“Fuck’s sake, CeCi. You’re slower than molasses. Some of us have shit to do, you know.” Bianca was sprawled out on the grass next to Snoozer.
In my head, I apologized, but all that came out of my mouth was “Rory, did you tell anyone about our new clock? Henry? Or anyone? Maro? Accidentally, even?”
“No. I don’t think so. I can’t remember. Why?”
“I just . . . I don’t know. I guess I was curious. That’s all.”
Bianca raised her eyebrows at me. I shook my head and mouthed, “Later.”
By the time we found a taxi and made it to the school, I was five minutes late for class. We grudgingly agreed on a meeting place for afterward and I left Bianca and Rory rolling their eyes at one another, the dog panting between them.
It was hard to focus during my classes. I answered everything wrong. I wrecked a batch of bread. I scorched the roux.
“There’s a special place in hell for people who burn the roux,” Phil said to me.
“Says who?” I asked.
“A very wise man,” he said.
“Why does everything always go to hell at once?”
He twirled me in a circle and said, “C’est la vie.” Then we were reprimanded for unsafe kitchen practices.
Have I told you that Phil has a drawing of a whisk on his forearm? I asked him if he had to wash it off every night, and he asked my favorite question: if I’m “for real.” If only I could tell him about the epic irony of his question. I desperately wanted to tell him no, but I focused on looking mildly offended instead.
He explained his tattoos were permanent and that I should get one shaped like a question mark on account of my inquisitiveness. He’s a charmer, that Phil. I’m going to have to introduce him to Bianca. I think they’ll be the best of friends.
Love,
CeCi
Princess Briar R. Rose
Somnolent Tower Castle
South Road, Grimmland
Dearest Zell,
Makeover day started as poorly as I expected. There was incessant bickering, and then CeCi began acting strangely and made us wait while she retrieved her mislaid knives. In between accusations of how we’d made her late for class, she started badgering me about whether I’d told Maro about the new clock.
I explained that Maro and I met for tea on the lawn and there would be no reason for her to be interested in a new clock or the tower that I could see. Then CeCi started in on the quality of Maro’s character. Usually Bianca is the more tiresome of the two on that particular subject, but honestly I’ve never been gladder to see CeCi disappear though the doors of Cordon Bleu.
After CeCi left us on the sidewalk, I asked Bianca if she might shed some light on the situation. “After all the effort I’ve made with Maro, why are you two so vile toward her?”
Bianca took my wrist and held it dreadfully tight. “I don’t want you around that woman. Ever again. I’m not kidding. Kick her out. Don’t contact her. Do you understand me? She’s bad news.”
“I can make my own decisions, Bianca,” I said, correcting my posture a bit.
“Barely,” she said. “Look at you and your makeovers. You’re practically a poster child for the power of suggestion.”
“I was wrong, okay? The makeover didn’t work. But you said you wanted to go, so now we’re going.”
Bianca threw her hip into mine mid stride. “I don’t want a fucking makeover, you ninny.”
“Then what do you want to do?”
“What do you think?”
“Bianca, no. There’s not enough time. If your father wanted to be found, wouldn’t he have left you some sort of clue? He could be anywhere.”
“Rory, this means the whole world to me. Please? Can we just look in one phone book or something?”
“A what?”
“A phone book. Humans use phones, not pigeons. A phone book is . . . never mind. Will you help me?”
I felt as if my heart were strung between two wires. I did want to help, but I also I knew we were going to end up taking frivolous and unnecessary risks. I’d be lying, though, if I said I hadn’t considered trying to find some evidence of Fred. “Didn’t you say Rachel worked at the library?”
“Oh my God, of course. You brilliant little sleep-aholic, you.” She stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and kissed my cheek. The people behind us ran straight into her. She exchanged middle fingers with them.
We began walking, Bianca talking twice as quickly as before, Snoozer trotting along behind us. Bianca stopped abruptly, once again. “Please, Rory, I know it seems like it doesn’t make sense, but just don’t fight me on this Maro thing. I do have your best interests at heart. I’ll explain as soon as I figure out how. Just trust me, okay?”
