The Fairy's Tale

by F. D. Lee

  “I don’t think that’s a compliment,” she replied.

  “It’s not an insult, either.”

  “Why were you kneeling outside my door? It’s not exactly business hours.”

  The Plotter bent down to pick up a polished leather satchel that had been resting by his feet. “I dropped my bag, I was picking up the papers.” He tapped it against the door jamb but didn’t open it. “I was out of the office this afternoon, working. I was heading back and I thought I’d follow up on your story. The Second Act should be starting soon, and I figured I’d save you a visit to the GenAm. You seemed nervous the other day.”

  “Oh.”

  “But I shouldn’t have just come barging over. I’ll let you get on. I mean, unless…” He let the sentence hang in the small space between them.

  “Yes?” Bea asked.

  “Would you like to have dinner with me? If you’re not too busy on your Plot?”

  Mistasinon smiled anxiously, already embarrassed.

  “Let me get my bag,” Bea said.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Bea was relieved the streets were relatively quiet.

  They passed a few elves, one of whom shouted something at Mistasinon’s blue suit and then ran quickly down one of the narrow side streets, but otherwise their journey was uneventful. Mistasinon brought her to a tiny, plain café just a few streets in from her building. It was further away from the wall and thus somewhat safer and cleaner, but not so far into the city centre that the streets were devoid of all local colour. The main hue being, currently, a pool of oily black blood outside the stairs up to the cafe.

  “Careful,” Mistasinon said, gently steering Bea around the macabre puddle.

  The café was nice enough, and it sold foods Bea had never tasted before, but which Mistasinon seemed to know quite well. There wasn’t much on the menu, but he ordered what he could for them.

  They ate in awkward nervousness, Bea forgetting her manners more than once as she allowed the conversation to drain away. She didn’t know why he had brought her here or why she had accepted, and although it was impossible she kept waiting for him to ask her about the blue Anti, Seven.

  Mistasinon looked at her, his tawny skin warmed by the lamps that sat in the walls of the café, spluttering on the dregs of their oil. Then he smiled slightly. “I can guess what you’re thinking.”

  Bea looked up in horror.

  “You’re thinking about your Plot.”

  “Nooooo, no, not at all. I was thinking about… um, isn’t it strange that the heroines always end up asleep?”

  “Hah. I’ve thought that too. It just seems a little pointless really.”

  “Pointless?”

  “Well, of course, not pointless,” he corrected himself.

  The owner of the café, a fat dwarf with a stained apron, came up and hovered uncertainly.

  “Do you want some coffee?” Mistasinon asked.

  “Only if you do,” Bea replied.

  Mistasinon rubbed his neck. Bea thought he was about to say ‘no’, and then he nodded to the proprietor. She found she had to ignore the unexpected wave of happiness that washed over her. She had no idea where it had come from.

  “So, have you travelled a lot?” she asked. For some reason she found she was regretting the silence during their meal, and now it was nearly time to go she wanted to make up for it.

  Mistasinon smiled his quiet smile and leaned back in his chair. “More than most. But it’s always nice to be back in Ænathlin, even with the current troubles. Don’t you find that?”

  Bea thought about it. She’d always loved Ænathlin, not so much for what it was but what it wasn’t. It wasn’t, for example, where she had grown up.

  “Yes, I do. I remember when I first arrived here, I honestly thought I was dreaming. It just seemed so unreal to have made it this far. I suppose I always feel a little bit like that, whenever I come back,” she said.

  Mistasinon chuckled nicely. “Yes, I know that feeling. I spent a long time in a very grim place, and I can tell you I’m grateful every day that I’m not there. So what made you want to be an FME?”

  Bea took a sip of the hot, bitter coffee. “You won’t believe me.”

  Mistasinon leaned forward, his eyes alight. “Are you a difficult person to believe, Buttercup?”

  Bea threw an olive at him. Mistasinon’s hand shot out, much faster than she would have expected, and caught it before it landed. For just a moment, she felt uneasy. And then he smiled at her and shrugged. He handed her back the olive, his fingertips brushing against the palm of her hand and a gentle blush colouring his cheeks. Bea laughed, and after a second so did he.

