Then she leapt.
As Bee fell, soaring through the air so fast that it thundered in her ears, she remembered her name: BlackBird. And with it, herself.
Just as her body was about to hit the ground, as her skull was about to shatter on the stones, BlackBird threw back her head and laughed, her jet-black hair whipping out behind her, transforming into gigantic wings that lifted her into the winds, until she was soaring high above the trees—feathers glinting in the moonlight—once more gliding on currents of pure joy.
BlackBird never again forgot herself, her name, or what she loved. And so she spent the rest of her life flying through the skies and never again coming back down to earth.
Now, if you go into your own garden on a moonlit night, and if you listen very well, you will still be able to hear the echo of her laughter in the air.
Liyana bites the end of her pen. Then, recalling the time she stained her lips green, wipes her mouth. She selects a thicker pen, adding curls to BlackBird’s Afro, sketching in her wings. Liyana works slowly, in no rush to finish, since her comic book world is an infinite improvement on reality: the good triumph, the bad perish, and if chaos is reaped along the way, in the end everything is always set right with the world. Justice prevails.
Liyana often finds herself stepping into the long black leather boots of her feminist superhero. She fights crime, saves lives, pines for her lover, honours her mother’s memory. Truthfully, Liyana spends more time in Elsewhere than in London. She can be walking the streets, sitting on the tube, bumping into pedestrians, when in fact she’s alone and soaring through the air in a magical land.
“Ana, I need you!” her aunt shouts up the stairs.
Reluctantly, Liyana abandons BlackBird and LionEss (who bears an uncanny resemblance to both her aunt and Catwoman, an issue Liyana plans to resolve when the distant matter of publication arises), along with her drawings and pens, and returns to Earth.
5:48 p.m.—Scarlet
“Scarlet!”
Catching sight of the finial she’s placed proudly on a shelf balanced between a jar of sugar and a jar of salt, Scarlet stops sieving. She slaps the bag of flour onto the kitchen counter in a puff of white dust and hurries from the kitchen into the café.
“What is it, Grandma?” Scarlet asks, reaching the table.
Esme sits in her favourite spot beside the bay window, overlooking the intricate arches and turrets of King’s College, contemplating the dim lamplit rooms of the college where she met her husband. Before Alzheimer’s took hold, Esme told great tales about her husband, though spoke rarely of her daughter. The only story she’d tell was the story of Scarlet’s birth, how she was born feetfirst, on a river of screaming blood, in the moment between one day and the next. Whenever Scarlet asked for other, less gory anecdotes about her mother, Esme fobbed her off with fripperies. And that was before; now Scarlet only gets information she can’t trust at all.
Excepting the rare snapshot image, the main thing Scarlet remembers about Ruby is how she looked: the same red curls, the same brown eyes. Which is lucky, since she doesn’t have a photograph, everything having been destroyed in the house fire less than a decade ago, the fire that killed her mother.
“Look, Scarlet, isn’t it beautiful?”
Scarlet follows the point of her grandma’s curled finger to the orange sky breaking like cracked eggs above scalloped stone spires. Sometimes, when she’s cleaning tables, Scarlet stops to gaze across the road at King’s College, the latticed stained-glass windows of the chapel set into sculpted stone walls and topped with fluted pinnacles. A flag flickering atop the central tower like a flame. Scarlet feels comforted, though she can’t quite say why, to imagine that stained glass being fired in a furnace nearly six centuries ago, created and crafted by expert hands over the course of two hundred years. The solidity of King’s is reassuring somehow, offering a pleasing permanence in this too quickly changing world.
“Yes.” Scarlet smiles. “It’s like Bonfire Night. I’ve made cinnamon buns. Would you like one? A treat for dinner.” No matter that they’d eaten crumpets for dinner last night—her grandmother won’t remember.
“Oh, yes.” Esme smiles like a delighted child. “They’re my favourite.”
“I know.” Scarlet touches her grandmother’s shoulder before turning away. She hasn’t made cinnamon buns but still has a batch from yesterday. She’ll heat them in the microwave, though Esme would have a fit if she knew it, believing microwaves to be the Devil’s work. She didn’t speak to Scarlet for two days after she bought one, though her grandmother doesn’t remember that anymore either.
