by F. D. Lee
But if there had been different stories before, didn’t that mean that there could be new stories after? And hadn’t Melly said that the Mirrors had shown cracks before the Anties? It didn’t make sense, not when you put it all together.
“What are you saying?” Bea asked.
“The breaking of the Mirrors is not caused by myself or these Anti-Narrativists you speak of, nor by any of the fae. Belief certainly revives them, and the stories you so enthusiastically peddle beget belief, that much is true. But ultimately so will any tale. Is not that freeing? Now you need not worry about my involvement in this story.”
He smiled at her, obviously waiting for her delighted reaction. Instead, Bea felt a tightening in her chest.
“If what you say is true then there’s something very wrong with the Mirrors…”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not,” Seven answered, leaning back and resting his elbows on the step behind him. “I am being honest with you because you have been honest with me, and because I see how conflicted you are… and because you are different, like me.”
Bea looked down at her hands, trying to find meaning in the lines that told the story of her life. She couldn’t take in what he was saying.
“Why waste your life on a lie?” he said. “You have already admitted to feeling something when you saw the girl embrace the man she loves, the man from whom you would see her separated.”
Bea kept her eyes fixed on her hands, unwilling to answer.
She heard him moving through the ringing in her ears, but when he took her hands in his own she was so surprised she gasped. She dragged her gaze up from the floor, dreading what she would see reflected in his borderless eyes.
“You are distressed and I can assure you it hurts me to see you so,” he said softly. “Nevertheless, it should be obvious that changing the stories is not the cause of your woes. I am not your enemy. Let me continue my work.”
Bea searched his face, trying to find some evidence that he was lying. He lifted his hand, holding her cheek in his palm. She felt him gently brush her skin with his cornflower blue fingers.
“But what about the Forest..? Ænathlin..? My home..?”
“What about it? Has it been such a good home to you?”
“That doesn’t matter. There are thousands of tribes living there, all relying on the Mirrors to survive.”
Seven dropped his hand. “And yet nothing you do here will prevent or facilitate their demise. You have accused me of instigating another civil war because you believe that changing the Plots, as you so unimaginatively call them, results in a lack of belief and the subsequent breaking of the Mirrors. Yet how can this be possible? Stories are rewritten.”
“Yes, they can be…” Bea said, thinking about the changes she had made to the Plots she’d watched. “But even so, the Plots are strong. They create belief. We need the belief to fix the Mirrors.”
“And this is the General Administration’s secret. Belief is a meek, guileless thing, attracted to its like. Love. Hope. Fear, naturally, is the greatest harvester. This is probably why there has been an escalation in the inevitable breaking of the Mirrors – the Teller attempted to erase the fear. Sensible, perhaps, but ultimately lacking sustainability, even with his stolen power.”
“Stolen? No one could steal a Chapter. The Chapters change when a new Narrator has a stronger story. Belief decides.” Bea paused. “Or, at least, that’s what the GenAm says.”
“Do you believe the General Administration in all things?”
“I… No. The GenAm thinks I can’t be an FME, for example. I don’t share that view.”
“Ah yes. The bullied little fairy, determined to become a bully herself.”
“Why do you think I want to hurt my characters?”
He smiled, though there was no humour in it. “Experience?”
“If you hate me so much, why are you telling me all this?”
“You wish to know it. This is the true reason for your coming to me.”
“What? No it isn’t. Anyway, why should I believe you?”
Seven shrugged. “Your refusal to trust me will not make what I say any less true.”
Bea could almost feel the ground crumbling beneath her as he spoke. And she knew that if she asked the question that was running through her mind, she’d never be able to stand on safe ground again. But she could no more stop herself from asking it than she could stop breathing.
“But if the stories can be changed then why would anyone live under the GenAm?”
“You suggest there is fault with the General Administration? That people should seek to extract themselves from its shadow?”
“No! I- No, I mean, of course not- The GenAm- The Teller Cares-”
“Calm yourself,” Seven said. “They cannot hear you here. So, what is your conclusion? Are you satisfied?”
“Satisfied? How can I possibly be satisfied?”
“I have provided your answer. Fear begets belief. That is your third path. Abandon your fear of the General Administration, and with it your belief in their lies.”
Bea stared at him.
“Will you take me back now?” she asked.
Seven cocked his head. “Have I not-”
“I’d like to go back now. Please.”
Seven nodded. He opened his arms and Bea stepped into his embrace. As she felt his cold skin against her own, followed by the lurching sickness of his so-called magic, she wondered if she would be able to travel so easily back to the life she had had before.
Chapter Twenty-six
Sindy stood at her kitchen sink, trying to keep busy.
But as much as she tried, she couldn’t forget the feel of Will’s lips pressed against her own. Every few moments she would bring her hand to her mouth, as if she thought she might find some evidence, other than the memory, that the kiss had happened. It felt like a lifetime ago. In was, in fact, only yesterday.
She swished the water over the plate. It was the same plate she’d been washing for the last five minutes.
She hadn’t expected Ana would agree to go the Ball. But Ana had changed her mind, and was now insisting they both attended the Ball on Saturday. It was like magic, or fate.