  “So, are you exceptionally dishonest?” he asked. “Do I need to check my pockets before I leave you?”

  “You know, I’ve always wondered about that. I mean, why don’t the humans, the characters I mean, notice all the things we take? The whole city’s made of things we’ve stolen. I’m sure I passed a nest the other day that was made entirely out of teaspoons.”

  “The tompte’s house outside the Baker’s? The one on Blind Pin Alley?”

  Bea nodded. “I know that once the characters knew we were real, and I get the reason why it’s better for us to be… less real… but I do think they’d notice. They just explain it away.”

  “It’s the belief,” Mistasinon said. “It’s difficult to really see something when you’ve always believed it to be a certain way. It’s like, I don’t know, suddenly being aware of the air. Not impossible, but why would anyone ever try? At least, until there’s a problem.”

  Bea thought about the banners at the Grand, floating through her life like spider webs, keeping her in place without ever chaining her down.

  “Bea?” Mistasinon said when she didn’t reply.

  “Sorry. I was just thinking. Well, I only hope they don’t start noticing now, or I’ll never manage to furnish my house.”

  Mistasinon leaned forward and poured her another small glass of the strong coffee.

  “You do look at things in novel ways,” he said.

  “It was just a joke.”

  “I know that. Still… Do you want to know what I think?”

  No, Bea thought. I don’t even know what I think. But she nodded her head anyway.

  “I think there’re two of you. There’s the one that wants to be a Fiction Management Executive, who writes letters instead of waiting to be recommended and takes any Plot-watch going. And then there’s the cabbage fairy, the one who asks about the Cerberus and grows thickets and wonders about sleeping Princesses.”

  Bea pulled back, insulted. “I don’t know what it is you’re implying, but I’m serious about becoming an FME.” She swallowed. “In fact, there’s something I need to tell-”

  “I didn’t mean to offend you,” Mistasinon apologised, interrupting her. He looked wretched. “I’m not very used to being with others. I’ve only ever really had one friend… Mortal gods. Look, sorry,” he said dismally, giving up. “Of course you’re professional. I quite understand if you want to leave.”

  Bea paused, feeling guilty. “I didn’t mean to be rude,” she offered. “I’m just… I’m used to people saying I can’t do anything.”

  “That wasn’t what I meant at all. I’m certain you’re the right person for this Plot. I wouldn’t have given it to you if I didn’t think you could do it.”

  She looked at him, trying to spot the trick. But the only thing she could see in his face was trust. He believed in her. He really did. And she nearly told him.

  “So, how about you? Anything exciting going on?” she asked to change the subject, crossing and uncrossing her legs under the table.

  “I’m not sure I’ll do any better answering that question, but thank you for trying,” he said. “Everything’s ‘exciting’ at the moment, isn’t it? I think we may have to ration the Mirrors.”

  “Ration the Mirrors? Isn’t there something we can do?”

  “We’re doing everything we can and t
hey’re still breaking. It’s like they’ve all decided to go at once,” Mistasinon said, rubbing his neck.

  “My friend said it’s been getting worse.”

  “And they’re right. We’ve got as many FMEs as we have out, all running Plots, but it doesn’t seem to be enough. We really need the stories. Oh – are you alright?” He leaned forward. “You’ve gone very pale.”

  “Oh. Yes. Definitely. Plots, Plots, Plots.”

  “Here, drink this,” Mistasinon said, pouring her a glass of water. He waited for Bea to take a couple of sips.

  “Perhaps…” Bea began, already aware of the mouldy taste of failure, “perhaps you need more experienced people on the stories…?”

  “Please don’t say that. I don’t agree at all. I really wouldn’t have anyone else but you on this story.”

  Bea looked up. “But perhaps I can’t make it work.”

  “Bea, I’m certain you can. Don’t listen to all those other people. They’re all monsters. Trust me.” Mistasinon confided with a smile, taking a sip of coffee. “There’s always another way, isn’t there?”