The trick to reheating is not to overdo them, only warm the centres, then pop them under the grill, to get that slightly crisped, just-baked topping. And Grandma will never know. Although the heat of the plate might give Scarlet away. It’s so hot that anyone else would drop it, but Scarlet can pull trays straight from the oven without flinching, something her grandmother has never been able to do. Not that Esme has baked in years.
In the kitchen, Scarlet fills the dishwasher—a concession to modernity even her grandmother couldn’t resist—while the microwave whirs. When it pings, she sets the plate on the counter to cool a little and switches on the dishwasher. Nothing happens. No industrious sounds from behind the flip-up plastic door. Scarlet waits. She presses the button again.
“Shit.”
She kicks it. Still nothing. Last month the fridge—which, at £356, was cheaper to replace than to fix, plus an extra £125 to take it to the dump. Now the fucking dishwasher. Which, at £2,575, must be fixed instead of replaced.
“Shit, shit, shit.”
Popping the cinnamon buns under the grill, Scarlet glowers at the dishwasher, in the vain hope of intimidating it into working. When that fails, she gives it another swift kick, picks up the plate, and stalks out of the kitchen.
Scarlet sets the buns on the table. For a moment, Esme seems not to notice, then pulls her gaze from the sunset to Scarlet.
“What—why . . .” A frown breaks across Esme’s brow. “What’s this?”
“Cinnamon buns. A treat for dinner, reme—” Swallowing the word, Scarlet gives the plate a nudge. “They’re your favourite.”
Her grandmother frowns down at the buns. “They are?”
“Try one, Grandma. You’ll love it, I promise.”
Esme eyes the plate. Before Alzheimer’s, she’d adored all baked goods. If it consisted of flour, sugar, and butter, Esme gobbled it up, no question. Now she’s suspicious of everything, like a child apprehensively eyeing a plate of broccoli. And it always breaks Scarlet’s heart a little.
“Please, Grandma, just taste them.”
Esme considers the cinnamon buns for a moment longer, then nudges the plate away, folds her arms, and returns her gaze to the sunset.
Over a decade ago
Everwhere
It is a place of falling leaves and hungry ivy, mist and fog, moonlight and ice, a place always shifting and always still. It never changes, though the mists rise and fall, the fog rolls in across the shores and sea. But the moonlight never ebbs, the ice never melts, the sun never shines. It’s a nocturnal place, a place crafted from thoughts and dreams, hope and desire. It is lit by the silver of an unwavering moon, unfettered by clouds, illuminating everything but the shadows. It’s an autumnal place, but with a winter chill and hue. Imagine a forest that reaches between now and forever, with ancient trunks stretching to the marbled sky and an infinite network of roots reaching out to the edge of eternity.
The entrance to this place is guarded by gates, perfectly ordinary if usually ornate gates, that now and then—on that certain day, at that certain hour—transform into something extraordinary. And, if you’ve got a little Grimm blood in you, you might be able to see the shift.
Stepping through a gate, you’ll first be met by trees. They’ll greet you with white leaves falling like rain, dusting a crisp confetti across your path that crunches under your feet as you begin to fin
d your way. Step carefully over the slick stones, or you may slip. Reach out to steady yourself, palm pressed to the bleached moss that blankets every trunk and branch. Soon you’ll hear the rush of water, a vein of the endless river that runs on and on, twisting through the trees, turning with the paths but never meeting the seas.
It’s a while before you notice that everything around you is alive. You’ll feel the hum of the earth beneath your feet, the breath of the trees in the rustle of their leaves, the murmur of the birds in flight. As your eyes adjust to the light you’ll see the marks on rocks, crushed patches of leaves, slips in the mud.
Footprints.
Others have been here before, and you’re following in their footsteps. You wonder how many have preceded you, which paths they took, where they went, and what they found. And so you walk on . . .
As you walk be careful to avoid the shadows, steer clear of the creatures that lurk within. Don’t listen to their voices, the persistent whispers that will linger in your mind. Instead, stick to the path. Follow your heart and let it lead you to the others, as they will be led to you.