Sindy supposed it meant that the odd, chubby woman she had found in her room was really her ‘special’ godmother. But if that was the case, then didn’t that mean that she had to do what she said? Sindy had grown up believing that all good girls would fall in love and get married, and she knew she should feel lucky to have a real-life fairy helping her, and that she had the chance to marry a King.
So why was it that she had woken up this morning feeling as if her whole body was made of stone? What would Ana do if she refused to go? Perhaps if she could explain that a fairy had told her she was going to fall in love and marry the King, Ana might listen?
Or she might laugh in my face, Sindy thought.
Or she might want me to marry the King.
It would be a lot easier if she would just fall in love with the King. Wasn’t that what happened – love at first sight? But, Sindy reflected, scrubbing the plate so hard it squeaked, I have met him. And I’m not in love with him. I don’t really think anything about him.
Maybe he was in love with her? Perhaps he had hired the fairy? Ana said that nothing was beneath the bourgeoisie when it came to controlling the output of the common worker, and Sindy couldn’t think of anyone more common than she was. If the King had decided he was going to marry her, what choice did she have anyway?
But he hadn’t seemed like he was that interested in her the other day. Was that normal? Sindy didn’t know how Kings behaved when they were in love. Will had been quite shocked when she’d kissed him.
Just then the plate, surrendering to Sindy’s rough handling, cracked in her hand. Sindy yelped in surprised. Red blood paled as it mixed with the water in the sink.
Sindy didn’t panic at the shard of china sticking out of her palm. Instead she pulled it carefully free and pressed a tea towel to the cut, applyi
ng pressure until the bleeding stopped. She pulled back the cloth and was relieved to see the cut wouldn’t need stitches. She took a slice of bread from the larder, pressed it against the cut to be safe, and wrapped her hand in a bandage.
Things were not going her way.
Lost in uncomfortable thoughts, Sindy gave up cleaning and followed her feet as they traipsed out of the kitchen and into the garden.
The truth was, she’d always thought that her life would be quiet and ordinary, even before she’d met Ana and seen first-hand what an exciting life could be like. She liked her life as it was. She liked cooking, and she knew how to keep pigs, and kill and pluck chickens. She knew her way around a medicine cabinet, could dress a wound, and recognise all three of the early signs of the hissing fever. She ran her house, and she was good at it. Running a Kingdom was probably the same, but Sindy didn’t want to find out.
She wandered over to the apple tree at the foot of the garden. Years ago, her father had made her a rope swing and she had never really grown out of it. It wasn’t a particularly good swing, even she could see that. It was just a length of ship’s rigging, brought back from Sinne, with a plank of wood tied lopsidedly on one end and the other wrapped a few times around the thickest branch.
It was impossible to sit on it in anything resembling a lady-like pose. Rather, Sindy had to gather up her skirts and straddle the rope in such a way that she could balance on the wood. But it had never mattered before. Now it would matter. She wouldn’t be able to escape to the bottom of the garden and her rope swing if she were a Queen.
Sindy began pushing herself listlessly backwards and forwards.
But it wasn’t just about her, was it? She would be very selfish if she had a way to improve everyone’s life and she didn’t take it.
And she was very lucky to have a fairy trying to make her life better. She hadn’t heard of anyone in Llanotterly having a fairy helping them. There had been a girl somewhere off west, past Cerne Bralksteld even, who’d had one. Sindy couldn’t remember now what had happened, but she was almost certain that the girl had died, or been frozen or fallen asleep. Something bad, anyway. The one thing that Sindy could remember was that it had been true love’s kiss that had saved her.
Sindy realised she’d always imagined she’d meet someone nice, like Will, fall in love and get married and have children of her own. The King hadn’t seemed very friendly the other day, and Sindy didn’t want to marry someone who frightened her just because he had money and he was handsome. Sindy was pretty enough for two, and she much preferred Will’s crumpled face and broken nose.
As for money, Sindy had never had any anyway, and Will had his parent’s house for them to live in. They could live there for the rest of their lives, cooking and eating and planting seeds, some in the garden and some in her belly. They would be happy and healthy, and they wouldn’t need anything else.
Maybe she could have opened her own apothecary, or taught others how to tend to their sick. There were so many refugees now, they must need someone to help. It wasn’t a big, grand dream like Ana’s, but it had been hers, and now, she realised, it probably wasn’t anymore.
Sindy couldn’t stop the thought from spinning around and around behind her eyes, just as she sat spinning on her swing:
I don’t love the King.
I love Will.
And then, with the same sharp pain as stepping on a wooden toy lost in a thick carpet, she thought that perhaps Will didn’t love her.
She dug her feet into the ground, resting her golden head against the thick rope. The swing came to a stop.
They’d known each other for years, but he’d never actually said anything to her that might suggest he thought about her in the same way she thought about him. He’d always been kind to her, but he was kind to everyone. It was true he often spent longer in the kitchen with her than talking with her father or stepmother, and he didn’t really seem to like Ana at all. He’d told Sindy once that he thought Ana was a bully, and he’d got very cross with her when she’d defended her stepsister. But did that mean he loved her?
She’d kissed him.
He hadn’t kissed her.
