door were the other wannabe FMEs, who would tut and smile and express their sympathies in such a way that held minimum empathy and maximum delight. It was also where the taunts of her childhood waited for her, her home and, still raw after so many years, The Argument that forced her to leave. Beyond that door was her life: empty and pointless, exactly like everyone said it would be.
She looked past Mistasinon, who was smiling at her in confusion. “Is everything alright?” he asked.
Behind him was the door to his tiny office. Bea realised that if she walked through this door she very seriously faced Redaction. They would take away her life, making her empty and hollow, locking away from everything she had ever known, including herself.
But if she could finish the story…
Mistasinon would let her join the Academy. She’d basically be recommended by a Plotter, which had to be a thousand times better than being recommended by an FME. Everyone would have to take her seriously. She would finally be someone.
The hooded man was probably just an over-enthusiastic FME. He was probably not so different from herself. In fact, had they met under different circumstances, they’d almost definitely have got on. It would have to be the worst luck in all the Five Kingdoms and The Land to have her very first Plot attacked by a real Anti-Narrativist.
Bea looked up at Mistasinon.
“I was hoping you had a few minutes…?”
“Of course. Please, after you,” he said, holding the door. “This is a nice surprise,” he continued with admirable sincerity, given the fact he’d been about to leave for the day. “Take a seat, won’t you? What can I do for you?”
Bea stepped into the little office and looked around, surprised. “I thought you had someone in here with you,” she said, sitting down.
Mistasinon stared at her.
“I heard you talking to someone,” Bea clarified. He rubbed his neck. She remembered he had done the same thing the day before when she had asked him if he was desperate.
“This is a little embarrassing. Sometimes I, uh, I talk to myself. Not all the time. I suppose you think I’m mad.”
“Not at all – I expect it’s the only sensible conversation you get, right?”
Mistasinon gave her a grateful smile. “Exactly. So, what can I do for you?”
Bea took a breath. “I was just wondering if you might give me some advice. I’ve never had a Plot before and I want to get it right.” So far, so good – no lies there. Perhaps this was a good idea after all.
“I’m sure you’ll be fine, Bea,” Mistasinon said. “I understand I might have given you the impression that you don’t have the full confidence of the General Administration behind your selection, but that was my fault entirely. Really, you wouldn’t have been recommended if you weren’t up to it.”
“Recommended?”
“I mean your work recommends you. I have every faith in you,” he corrected quickly, seeing the hope flash across her face. “You’re going to do exactly what I want you to do.”
Bea dropped her eyes. “Um, thank you, but still… There’s just a couple of things I’d like to ask, if you don’t mind?”
Mistasinon pulled himself forward onto his elbows, so that his chin was balanced in the palm of his hand. He nodded encouragingly, perhaps feeling guilty for raising her hopes a moment before.
“Alright then, I certainly don’t want you having any trouble finishing the Plot. If nothing else, I’d never hear the end of it from all those crumpled old FMEs who think they
run everything here. By the mortal gods, they’re awful. Oh dear. I suppose I shouldn’t have said that,” he added, looking worried.
There was no escaping it, he really was lovely. Bea grinned at him. “Please don’t apologise on my account. I wouldn’t have put it half as gently as you just did.”
“I’m sure you would’ve thought of something,” he replied, returning her smile. “I’ve read your Books remember. You strike me as being quite inventive enough to describe your more, er, staid co-workers.”
Bea laughed, and then immediately wished she hadn’t. She shouldn’t be making friends with a Plotter, especially not given her reason for being here. “So,” she began again, trying hard to keep her voice level, “I was actually wondering about the Anties.”
Mistasinon’s smile wilted for a moment, but he revived it well enough that it only suffered a little. “The Anties? I’d have thought anyone who hasn’t been living under a rock would know enough about them.”
“I just wondered what you’d like me to do if I were to come across one. In my story.”
“Have you?”
Bea could have cried. “Not that I’m aware of,” she said, hoping he wouldn’t notice.