Goldie
I wanted to be different, special, exceptional. No doubt everyone felt the same, excepting the seven people on this planet happy exactly as they are. I wasn’t. I’d wanted to be extraordinary ever since I was old enough to know I was not. I suppose that’s why I liked sleeping so much, because in my dreams I was spectacular. I flew, breathed fire, became invisible. I moved objects with my mind, heard people’s thoughts, transported myself from place to place in a blink.
I looked unusual. Not beautiful. At least, no one ever said so. I didn’t care. I didn’t care that I wasn’t pretty like Juliet du Plessi, who sat at my reading table though she never bothered with the books. I didn’t need pretty, I had my mind. My thoughts. I could always hide away in my own head. A bit like J.J., who always knew answers to questions even our teachers didn’t know. I usually did too, though, unlike J.J., I never raised my hand.
In my dreams I sometimes used my magic powers for good, sometimes for evil. It didn’t matter, since no one was ever hurt in dreams. Which was sometimes a relief, sometimes a shame. At night, I maimed my stepfather in elaborately inventive ways. Every morning, he remained disappointingly unbruised. Another reason falling asleep was my favourite moment, waking up my worst.
Scarlet
It was a moment before Scarlet noticed she was being watched, her mother regarding her with a curious, sideways gaze. Scarlet glanced down to see that her fingertips were scorched, as if burned by the sun. But it was a muted English day, warm enough to sit on the grass and string daisy chains, too cool to discard layers of clothing. Scarlet still wore a cotton vest under her dress, yet the petals of the daisy she held were singed.
“What did you do?”
Scarlet didn’t meet her mother’s eye. “Nothing.”
“Then why . . . ?”
“It just happened,” Scarlet protested, sensing that her mother’s anger, always quick to ignite, was starting to spark. “I—I didn’t do anything.”
Ruby Thorne’s eyes narrowed. “Just like you didn’t flood the bathroom. Or burn my favourite, my only, silk shirt with the iron. Or swap the sugar for salt when I baked cinnamon buns yesterday.”
Scarlet opened her mouth to protest again, then closed it. What could she say? She had done those things. For, although she hadn’t turned on the tap, brandished the iron, or touched the sugar tin, Scarlet knew that she was still responsible. How, or why, she couldn’t explain, but strange things happened around her. And, after seven years of such things, Scarlet had come to accept that this was the case.
“I’m sorry . . .” She fingered the daisy’s petals. It upset her mother more when Scarlet claimed not to know how these things happened. It was better simply to confess and take the consequences. “I, um . . .” She pulled at her hair, slowly twisting it into a bun at the nape of her neck. “I was playing with a magnifying glass . . . Miss Dixon told us about burning things with—”
Her mother tut-tutted, shaking her head. “What on earth are they teaching in schools nowadays? It’s hardly appropriate education for six-year-olds. I don’t—”
“Seven, Mum,” Scarlet mumbled. “I’m seven.”
“Of course you are. But I don’t think that makes it any better, do you?”
Scarlet shook her head in turn, surprised again that her mother had accepted an illogical lie in place of an improbable truth. Here they were, sitting in the garden without a magnifying glass in sight, yet Ruby Thorne believed this explanation. And she’d believed far greater lies before.
Yet, despite her rational mother, Scarlet was a child who prayed for tornadoes to take her to Oz, who upturned many a wardrobe seeking Narnia and spoiled several lawns digging holes to Wonderland. Ruby believed in none of these things and didn’t like her daughter believing in them either. So Scarlet had learned to keep quiet about her adventures and, indeed, about everything else.
Ruby stood, brushing from her skirt any insect or blade of grass impertinent enough to cling to the cotton. “Let’s go. Your grandma might need a hand with the afternoon tea rush,” she said. “All those little old ladies clamouring for their teacakes . . .”
“What’s ‘clamouring’?” Scarlet asked, pushing herself up from the ground. But her mother was already striding across the lawn, halfway to the house. With a reluctant glance back at the charred daisy, Scarlet ran after her.
Liyana
“I’ve got something special to show you.”
