by Tahereh Mafi
The train had pulled into their peninsula station after having already stopped to take on passengers at several other stations, so it was with only a few minutes to spare that Benyamin managed to find two open carriages. He and his barrow took up just over half the space of one, so he clambered in and offered to ride alone. But Oliver and Alice exchanged a meaningful look and, a moment later, announced they would be splitting up: Alice would ride with Benyamin, and Oliver would ride with Laylee. It was a curious arrangement—one that would require an explanation that was yet to come—but there wasn’t time to deliberate. Laylee was perplexed and Benyamin was (quietly) thrilled and too soon Alice and Oliver had said their friendly good-byes and the four children took their seats—and settled in for the long ride into town.
It was a beautiful day, even in the cold.
The scenes through the window seemed manufactured from fairy tales: Snow fell fast on curlicued boughs, golden sunlight glimmered across rolling white fields, birds chirped their displeasure at the blustery day, and though it was a fine and strange and dizzying time, it would be the coldest night on record.
Luckily, the glass prisms were lined with plush velvet chairs and a magic that flooded their interiors with a cozy, toasty warmth. Oliver had just taken his seat across from Laylee as the carriage gave its first jolt forward, and she found she could not look at him as she set down her bones. She was not ignoring him—no, she was beyond that now—but there was something about him that felt suddenly different, and whatever it was, it made her nervous. Would he use his persuasion on her? she wondered. Would he try to magic her into a dangerous situation? More troubling still: She knew he’d chosen to sit with her—that in fact he was eager for the privacy—and now that she was about to find out why, she wasn’t sure she wanted to.
But Oliver wouldn’t be the first to speak.
Finally, Laylee forced herself to look at him, feeling shy for the first time in years. Her irises were more silver than usual today—feverish and bright with feeling.
Still, Oliver wouldn’t say a word.
Instead, he leaned forward on his elbows and gazed into her eyes with a seriousness she wasn’t expecting. Oh, there was something astonishing in the power of solemnity! Oliver, in his intense preoccupation, was transformed in look and demeanor; he appeared more severe now than Laylee had ever seen him and somehow, simultaneously, more tender than she knew he could be. This transformation suited him (and appealed to her) in a way that was rather inconvenient, given the circumstances, but there was no helping the situation: There was a great and quiet dignity in the face of a compassionate person, and not only did this side of Oliver surprise Laylee—it scared her.
Something was terribly wrong.
“What is it?” she finally said. “What’s happened?”
Oliver looked up, away, pressed his fist to his lips; only when he’d closed his eyes, dropped his hand, and lowered his voice did he say—very, very calmly—
“Please tell me why you think you’re going to die.”
It was turning out to be a brisk, frenetic winter day. Diagonal hail had crossed with horizontal snow, fading sunlight slanted through frost sleeping on slender branches, and the fresh, rushing roar of half-frozen waterfalls rumbled in the distance. The afternoon was gently melting into evening and in an effort to change the hour, the sun had stepped down to let the moon slip by. Reindeer peered out from behind tree trunks; black stallions emerged, galloping cheerfully alongside the train; and snowcapped mountains sat still and solemn in the distance, reigning over tall and small with quiet thunder.
And yet—
It was impossibly quiet in the little glass coach.
The wind whispered against the hinges in an attempt at conversation, and still, no one spoke. Laylee touched fingers to trembling lips, terrified to say aloud any word that might collapse her; and though she tried to hide the tremors that shook the tremendous world within her, the bones in the baggage beside her would not quiet their rattle.
Even so, she was not ready to respond.
Of all the things she’d thought Oliver might say to her, this was not one of them, and she was so utterly unprepared for his clairvoyance she hadn’t even the wherewithal to perjure herself—or to pretend he was wrong.
No matter: Oliver Newbanks was willing to wait. He was perfectly comfortable on his plush, lavender bench—as the bucolic scenes outside his many windows were unlike any he’d ever witnessed—but the beautiful Whichwood winter could only do so much.
Quietly, he couldn’t help but worry.
It was true that Oliver Newbanks was fond of Laylee. Indeed, he liked her as well as any person could like someone they didn’t know. There was something about her—something he couldn’t quite explain—that kept him coming back to her. It was this same something that convinced him beyond anything else that Laylee had no business dying—not now and not ever—and especially not before she’d had a chance to see him as more than just a stranger. Because while it was impossible to identify the chemical magic that fused one heart to another, Oliver Newbanks could not deny that something had happened to him when he first set eyes on Laylee Layla Fenjoon. He had been marked by a magic he could not see, and it was impossible for him to extricate himself from his emotions.
And here is the strange thing about feeling:
Sometimes it builds slowly, one brick carefully stacked on another over years of dedicated hard labor; once constructed, these foundations become unshakable. But other times it’s built recklessly, all at once, on top of you, stacking bricks on your heart and lungs, burying you alive in the process if necessary.
Oliver had only ever known gentle affection.
