by Anna Day
“Yeah. Nearly, but this Symp stepped in.” I feel my cheeks fill with blood, and I fold my arms across my chest.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“Thanks. What were the supplies for?”
“Just basic things—antiseptic, bandages. Stuff for Ma.”
“Do you ever help her?” I ask.
“Deliver babies, you mean?”
I nod. Deliver babies. He makes it sound so simple, so clean, like the postman just turns up and hands over a baby with a stamp on its head. But there will be no medication, no antiseptic or equipment. I bet it’s horrific.
“Yeah, sometimes I help. I mostly just hand her a wet cloth and clean up the mess. General gofer.”
“You must see some pretty scary things.”
He smiles. “Did I ever tell you how I got my name?”
I shake my head. More backstory King didn’t write, but it doesn’t feel like a backstory anymore, it feels like something real and human. Something I desperately want to know.
He stares at the moon as though trying to remember. “So Ma labored for hours before she had me. The midwife, this old lady from the other street, kept Ma calm by singing old nursery rhymes. Do you know the thistle-counting song?”
“No.”
“Seriously? You didn’t used to skip to it as a kid?”
“Never.”
He launches into the rhyme:
“Count the thistles, one, two, three,
Soon the Imps will all be free.
Count the thistles, four, five, six,
Take up your guns, your stones and sticks.
The ash trees turn from green to red,
Spring has gone, the summer’s dead.”
He looks a little embarrassed. “Anyway, I came out with the cord wrapped around my neck, not breathing. Ma thought I was dead, but the midwife untangled the cord and smacked me on the back. She kept on singing the whole time. Ma swears I gasped my first little breath just as she heard the word ash. That’s why she decided to become a midwife—to replace the old lady when she died.”
This tale makes me a little teary, thinking of how close Ash came to never breathing, thinking of the old lady and Ma, dedicating their lives to help Imp women and babies for no reason other than kindness.
Ash grins, his teeth bright in the dark. “Good job I didn’t breathe on a different word, hey? Or I could have ended up with a really stupid name, like Four or something.”
I wish Nate was here—he would have busted a gut laughing.
We swing around the end of the wall and approach a large vegetable patch. A series of raised beds and a huge fruit cage, bigger than my living room back home.
“So you’re a slave by night and a midwife by day. When do you sleep?” I ask.
He laughs. “I’m a slave by night and a gofer by day, and never. I never sleep. Come on, you’re on black currant duty.” He gestures to some wooden baskets stacked against the metal frame of the cage. “I’ll see to the peas.”
I can’t help feeling a little disappointed we won’t be working together.
After a few hours of fruit picking, my thighs ache from crouching, my fingers feel crampy, my eyes have started to sting, and I really, really miss the sun. And seeing the berries in the dark proves really tough, even with the flashlight Ash gave me. The only good thing about this job is the tang of the black currants when they explode in my mouth. I’m sick of apples and stale bread.
Ash helps move the baskets into a wheelbarrow and grins. “Come on, fess up, how many did you eat?”
I laugh. “Probably more than I picked.” I offer him a stem with stained fingers. “Try them, they’re good.”
“Nah. Horrible little things. Why do you think I chose pea duty?”
He parks the wheelbarrow behind the cage and beckons for me to follow him. We climb over a fence and I notice for the first time a wooden shack, about the size of a garden shed but with no windows and a small square door like a giant cat flap.
“What’s in there?” I ask.
“Let’s go and find out.” He drops down onto all fours and approaches the cat flap.
I follow suit, giggling at how daft we must look. “Ash? What are we doing?”
“You want some proper food?”
“Always.”
“So it’s an early breakfast.”
He pushes his way through the flap until his feet disappear. I hear the soft buzz of a match striking and the gaps around the door glow ever so slightly. He holds the flap open for me, his face soft and amber in the lamplight. I squeeze my chest through the gap and headbutt his armpit. I start to laugh.
“Shhhh.” Ash points to a row of sleeping chickens. They look so peaceful perched up high, feathers puffed out and gleaming.