“Fine,” I said. I would be the bigger person, the rational person. Maro had clearly done something unforgivable, though I had no idea why I wasn’t privy to the news.
“Thank you.” She reached down to scratch Snoozer’s ears.
I looked at the city, moving so quickly around us, and considered venturing beyond our well-trod routes. “Do you know where Rachel’s library is? Or are you following some sort of bourbon homing beacon?”
Bianca dug through her overflowing satchel until she surfaced with a small card full of dark, neat print. We hailed a cab. “Take us here,” she said, handing the driver the card.
It wasn’t terribly far, but I think Snoozer appreciated the ride after all of that trotting. Things wouldn’t continue to go smoothly, of course. A short woman with big grey hair at the door of the library told us Snoozer couldn’t come in at all.
Bianca began to make a scene, but all of a sudden Rachel was there, telling the other woman Snoozer was a “support animal.” The frizzy woman demanded to know where his “vest” was and I explained he had one but it was at the tailor’s and Bianca rolled her eyes at me and Rachel told her to not worry about it and the frizzy woman finally threw up her hands, asking why she even bothered. I couldn’t help but commiserate with her there.
At the ceasing of all that chaos, a private moment seemed to occur. I stepped a few paces away with Snoozer so that Bianca and Rachel could speak. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, Zell, it’s just that I couldn’t get far enough away not to hear.
Rachel seemed both delighted and distraught. “What are you doing here, Bianca?” she asked. “I was afraid I’d never see you again. You said you’d write. But then there was nothing.”
“I’m so sorry. The time went so quickly. I didn’t mean . . . I’m so happy to see you. But I understand if we can’t, well.”
“This isn’t the place. Do you want to go get a cup of coffee or something?”
“I do. I would, but right now we’re here for a reason.” Bianca seemed to be fighting to collect herself. “We need your help finding someone.”
Rachel spent the next few hours with us in a small room, looking up things on the electronic boxes and in what she told us were Bianca’s mythical phone books (which had no narrative to speak of). She was patient for far longer than I would have been in her situation.
“Bianca,” she said from behind a teetering stack of reference books, “you know I don’t mind helping you. But can you tell me anything else about where you went when you left? I’m trying to understand, but . . .” Rachel trailed off, looking around the room at nothing.
“I want to. And I will, I promise. Just not right now. I don’t know how to make it make sense right now. Okay?”
“I’m going to keep doing some digging based on the info you’ve given me. But Steven White is a fairly common name, and if you’re not even sure he’s in Los Angeles . . . It would be tough just to narrow down the candidates we’ll find here in the metro area.”
“We think he might have worked for the theme park. Anything is more than we know now.”
“Okay. I’ll keep lookin
g. Is there anything, anyone else you want me to look for?”
Bianca looked at me as if I were as transparent as vellum. “Rory? Do you . . .”
Oh, Zell. I wanted so badly to say yes. But instead, I looked at my clock bracelet. “Bianca. We have to go. We’ll be late to meet CeCi.”
“Do you want me to drive you?” asked Rachel.
Bianca hesitated for a moment and then accepted, much to Snoozer’s and, truth be told, my relief. When we arrived, CeCi waved to us from a sidewalk café a few doors down from our rendezvous spot. She was drinking a beer with her lab partner, a handsome, dry-witted fellow called Phil. She finished and piled into Rachel’s car where we continued to the Magic Castle.
On the way, everyone seemed lost in her own thoughts. Rachel broke the silence, just as we pulled up to the Magic Castle. “Where are you going now?”
“Home,” Bianca answered.
Rachel raised her eyebrows at the Magic Castle. “Home? But the bus station is—”
“I swear I’ll explain as soon as I can.” Bianca kissed Rachel on her bewildered mouth, and we piled out of the car.