“Well, there’s plenty of literature available from the Contents Department,” he replied. “They’re really the ones you should be speaking to, you know.”
“I just thought… you said if I needed any help I could come and see you.”
Bea concentrated on not fidgeting under the look Mistasinon was giving her. It was, she was worried to note, not dissimilar from the one Melly and Joan had subjected her to.
“And nothing’s happened to prompt this?” he asked.
“I really think I should be ready for any eventuality, that’s all. We need to protect the Mirrors.”
“Of course. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to seem distrustful. Things have been…” he trailed off, searching for the right word.
“Trying?” Bea offered.
“Hmm. I was going to say ‘bloody awful’,” Mistasinon replied, making Bea feel even guiltier. He had a certain smile that, no matter how often or how sincerely he gave it, managed somehow to carry with it a sense of melancholy, like a dog that, although happy to see you, longs for its master to return.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be bothering you,” Bea said, standing to leave. She wasn’t sure if she was relieved or disappointed when he stood up with her. He seemed as surprised as she was, and equally unsure what to make of it.
“You don’t have to go,” he said. “I’m new in the Department, that’s all. I was reassigned, and I don’t think anyone knows what to do with me. Or I with them, to be honest. It’s difficult, learning how to be something else. I keep getting it wrong.”
“Well, I can certainly sympathise with that.”
“Oh?” Mistasinon asked, sitting back down in his chair. Bea noticed that he had to stretch his legs out to the side of the desk in order to fit behind it. She found herself not only sitting down again but volunteering the one subject she always tried to avoid.
“Well, you know my mother was a cabbage fairy,” She said, giving a painful little laugh that only the most self-involved of people would mistake for humour. “I mean, even now I can remember all the jokes the other children made. It didn’t take a lot of imagination. Cabbages are comedy gold, really, aren’t they? Anyway, there was, well… my mum and I argued, and I left. And now I’m here, and it isn’t really any different. Once a cabbage fairy, always a cabbage fairy.”
The tiny office seemed only to become smaller.
“Life can be cruel,” Mistasinon offered.
Bea’s face hardened. “Life isn’t cruel. Life never did anything to me. The other fae did.”
Mistasinon regarded her carefully.
“I suppose it’s never easy, going against expectation. Whether you choose to do it or not,” he said, picking up one of the pens that once again lay haphazardly on his desk, letting it slip through his fingers to bounce against the surface and back into his grip, his gaze fixed on it. Bea felt sad suddenly, and she didn’t want to think about why.
And then he looked up from whatever thoughts he had been inhabiting and his face broke into a smile of such genuine warmth that she had to resist looking behind her, just to make sure no one else had come in.
And that was part of the magic of Mistasinon. His face was not really a handsome one, not by the standards of the story. His forehead was too high and his eyebrows were really very bushy, but he had large brown eyes that looked at the world with almost uncensored feeling. For Bea, a person used to the device of True Love and Happily Ever After, it was a strange and fascinating thing to see true emotion.
“Well then, Bea,” he said, clapping his hands together, “I guess we’ll have to look after each other, won’t we? So, let’s start as we mean to go on. What’s worrying you about the Anties?”
Bea managed a smile. “Ah. Yes. Well, I mean, nothing serious of course. I guess, firstly, I was wondering what they might, uh, look like?” She tried not to wring her hands. Could she sit on them? Would he notice?
Mistasinon sat silent for a moment, thinking. “Honestly, they look much like anyone,” he said finally. “They tend towards the elven, and more of the imps, adhenes and such are going over. Fairies of course – they’re disenfranchised anyway, so why not go one step further? But I suppose anyone could be an Anti, in theory.”
“Oh. Right.”
“You seem disappointed?”
“No, no. Of course not. I just thought… Actually, sorry, one more question: if they could be anyone, how does the Redaction Department find them? Is there, I don’t know, a tell? There must be some way to recognise one?”