I continue to push my way into the coop, crushing dung with my hands and knees. The smell of creosote and warm feathery bodies makes me feel safe for some reason. I try and pull my legs under my body, but my arms kind of give way and I face-plant into the straw. Ash helps me up, shaking uncontrollably with laughter, his cheeks all pink and lovely with the effort of keeping it in.
“Piss off,” I whisper, blowing straw from my mouth.
He pulls a strand from my hair. “Your breakfast awaits.”
“Won’t we get caught?”
“Not likely. The Gems never venture this far from the manor.”
Quickly, I gather up some eggs, all smooth and warm in my hands like paperweights. I pass them to Ash and he places them outside the coop. He turns to me and nods when he’s got enough. He’s about to climb out when my stomach rumbles.
He places a finger over his lips and stands so he faces me. “It’s very important you don’t wake them,” he whispers.
“Why?” I mouth back.
“Because if you wake them, this happens.” With no warning, he arches his back, turns his arms into wings, and sticks out his chin. He crows so loudly I worry he’ll wake up the whole estate. Hens shriek, wings whoosh, and breasts bump into each other. I scream and laugh and shield my face with my hands.
But he clamps my arms to my sides and shouts, “Don’t miss it, Violet.”
We freeze, surrounded by wings and feathers. And in this chaotic, messy moment, I think to myself, Now, this would make a good first-kiss scene.
WE EAT ALL of the eggs—scrambled over a campfire—and fall asleep on a bed of grass beneath a silver birch. I dream of feathers and thistledown, broken leaves and pieces of exploding apple. The air fills with glittering specks that stick to my lips and make it difficult to breathe. The flecks turn to bubbles, sea foam, and I suddenly realize I’m underwater. I glance down and see a fish tail sprouting from my torso like it belongs. I open my mouth to scream, but I have no tongue. I have no voice. Katie bobs opposite me, still wearing her black catsuit, her red hair circling her face like a lion’s mane.
She smiles. “You must win the prince’s heart, Violet, or we will turn to sea foam.”
I open my mouth to tell her I don’t know what to do, but a load of froth emerges, spewing down my chest like vomit.
I wake with a start. I think I’m going to cry out, but the dream retreats and I remember only the bones of it—something about Katie and water and an overwhelming sense of threat. I glance to Ash. He looks so peaceful, his long eyelashes flickering slightly, and the dream slips from me completely.
I touch his cheek with the back of my fingers. He feels warm and soft and real. We fell asleep barely touching. But now we coil together, swaddled in our own body heat, our chests rising and falling in complete synchrony. I notice how well our bodies fit together, and for the first time in forever, I feel completely at peace.
The sun begins to fade, and I realize we’ve slept most of the day. Which means I will hang in four days … which means the ball starts soon. This thought shatters my peace. I sit up, knocking Ash with my shoulder, opening my mouth in panic. For some reason, I’m surprised by how free my tongue feels as I shout the words, “Shit! The ball.”
&n
bsp; We run all the way back to the Imp-hut, sleep blurring our eyes.
“Where have you been?” Nate says as we push through the door.
Saskia’s gaze swings between me and Ash, her face locked in this suspicious frown. “Come here, bedhead. We need you to look waitress-ready.”
She washes my face with a scratchy cloth and pulls the remaining strands of straw from my hair. I’m hoping she assumes they’re from the bunks, but judging from the amount of huffing and puffing, I’m fooling no one.
She rubs rouge into my cheeks and arranges my hair in a tousled updo. Ash watches me with a shy smile on his face. “You look beautiful, Violet.”
An echo from canon: the exact words Ash said to Rose just before she headed off to the ball. But real Ash—my Ash—sounds more assertive, less needy.
Saskia and Nate both glare at him.
“Yeah, well, she’s off-limits. Got it?” Saskia says.
Ash shrugs. “Doesn’t stop her looking beautiful.”
I try and bury the little smile that tugs at the corners of my mouth.
I arrive at the ballroom an hour before the party begins. I remember that Willow called it his coming-of-age ball, probably to save my feelings, but its real name is a Gallows Ball, thrown for a Gem debutant just before they attend their first Gallows Dance. Yet another way of mocking the Imps. My jaw clenches.