  “I suppose so.”

  Mistasinon leaned forward on his elbows, closing the space between them. “Listen. Do you know the story of the many worlds?”

  “No.”

  “That’s not surprising. It’s not a real story – I mean, it was never a story we used with the characters. I suppose it was our story, the same way they have theirs. It was forgotten after the war.”

  “You know about the war?” Bea asked, curiosity pulling her out of her funk.

  “Oh, no, no, no. The Teller forbids the old stories. How could I?”

  “But you know about this story?”

  “A little,” he said. “Would you like to hear it?”

  “What about the Beast?” Bea asked, remembering herself. “You know, they say that it likes to crunch your bones in your body before it delivers you to the Redaction Department.”

  “Oh yes. The horrendous beast. What a monster he must be,” Mistasinon said. And then he smiled again. “But assuming for a moment the Cerberus has more pressing matters, shall I tell you?”

  “Well… Alright, yes. Please. I suppose if you’re willing to tell it I can admit I’d like to hear it.”

  “I knew you would,” he said. “There used to be this story that Thaiana wasn’t the only world, nor the Mirrors the only pathway. Once there were many others. A different path for a different world. Imagine it. There wouldn’t be any need to ration our access into Thaiana, nor to limit the Plots and stories. We could even have new stories. There wouldn’t be this constant scramble to keep the belief working.”

  “What happened?”

  “They say the other pathways were lost during the Rhyme War. All except the Mirrors.”

  “So, if we could find the other pathways we wouldn’t need the Mirrors?”

  “Exactly. Or at least, we wouldn’t be so reliant on them. But it might just be a story. A myth.” He rested his chin in his hand. “Can I ask you a question?”

  She nodded.

  “What would you do, Bea, if you could choose between something wrong but simple or something right but difficult? Even if both choices would get you what you wanted?”

  Bea looked at him sharply, but there was nothing in his expression that marked the question as anything but innocent. She chewed her lip. “Well, I... Well, I’d still do what I thought was right, even if it was harder.”

  “You wouldn’t choose the path of least resistance?”

  “Not if it was wrong, no.”

  “You should bear that in mind, Bea. With your story, I mean. I gave you this Plot because I like the fact that there’s two of you, but I hope you’ll listen to the cabbage fairy sometimes, too. Come on, I’ll walk you home.”

  They strolled through the streets, neither one rushing to get back to Bea’s building.

  “I hadn’t thought I’d see you today, if I’m honest,” Mistasinon said abruptly.

  “Then why did you come to my flat?”

  He lifted his large eyebrows and shot her a crooked smile.

  “I thought I’d take the chance.”

  Bea dropped her eyes and began fiddling with the ties on her dress, making sure they hung at equal lengths.

  “You like things to be orderly,” he observed, watching her.

  Bea quickly dropped her hands. “I’m not a clean freak.”

  “I didn’t mean it to be a bad thing. The friend of mine, he... he used to like things just so.”

  “Used to?”

  “Yes.”

  Silence fell, and the odd couple had to wait awkwardly while it stumbled to its feet and moved on before they could speak again.

  Bea tried hard to look anywhere but at the man walking next to her. The narrow streets were paved in a pretty red stone. An imp was standing on a step-ladder, lighting the oil lamps that lined the pavements. It should have been a nice walk – romantic even – but it wasn’t.

  Bea found herself wondering if it would be easier to talk to Mistasinon if she wasn’t currently undergoing a crisis of conviction, and if he would stop saying things that made her think that she was right to be questioning her Plot. Perhaps then she might be able to accept it when he was kind to her. Perhaps she might accept that not everyone was out to see her fail.

  She hoped it was true.

  “What are you thinking about?” he asked.

  “Nothing. Just the view. The light makes everything seem more… magical.”