“It’s not a secret,” Mistasinon said. “The easiest way for the Redaction Department to find anyone is with the Mirrors.”
Bea made an angry sound. It was such an obvious, thoughtless lie it was hard not to be insulted by it. Everyone knew that the Mirrors didn’t pick up sound – all it took was the judicious use of a tea towel and the GenAm would have no idea what you were doing. But she shouldn’t have shown her frustration and now, despite his long day, Mistasinon had found the strength to furrow his impressive eyebrows.
“The Mirrors, yes, of course, sorry,” she said. “I knew that. I must have forgotten. You know how it is. Forget my head if it wasn’t sewn on.” She attempted a friendly smile, but she felt it sliding down her face the second she put it there.
Mistasinon stared at her levelly. And then he said something that, in all her wildest imaginings, Bea would never have expected a GenAm official to say.
“You’re right to disbelieve me. It’s nonsense that we use the Mirrors to find the Anties. Even if the Redactionists could use the Mirrors, there simply aren’t enough left for us, that is, the GenAm, to waste by watching them.”
Bea stared at him, shocked and fascinated, and ever-so-slightly delighted. What Mistasinon had just said to her was impossible. No one ever admitted to weaknesses on behalf of the GenAm. It was like listening to a politician hold their hands up and admit they were only in it for the bribes. Everyone knew it was true, but no one ever owned up to it.
“So how do the Redaction Department find the Anties?”
“Informers. Double agents. And we have the Cerberus, of course. Nothing escapes the Cerberus. Or so they say.”
Bea shivered.
“You’re frightened of the Cerberus?” Mistasinon asked.
“And you aren’t? Can you imagine what the Beast must be like? I’ve heard it’s the most pitiless, evil creature ever writ. A savage monster only the Teller, whocaresaboutus, could tame. You know they say its teeth are permanently black now, from all the blood? And they say it’s got eyes like hellfire, and that its breath carries the stink of a thousand rotten corpses. It’s a monster. Everyone says the King and Queen are to blame for the Teller, but I mean, really, it was the Beast that caught all those fae. It’s irredeemable.”
Mistasinon began tap
ping his fingers on the edge of his desk. It was like Bea had said something wrong, which didn’t make sense. It was only right and proper to hate the Beast. The Teller wanted people to hate the Beast.
“Is everything-”
“The Cerberus,” Mistasinon said, his fingers drumming faster and faster, “is a loyal and faithful servant of the story, of the Teller and of the Land.”
“Of course, I didn’t mean to-”
“I know what you meant. I’m not interested in idle complaints, Bea. I’m only interested in the Mirrors and the survival of the city.” He met Bea’s eyes. “I’ve given you this story because I have reason to believe that you can complete it. You’re a thinker, and that’s what we need – someone who can deal with anything that’s thrown at her and still get the story finished.”
“I am, I can.”
“Good. Because if you think you can’t complete the story, say so now and I’ll give it to one of the other FMEs. But I must say I’d be disappointed. You remind me of an old friend, someone I... well I miss a lot, and who I trusted. He was someone who could get things done, and I think you’re the same. But I need this story finished, Bea, Happily Ever After. Can you do that for me?”
Chapter Twelve
Bea sat in the pub, staring at the greasy sheen on her wine glass.
She’d left Mistasinon’s office hours ago, and still hadn’t managed to find her way home. She’d walked around the city centre, trying to work out why she felt so unhappy. When it became obvious she wasn’t going to find an answer there, she’d decided to head back to the wall and see if a glass of white wouldn’t prove more forthcoming.
Bea took another sip. She wished she had enough for a second glass, but she’d already had to lay down a not inconsequential bag of salt for the one in front of her, and she’d left her ration tokens at home.
Things were definitely getting harder in the city. Of course, that was the reason Mistasinon had given her the Plot, wasn’t it? They were desperate. It wasn’t really because he thought she could do it. Even Melly, who was supposed to be her friend, didn’t think she had what it takes.