We trudged up the hill toward the portal. “What a day, eh?” Bianca said. She practically sparkled—the way she did when she first met Rachel.
I felt the opposite, bedraggled even. For the first time, returning did not fill me with its usual soft relief. I didn’t want to go home at all. I regretted not asking Rachel if she would try to find something about Fred. And it dawned on me I’d never even had my coffee. I circled the tower, looking out the windows, until CeCi and Bianca emerged from the portal.
“Before we go home, we should chat,” said CeCi, divesting herself of her chef’s coat and hat. “Since Maro is staying here, perhaps we should consider posting a guard downstairs.”
“That’s perfectly brutal hospitality, CeCi. I couldn’t possibly—”
“It’s just a precaution,” CeCi interrupted.
“I’m sure she wouldn’t come up here,” I said. But even as I said it, I knew I’d failed to be convincing. “She didn’t seem to enjoy the tower at all the time I showed it to her.”
“You said no one had been up here!” Bianca said. Snoozer gave a quiet woof, as if in agreement with her.
“Traitor,” I said, holding my hand out for his leash.
“Rory, remember you promised me you’d listen.” Bianca looked me in the eyes for a long moment. “Until she finds a new place to live, there’s a guard at the bottom of these stairs, okay?”
I began to put fuzzy ideas together. Snoozer’s bark. CeCi going back through the portal. All this carping about Maro. Something wasn’t adding up, but I shoved it all aside. “I said I agreed, Bianca. And in return you’ll promise me you won’t do anything too risky searching for your father.”
“For Grimm’s sake,” said Bianca. “Don’t get all Fairy Godmother on me. I’ll finish my Pages.”
“Hold on. Your father?” CeCi asked. “Whatever happened to makeover day?”
“Keep up, CeCi. No one wanted a makeover,” said Bianca. “And don’t you worry, Rory, I won’t go anywhere beyond Los Angeles until I go Outside for good.”
I was sure I’d misheard.
“Wait, what?” asked CeCi, though her voice had a hard edge to it. One I didn’t like. “Say that one more time?” It would have been better to let the comment slide. No good could come of reciprocal hysterics.
“After my wedding, I’m going Outside for good. I’ll finish my Pages and then go.”
“I can’t deal with this right now,” said CeCi. She brushed past Bianca and raced down the steps.
“Oh, Poor Princess Put-upon. Don’t lose your Crocs on the way down,” Bianca called after her. “Never know who might fit into those.”
“Namaste, bitch.”
“Now look who knows Human lingo. Phil give you that one?”
“Yoga, Bianca. You couldn’t shut up about it a few weeks ago.” CeCi’s voice drifted up from the stairwell. “You might want to give it a try. Maybe you’ll get flexible enough to pull your head out of your ass.”
Bianca stood flipping off the empty stairwell with both hands. If she could have held up her toes, too, I’m sure she would have.
“You can’t be serious, Bianca,” I said. “After everything we’ve been through together?”
“I’m going to go find that True Love you’ve been babbling about unceasingly over the last five years. I finally believe, okay? You were right all along. Grimm’s sake, why the face? I thought this would make you happy.”
I tried, Zell. I tried to think of something to say as I collected the slack in Snoozer’s leash and followed CeCi down the stairs, still reeling.
If things weren’t bad enough before, they are now officially out of control.
Love,
Rory
Important Fucking Correspondence from Snow B. White
Onyx Manor
West Road, Grimmland
Z,
Today I made an important decision. I am going to leave the Realm for good after the wedding. I’m going to find my real life. Maybe my father, if I’m lucky. I’m going to see if Rachel is my True Love. I think she might be.
CeCi and Rory didn’t take the news very well, both storming off as if I’d taken away their birthdays. I don’t know what the problem is. I’ll simply live out there instead of in here. And I guess not forever. But how can they not want me to be happy? Do you want me to be happy, Zell?
My wedding is going to be awesome. In two short weeks, I’ll walk down the aisle with a man I don’t love, flanked by friends who aren’t speaking to me, and, afterward, I’ll celebrate by killing my stepmother.