Sindy could feel the rough edges of the hessian rope against her skin, scratching at her. Her hand throbbed from the cut on her palm. She looked over her garden, the garden she’d grown up with, the one she and her mum had planted flowers in when she was little. The one Will came and tended when he had free time.
She didn’t know what to do.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Joan lived in a tall, thin, mixed-brick building which was literally on the wall: the house’s back wall was the wall.
Her family had, generations ago, looked at the sturdy grey brickwork that encircled Ænathlin and seen in it a fantastic investment opportunity for a large family with little status. The house itself had been made from whatever materials they had been able to gather from the Kingdoms, making it a statement in post-modern eclecticism that hurt the eyes to take in in one go.
It was safer and certainly more comfortable to break the four-storey house into various subsections, such as the ornate rococo fronting above the door, or the jaunty gargoyles that hung from the gingerbread-like eaves. Viewed this way, each part of the house was well-made and sturdy, and reflected in it something of the taste of the person who had built it. It was a house made by committee rather than design, and, depending on your attitude, was either better or worse for it.
Bea stepped up to the heavy, wood-panelled front door and knocked loudly.
After a few intense moments filled with shouts and bangs, the door was opened by one of Joan’s numerous sisters. She regarded Bea regally over the end of her nose. The effect was spoiled somewhat by the trail of snot dripping down to her upper lip, where it ended in a dry, greeny-yellow scab.
“Is Joan in?” Bea asked, kneeling down.
“Yeah.”
“Could I come in and see her?”
The little fairy scratched at her hair, frowning at Bea over the top of her running nose.
“Aren’t you that one that wants to be an FME?”
“Um. Yes.”
The girl broke into a fit of giggles, causing little celebratory bubbles to form in her nostrils. “The cabbage fairy?”
“The very same,” Bea sighed.
“Brilliant!” She grabbed Bea in a sticky hand and pulled her into the house. “Joan! Joan! Joan! Joan!” she screamed shrilly as she dragged Bea up the stairs.
“Mortal gods, what is it? If you’ve been in my wardrobe again Mags, I swear I will pull your head off and use it as a soup bowl – oh, hi Bea,” Joan said, changing gears seamlessly as she appeared out of her room.
“Hi, sorry for barging in but-”
“Joan, it’s the cabbage fairy!”
“It’ll be the headless fairy in a minute,” Joan said, pulling Bea into her room with one hand and slamming her door shut with the other. Joan’s room was wood panelled, clean and comfortable, if a little dark and sombre. The walls were covered in her obsessive drawings of anatomy, plant leaves, types of mushrooms, knots and lock mechanisms.
“Sorry about her. You’re quite famous, you know that?”
Bea didn’t know. “Famous?”
Joan grinned. “Yeah, at least amongst the fairies. You know, trying to get your own recommendation and everything.”
“But I don’t know any other fairies apart from you.”
“Oh well,” Joan smiled, jumping up on her bed, “you’re quite famous for that too.”
Bea opened her mouth, and then decided she probably didn’t want to know anything more about that statement. So? She was famous, was she? Great. At least that meant she’d draw a crowd when they Redacted her. Bea smiled to herself. See? She was keeping positive.
“You said you might know someone who can give us some information about the 2nd?”
Joan pulled a face. “About that…”
“Please Joan, no more bad news… What’s happened? Have they re
fused to help?”
“Oh no, no, they haven’t refused-”
“Thank the mortal gods for that-”
“Because I haven’t asked them yet.”
Bea closed her eyes. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing! No, honestly. It’s just I thought you might want to know…” Joan let the sentence drift off.
Bea opened her eyes. Joan was sitting on her bed, fiddling with the nail heads in her heavy boots. She looked more uncomfortable than Bea had ever seen her. She sat next to her on the bed.
“Joan, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. Seriously.”
“No, I don’t mind. But you might.”
“Me? Joan, what is it?”
“My friend, the one who might be able to help us, she’s a Raconteur.”
“What? How in the Land do you know a Raconteur?”
Joan gave a sort of half smile, half grimace. “I met her years ago. She was just starting out then, but she’s got her own dragon’s den now.” Joan paused. “In the centre.”
Bea whistled through her teeth. This she had not been expecting. She knew Joan made friends quickly – she was a very easy person to get on with. She had the knack of talking to people she’d just met as if she’d known them for years, something Bea had always ever so slightly envied. But to be friends with a Raconteur? And one with her own den? That seemed too far-fetched, even for Joan, and Bea said as much.
“Well, we weren’t exactly friends. And I haven’t seen her for years. But I thought, if anyone’s going to know about blue men and old Chapters, it’d be Delphine.”
Bea shook her head. “But the Raconteurs all work for the white suits – hells, they entertain at the Redactions.”
“Not all of them. That’s like saying all fairies prance around in the stems, scattering faery dust and making daisy chains.”
Joan said it mildly enough, but Bea felt suitably chastised.
“Alright, sorry. It’s just, I mean, a Raconteur. You really know a Raconteur? Mind you,” Bea added, smiling, “I have always wanted to meet one. I never thought I’d be able to afford it. I’ve heard they know all the old stories.”