  They walked on. Bea watched Mistasinon from the corner of her eye. In defiance of the cool night air, he had taken off the jacket of his tailored suit and was now in a navy-blue waistcoat and a crisp white shirt. His hair, dark and a little too short, was brushed back from his forehead and shone like oil. He looked, to a casual observer, wealthy, idle and carefree. And yet his lips were drawn into a thin line and his expression was darker than the encroaching shadows. Bea found herself wanting to ask if there weren’t two versions of him, fighting it out in one body.

  And then suddenly she was alone. She turned to find that he was a few paces behind her. He had stopped dead in the street, his fingers drumming against his forearms, staring at the imp lighting the lamps. When he spoke, his voice was oddly still.

  “There was a story once about a view.”

  “A view?” Bea asked, walking back to him.

  Mistasinon nodded, lost in thought. “I was staying in a small hotel in a beautiful city in old Ehinenden, before the Kingdom split – the kind of place with more history than they knew what to do with, and the light… The light was…” he drifted off, trying to find the words to explain the images that were flying through his mind, but he gave up, and continued instead. “I wasn’t working on the story, not as such, but I was lucky enough to see it develop.”

  “What was the story?”

  Mistasinon’s fingers continued to drum as he spoke. “The heroine didn’t know what she wanted, and the hero was lost, and sad. She thought she wanted to marry someone rich. Handsome. And then the hero kissed her and she knew. A kiss, and then love. I don’t really understand it.”

  “I’m not sure what there is to understand.”

  “That’s because you do. Understand it, I mean. I just wonder… Isn’t it better to start as a monster and become a hero? Isn’t that what creates belief? The idea that someone can change?”

  “Change, Love, Rags to Riches.”

  Mistasinon looked at Bea, his arms folded tightly across his narrow frame. “Do you think people can change?”

  “I certainly hope so.”

  “You are being careful, aren’t you? With your Plot?”

  “Yes, absolutely. Very careful. Won’t be long ’till it’s all wrapped up,” Bea said wretchedly.

  He looked at her for a moment, his face caught between the shadows of the evening and the glow from the lamp. Something intimate showed in his eyes, but when he spoke again he was all formal efficiency.

  “You should h
ave Act Two wrapped up by Midnight on Saturday? That’s the date of the Ball I believe?” he said, thrusting his hands into his pockets, ruining the line of his suit. “That way we can have them married by Monday, Third Act done and dusted. There is some urgency, I’m sure you understand.”

  “Oh, yes. Yes. That’s the plan,” Bea said, confused. Something had passed between them, something she sensed had been extremely important, but now it was gone and he was talking to her like it had never happened.

  “I’ll meet you after the Ball.”

  “That’s alright. I can drop the Book off with an Indexer.”

  “It’s no trouble,” he said.

  “It’s no trouble for me either.”

  He looked away from her, clearly uncomfortable.

  “I know the way from here,” Bea said. “I can walk the rest of the way by myself.”

  “After the Ball I could take you out. For breakfast. If you wanted to.”

  She blinked, unable to keep the surprise off her face. From the look on his, the invitation had thrown him as much as it had her.

  “That’d be lovely,” Bea’s hindbrain answered before she had a chance to censor it.

  Mistasinon relaxed. “Good.”

  They were nearly at Bea’s building. It was easy to tell because the lamps were becoming further apart, and the streets darker and harder to see. Thus it was that Bea, too busy trying to watch Mistasinon from the corner of her eye, managed to trip, catching her feet on the uneven cobbles.

  Mistasinon was fast. Where suddenly he had been a respectful distance he now had her in his arms.

  “I’m fine,” Bea said, flustered.

  “Are you sure? These pavements can be-”

  “Honestly, it’s nothing.”

  “You were hurt,” he said, noticing the bruises Seven had left on her shoulders.

  “Oh. Yes. I must have, um, landed badly,” Bea said.

  He looked like he wanted to say something more, but whatever it was he obviously decided not to. Instead, he brushed his fingertips over the little yellowy-blue bruises.

  Bea looked up at him, aware of how tall he was, and of the way he was looking at her. She could feel the weight of him. Small goose-bumps danced in reels up and down her arms.