Liyana looked up to see her mummy sitting on the sofa. On her lap she held a small carved wooden box, painted white. Liyana could tell, from the way Isisa clutched it, that this was a precious box.
“What?” Liyana abandoned her sketchbook—her incomplete scribblings of white trees shedding white leaves—on the coffee table. Her mummy pulled Liyana onto her lap.
“I’ll show you,” she said. “But you mustn’t tell anyone.”
Liyana considered this. “Not even Dagã?”
“Auntie,” her mother corrected. “And no. Especially not Auntie Nya.”
Liyana nodded. She didn’t ask Isisa why. She never asked why. She didn’t ask why they’d left Ghana one night and come to London and never left. She didn’t ask about her father—not his name, his whereabouts, or if he was alive or dead.
Upright and still, Liyana waited on her mother’s lap. She sensed a secret on her mother’s lips. And since Isisa Chiweshe kept a lot of secrets but seldom, if ever, revealed any, this was quite a coup. Excitement twitched Liyana’s fingertips.
“I’ve been wanting to show you these for a long time, vinye,” her mother said. “But I had to wait until you were old enough.”
Liyana looked up. “But I’m only seven.”
“Perhaps.”
Liyana frowned.
“Well, yes, I suppose that’s true,” Isisa conceded, “if you’re measuring in years. But you’re already far more advanced than most—remember that.”
Liyana didn’t know what to say to this, so she said nothing.
“Let’s sit on the floor.” Setting Liyana aside, Isisa slid from the deep sofa, slipped off her snakeskin shoes, and tucked herself under the coffee table. Liyana shuffled after her.
“Are we playing a game, Dadá?” Liyana asked as her mother opened the box and, as if she were lifting a newborn babe from its cot, removed a pack of cards.
“Not quite,” Isisa said. She held the cards between her palms for several moments, then began to shuffle. Mumbling an inaudible secret beneath her breath, Isisa slowly drew three cards from the pack and placed them facedown on the coffee table, alongside Liyana’s drawing. “And stop calling me that. In England, I’m ‘mummy.’ Remember.”
“Is it snap?” Liyana said hopefully. Her mummy rarely allowed games, unless they had an educational angle.
“No.” Isisa discarded the suggestion with a flick of her wrist. “These cards are special. If you ask them questions they’ll gi
ve you answers.”
“About what?”
“About anything.”
“But how?” Liyana asked. “If they can’t speak, how do they answer?”
“They don’t speak like we do,” Isisa said. “You just have to listen . . . a little differently.”
Liyana tried to make sense of this. But she couldn’t, she had to ask. “How?”
Her mummy leaned forward to turn over the first card. “With your eyes instead of your ears.”
Liyana leaned forward too, peering at the picture on the card: a man and woman chained together by their ankles. The woman was elaborately dressed in silk and fur. The man was naked, his skin green, his eyes red, his hair slicked into horns, his feet shaped into hooves. The woman turned away, but he gazed at her, as if he wanted something from her that she didn’t want to give. As Liyana stared at the card she started to cry.
“What’s wrong, child? Why on earth are you crying?”
“No, I don’t, I don’t want to know,” Liyana mumbled. “I didn’t ask. I don’t, I don’t . . .”
“Don’t want to know what?”
“He’s dangerous, Da— Mummy,” Liyana said. “He’ll hurt you, he’ll—”
“Don’t be silly, Ana,” Isisa shushed. “The Devil’s not real, he’s only a symbol.”
“What’s a ‘symbol’?” Liyana asked.
Isisa frowned. “You don’t know that?”
“Of course I do,” Liyana said, though she didn’t. “I just, I . . .”
“Good.” Isisa gave her daughter a reassuring squeeze. “And don’t worry, the Devil doesn’t mean what you think. Look . . .” She reached around Liyana to turn over the other two cards.
Still sniffling, Liyana eyed them from under her mother’s arm.
The Six of Cups: a mermaid mummy with her merman son, who held up a vase of flowers and stars for his mother. This one cheered Liyana a little. But she found the Tower even more disturbing than the Devil: a grey wind blowing, a tall stone tower crumbling beside a naked tree, a man and woman tumbling to their deaths from its windows.
The Sisters Grimm Page 4