He had built, bit by bit, every ounce of his fondness for Alice. She was exhausting and frustrating and lovely and wise—she was his best friend in the world. But though Alice had touched his heart, she had never possessed it, and it was this—his racing pulse, his shaking hands, the exciting and disturbing twist in his stomach that felt like sickness—that wrecked and reconstructed him all at once.
Oliver was not simply upset by the revelation that Laylee was going to die; he was deeply and profoundly horrified.
And he knew he could never allow it to happen.
Dear reader: Forgive me. I keep forgetting that you may not have read (or simply might not remember) Alice and Oliver’s adventures in Furthermore, and I continue to assume you know things you might not. Allow me to explain how Oliver came to know Laylee’s secret:
Oliver Newbanks had a very peculiar magical ability.
As I’ve mentioned earlier, he was a boy generally known for his gift of persuasion. But his talent was layered; in his exploits shaping the minds of others, he’d long ago discovered he was also able to unlock the one thing they kept most confined: their most precious secret of all.
When Oliver first met Laylee, her greatest secret was impossible to decipher. The problem was, Laylee was electric with secrets—her wants and fears were all so equally tangled in secrecy that Oliver had not been able to properly navigate her mind. And though he caught a glimpse of something very wrong when she abruptly collapsed in her yard, it wasn’t until she looked him deeply and directly in the eye at the train station that Oliver finally saw her with clarity. Something had changed in Laylee, you see, because she now prized one secret—one fear—above all else, and Oliver was so struck by her unwitting confession he’d run to Alice with the news at once.
They’d shared the information with Benyamin straightaway—as they’d not found a single good reason why this awful news should be kept a secret—and Benyamin, who’d suspected as much after seeing Laylee’s graying eyes, quickly shared his own theories. This was what they were discussing when Laylee happened upon them in the train station: The three of them were hatching a plan to help her.
Laylee, meanwhile, had been to war and back, watching the world whirl past her window as she grasped d
esperately for the anger that kept her safe from difficult and necessary conversations. But this time, the anger would not come. She’d once found protection behind plaster masks of indifference, but she now felt too much and too weak to carry the extra armor. A violent impotence had finally crushed her spirit, and she felt the strength of her resolve dissolve all at once inside her.
Secretly, she was grateful.
The truth was, there was a part of Laylee that was relieved to be found out—to be finally forced to speak of her suffering. She didn’t want to die alone, and now perhaps she wouldn’t have to.
So she finally turned to face Oliver.
She’d made up her mind to speak as firmly as possible, to emote nothing, and to betray none of the weakness she felt, but he was so visibly shaken—nervous, even—as he looked up to meet her eyes, that Laylee faltered. She’d not expected such sincerity in his gentle, careful gestures, and despite her best efforts to be unmoved, she could not calm her heart. She formed a word and it cracked on her lips. Another, and the sounds fractured into silence. Once more, and her voice feathered into nonsense.
Oliver moved as if to say something, but Laylee shook her head, determined to get the words out on her own.
Finally, her eyes filling fast with tears, she tried to smile.
“I’ll be dead by the end of the week,” she said. “How on earth did you know?”
It takes exactly ninety minutes by train to get from Laylee’s drafty castle to the center of town, and in that time, two separate and important conversations took place in two glass coaches between two sets of persons, hundreds of insects, and one spare skeleton. You already know a bit about one of these conversations; as to the other, I will tell you only this:
Alice, who was not afraid of confrontation, took full advantage of her private time with Benyamin to tell him exactly how she felt about all his staring at her. She made it abundantly clear that she had no interest in being gawked at, and if he had any problems with her, he should sort them out this minute, on account of she wasn’t going anywhere and, furthermore, would not apologize for who she was or what she looked like. And then she crossed her arms and looked away, determined to never smile at him again.
Benyamin, as you might imagine, was floored by her suggestion that he thought her anything but perfectly wonderful, and so spent far too long correcting Alice’s assumption. In fact, he was so detailed in the many arguments he made to counter the misunderstanding that, by the end of it, Alice had flushed such an extraordinary shade of piglet she worried she’d changed color after all. Horrified, mortified, delighted and surprised—she’d never known she could feel so many things at once.
It was a highly entertaining conversation.
I won’t detail the specifics of these separate communications—as it would be an inefficient use of our time to recount the many gasps and glances that punctuate transformative discussions—but suffice it to say that their ninety minutes were spent wisely, carefully, and with great compassion, and that Alice, Oliver, Laylee, and Benyamin disembarked with a lightness of heart that in no way prepared them for the many catastrophes they’d yet to encounter.
And though it would be kinder not to spoil such a moment with the promise of bad tidings, I’m afraid I’ll have to stop you here, dear reader, with a warning. These next parts of the story grow terribly dark and disturbing. I’ll understand if you have to look away. But if you’re willing to venture forth, I must, in the interest of full disclosure, tell you at least this much:
A strange and bloody madness awaits.