I banish the thought from my brain and focus on successfully completing the next part of the story; on making sure those two pieces of thread stay closely intertwined. All I need to do is serve at the ball, gaze longingly at Willow all night, and then hang back when the guests leave. Then, I get to star in one of my favorite scenes. Willow and Rose dancing to no music in the deserted ballroom, the bloom that Rose gave him pinned to his lapel. It was so beautiful. Loads better than that crappy stable. Hopefully, it will set the scene for our first kiss.
I take a second to absorb my surroundings—my favorite set. Double doors lead to a sweeping staircase that takes you onto the marble floor—a giant, polished ice rink. It looks more like something from a fairy tale than a dystopian novel, and so removed from the Imp city that it possesses a dreamlike quality. Lilac walls reach toward a white, domed ceiling. A cluster of chandeliers form the shape of a flower, several smaller petals blooming from a larger centerpiece. And something the film simply couldn’t capture is the way the light bounces off everything—the crystals, the marble floor, the silverware. I think I would’ve stood and gaped forever if the Imp in charge, a stout, middle-aged woman with a mustache, didn’t bark up the stairs, “Move it, new girl, you’re on drinks.”
The Imps busy themselves, setting out hors d’oeuvres and floral arrangements. They watch the food hungrily, and I feel a sympathetic grumble in my stomach. We look smarter than usual, dressed in the regulation gray suits reserved for special Gem occasions such as this. I should feel masculine, but four words beat over and over in my head: You look beautiful, Violet. I try and hide these words away, aware that I shouldn’t be thinking of Ash when I need to get the canon back on track, but they just keep popping back into my head.
I set out the champagne flutes on trays, my white regulation gloves preventing contamination from my dirty Imp hands.
“Attention,” Mustache calls.
We stand in a neat little line. Heads bowed and gloved hands clasped before us. The string quartet begins to play, and I try not to stare at their impossibly elegant Gem fingers dancing up and down the strings. I think of Katie, the way her hair falls across her face as she strikes her bow against the strings of her cello. There’s something far more alive, far more beautiful, about her imperfect face scowling with concentration when compared to these airbrushed, uniform Gems.
The guests arrive. The women look like a parade of Disney princesses, the men all handsome in tailored suits. I try to remain invisible and avoid eye contact while offering drinks, a difficult task that requires all my effort.
“Oh my, Howard! Look,” one Gem cries. She looks Asian, and has amazing long black hair and full red lips. I remember this scene from canon. Two horribly patronizing Gems talking really loudly about Rose as though she couldn’t hear. Howard Stoneback, the nephew of the Gem president, and his wife. At least it means the canon is dragging us along, even if I do want to smack them in the face. “This Imp is almost pretty.” She points a manicured nail right in my face.
Howard laughs, his blond curls bounce around his face. “Oh, yes. Stranger things, darling, stranger things.”
“Get a photo.” She stands next to me and smiles, her sticky perfume invading my nostrils.
“Darling, don’t stand so close to the Imps. They’ve scrubbed up tonight, but they’re still … you know … dirty.” His voice strengthens, in search of an admiring ear. “And as the president’s only nephew, I demand that standards be upheld.”
Standards, indeed! I know from canon that Howard regularly frequents brothels. Imp brothels, at that. I look at my boots so they don’t see my smirk.
Mrs. Stoneback steps away. “Quite right, darling, the champagne’s making me giddy.” This doesn’t stop her grabbing another glass, her scarlet nails tapping on the stem. They hurry away, laughing. I force my features into a neutral expression and imagine spitting in their drinks—this cheers me up.
Before long, the room swells with music and laughter and the air is thick with perfume and the fizz of champagne. I continue to navigate the thirsty masses by their reflections in the marble floor, clutching a tray of glasses and ordering my arms not to tremble.