I can’t imagine why you wouldn’t want to come.
B
From the Desk of Cecilia Cinder Charming
Crystal Palace
North Road, Grimmland
Dear Zell,
Maybe all this is my fault. If I hadn’t wanted to cook, Bianca wouldn’t even be entertaining this ridiculous nonsense about Outside. Or maybe this is your fault. You went first. It could also be Figgy’s fault for keeping her father’s self-imposed exile a secret for so long Bianca can’t help but have a disproportionate response.
It isn’t as if I can’t understand the urge to run away. Outside is such a nice distraction. Right now, Phil seems to be the only objective listener in my life. Don’t take that the wrong way. It’s different in letters. And it’s different talking to someone who loves the same thing you love.
When I started classes, I would have laughed if you’d told me Phil and I would become true friends. Of course there’s the everyday chatter. But we got closer when we celebrated winning the class cake competition. And we shared the shame and dark hilarity of the disaster that was geoduck day.
Phil and I have each other’s backs. I fixed his bread dough, and he repaired my mis-threaded grinder. He showed me his favorite way to coax the paper jackets off garlic cloves (with a swift whack with the side of a chef’s knife). I demonstrated my preferred way to pit avocados (with a swift whack of the same knife).
Over lunch today, Phil took me to meet an old man who hones knives for a living, in hopes that he’d give us a quick lesson while he gave our kits a once-over. The man talked for over an hour about his craft, and we shared an amazing bottle of wine. On our way back, we stopped at a Korean fusion taco truck. It was wonderful, though I haven’t eaten Korean or tacos on their own yet. There’s just so much to try here, so much to learn.
But crouched on the sidewalk, eating under the sun as our tacos dripped into the gutter, we realized this is the heart of what we were trying to accomplish. We tasted everything with a new appreciation: the meat, the spices, the way they’d cut their vegetables. We knew how it had been done. What we would do differently. Like we had our own alchemical language. I felt empowered and confident.
And a little wistful because I’ll never be Outside creating with my classmates. Though my classmates will never be able to feel the joy of bringing the gift of something completely new to Grimmland, either.
As angry as I am at Bianca, as selfish as I think she’s being, part of me understands why she wants to stay Outside.
Phil asked about my favorite place to eat. I couldn’t tell him Gretel’s, so I told him Mirabelle because it’s the only restaurant I know. I explained I hadn’t been in the city very long, and I didn’t have much to compare. So he started a list of places we have to explore—cheap dives and fancy bars, family-run places with recipes that will inspire us later on. I feel bad that I don’t have as much to contribute to our adventures as he does. But I’m a good explorer now. And I’m an expert at getting a cab. I keep telling him it’s magic, but it’s just drops of that summoning potion Figgy gave us.
Phil and I have bonded over one more thing: keeping our dreams a secret. See, Phil’s partner, Eric, is a nurse. Eric doesn’t know about cooking school. Like their parents, they’ve always fought about money, so Phil still works in the evenings and when he’s not in class. They hardly see one another, except for a few hours when they sleep. Phil is planning a big surprise as soon as we graduate. It’ll be one of Eric’s days off, and he’ll serve breakfast in bed: eggs, pastries, jams, bacon, and pancakes. But meanwhile, he acts like he can’t cook a damned thing and his whisk tattoo is ironic.
I’d like to say that the secret-keeping is the same for both of us, but that’s not true. I’m not lying to protect Edmund. I’m lying to protect myself. I can’t pretend I’m being altruistic, or planning anything that will delight Edmund down the line. Even Phil knows that—I can see him weighing whether or not to tell me.
He won’t have to anymore. Today, I ran out of excuses.
After I got back from class, I waited in the half-finished nursery until Edmund came home from his weekly game of cups. He returned in generally good spirits, ruddy from the wind and the beer. He paused when he saw me, and I waved him in from the hallway.
Letters to Zell Page 17