BUT FIRST: A BIT OF FUN BEFORE THE BLOOD
Laylee blushed as she and Oliver met the others on the platform. She knew now that everyone was aware of her impending death, and she wasn’t sure how to talk around it.
Luckily, she didn’t have to.
The thing was, no one but Laylee truly believed the young mordeshoor was going to die. In fact, upon learning of Laylee’s unique illness, Alice was quietly relieved. She couldn’t be absolutely certain—for that, she’d need to take action—but she thought she might have finally realized what she’d been sent here to do.
And though I’ve spoken only briefly of Alice’s magical talent, I think now might be a good time to say more.
For those readers unaware: Alice Alexis Queensmeadow had the unique and incredible ability to manipulate color. She was born with a pale exterior that belied her vivid interior and, once unleashed, her magic could paint the skies themselves. Even so, she’d never before attempted to color life back into a person—but now that she knew more about Laylee’s silver eyes and struggles, she wondered whether she had any choice but to try.
Then again, she had to be careful.
Alice had never before used color to revive a person. Her magic had never been manipulated for such serious purposes, and she could see now why the Elders had sent her here—and why they’d assigned her such grave work. They’d suspected better than she what her magic might do, and they’d trusted Alice to have the strength necessary to reinvigorate a person who’d lost what made her whole. For the residents of the many magical lands—Ferenwood, Furthermore, and Whichwood among them—losing color meant losing magic, and losing magic meant the loss of life.
Do you see now, dear reader?
Do you see what Laylee had done?
She’d been depleting her stores of mordeshoor magic with great and unceasing frequency. The illness that overcame her now was a sickness particular to her line of work, which, as an extremely demanding occupation (both physically and emotionally), had finally sapped her of all magical strength. Had Laylee worked slowly, carefully, with breaks and vacations and holidays, she never would’ve deteriorated to this degree; no, her body would’ve had time to restore itself—and her repository of magic would’ve had time to replenish its supply.
But Laylee had not had the luxury of stopping. She’d had no one to intervene on her behalf; no one to share her burden. She was too young and too delicate to have been so thoroughly robbed of the magic still crystallizing within her, and having pushed herself too hard in too short a time, she’d poisoned herself from the inside out.
Alice, who was only now realizing how her magic might be forced to work in this strange new way, was quietly preparing for the task she might be asked to perform. She called upon herself to be steady and brave—but in an honest moment, Alice would admit that the immensity of the task had scared her. This was no small feat, to reinvigorate a dying girl. No, no, this was the kind of painstaking, labored work that would take from her as it gave to Laylee; after all, the magic that would save Laylee had to originate somewhere, and Alice would have to use stores of her own spirit to revive the young mordeshoor. These personal reserves would, in theory, help Laylee recover, but Alice would have to make sure she didn’t destroy herself in the process.
But I digress.
My point here is only to say that Alice was growing more certain by the moment as to why she’d been sent to Whichwood, and she now had hope she might be able to set things right for Laylee. They hadn’t had a chance to discuss any of this, of course, as they’d only just stepped off the train, but Alice was eager to put Laylee’s fears to rest and make quick work of her duties in Whichwood. (Secretly she was hoping there’d be time left over to enjoy the company of her new friends.) But there was so much to see and do now that they’d reached the center of town that there was hardly a moment to be still, much less to speak. In fact, even if they’d wanted to talk about it, I’m not sure they’d have been able to, as the station was swarming with Whichwoodians toing and froing in the chaos, and Alice and Oliver were struggling to stay afloat. They’d never seen such crowds before—certainly not back home in Ferenwood, where the city as a whole was much smaller—and they were overcome by the madness, grabbing desperately for each other as the masses forced them apart.
Benyamin, like Laylee, wasn’t at all surprised by the commotion;
in fact, he’d been expecting it. He’d come into town for the express purpose of its busy business (you will remember that Benyamin intended to sell his saffron flowers at the market) and, besides, it was the beginning of Yalda, the most important holiday of the year, and people were flooding into town from all distant reaches of the city in order to celebrate.
The festivities were scheduled to begin at sundown—which meant they’d be starting in just a few hours—and Benyamin was hoping to sell his wares swiftly so he might have a chance to experience the evening with his new companions. He wouldn’t be able to stay out all night (as was the tradition) because his mother would be up waiting for him, but even a few hours of fun would be more than he’d had in a long while.
Laylee, too, for all her reluctance to celebrate the winter solstice, was feeling inspired to enjoy herself. Her lengthy conversation with Oliver had buoyed her spirits, and the simple reassurance of a sympathetic heart by her side was enough to reinvigorate her courage for just a bit longer. Thinking of Oliver now, she glanced in his direction with an innocent curiosity—only to find that he was already looking at her. Catching her eye, he smiled. It was the kind of smile that lit up his whole face, warmed his violet eyes, and sent a shock of panic through Laylee’s heart.