A deep, sonorous voice cuts through the chatter and the violins. It must be Jeremy Harper. I risk a quick look, aware that all other eyes will be trained on him. He looks like Willow, but with none of the warmth, none of the softness. He doesn’t look much older than thirty, but the skin around his eyes looks a little too tight, a little too shiny, and I suspect a surgical knife has slowed down the aging process. Even genetic enhancement can’t prevent aging completely. “Thank you for joining us for our son’s Gallows Ball. For eighteen wonderful years, we have watched him mature into the man he is today. And next week he will attend his first Gallows Dance, and now …” He leaves a dramatic pause, just like he did in canon, and a drumroll builds, reminiscent of the countdown to death at the Gallows Dance. I shudder in spite of the heating. “… the time has come for him to dance his very own Gallows Dance. So let’s get this party in full swing.” He mimes pulling a rope around his neck, sticking out his tongue and crossing his eyes. The crowd laughs. This pissed me off when I read the book and watched the film, but now I feel this hot fury, this sense of injustice filling my chest like a noxious gas. I notice the flutes on my tray quivering slightly. I glance at the other Imps, but they conceal the dark, twisting shapes that must fill their heads as their misery is openly mocked. Years of practice, I guess.
The music builds and Willow appears at the top of the staircase. He looks stunning—hair swept to one side, skin even warmer beneath the bright light of the chandeliers—and he wears a navy suit that really contrasts with the copper of his eyes. I try to let some of the anger go, anticipating his gaze meeting mine, that shy, boyish smile. But something is very wrong. My heart jams in my chest. Not only is he missing my rose stem from his lapel, but an equally stunning Gem girl stands beside him. Oh God, in canon he attended the ball alone. I feel the tray tip and some champagne spills from the flutes. I try to steady it, try to focus through the fog of my own panic.
Who is this mystery Gem girl?
She wears a flowing dress, the color of trees after too much rain, and a simple tiara, matching the gold of her hair. Her honey-glazed skin is exactly the same shade as Willow’s, making it difficult to tell where his hand finishes and hers begins. For a brief moment, I almost laugh, just the thought that he might want me. Of course he wants this beautiful, honey-colored doll—every Ken needs a Barbie. They walk down the staircase in perfect sync, and she smiles like a bride approaching the altar.
Their feet touch the floor at p
recisely the same moment and he sweeps her into the center of the room beneath the grand chandelier. The crowd breathes a collective sigh as the couple begins to waltz. I can feel sweat beading between my inferior breasts, the air growing clotted and dense. How am I meant to compete with her?
The Gems begin to waltz in their pairs, closing around Willow and his mystery partner, obscuring my view. I stand completely still, just trying not to drop my tray. The not-staring rule completely evades me now, but nobody seems to notice. Through glimpses of fabric and flawless skin, I see Willow laughing.
The waltz finishes and Barbie walks in my general direction. I stare at her reflection in the marble and shamelessly wish I were her. She moves closer, and I continue to avert my eyes, not yet daring to steal a proper look. I decide to wait until she passes—that way she’s less likely to notice the slave studying her face. But she seems to walk straight toward me. I lift my tray slightly, my heart trembling beneath my shirt. Her hand connects with a champagne flute, her nails smooth and long and perfectly formed, and I snatch a quick glance at her face. To my surprise, she smiles at me.
Only when she speaks do I finally recognize her. “You’ve got to try some of this, Vi. It’s so much nicer than the cheap pear stuff.” She takes a massive slurp and coughs a little.
“Alice!” I feel this huge surge of relief, just knowing she’s OK. “Alice, what are you doing here?”
“Shhh, I can’t be seen talking to the riffraff.” She winks a long, fluttery lash, and as she glances toward the exit, I notice how the curls piled on her head look slightly paler, slightly waxier, than her natural hair. “Meet me outside in half an hour and I’ll explain.”
The minute hand on the grandfather clock seems to crawl forward, the air seems to grow even thicker and more resistant, my tray heavier in spite of the diminishing load. In canon, Willow watched Rose all night, his eyes darting feverishly to her mouth as he recalled the texture of her lips. But he doesn’t even look my way. He’s transfixed by Alice. I get this feeling in the pit of my stomach like I’m back at Comic-Con, watching Anime Alice with Russell Boozer-Jones. Well, you really are in Wonderland now. I know I should feel angry, scared even, about Alice messing up canon like this, but I just feel jealous. And I can’t quite unpick my matted thoughts. How did Alice infiltrate the ball? Was this the special job Thorn mentioned back at headquarters?
