The Sisters Grimm

by Menna Van Praag

“Hello?” Liyana regards the two men—one short and fat, the other taller and fatter—standing on the steps below. Jehovah’s Witnesses, is her second thought. “How can I—?”

  The taller man holds a letter up, then retracts it before she can read it. She’s never encountered such aggressive missionaries of God and wonders—

  “This is a warrant of execution.” The short one speaks in a monotone. “It says we’re authorized to enter your property and seize all nonrented goods for the purpose of sale in order to pursue and settle your debts.”

  “What?” Liyana stares at them. “What? I don’t—”

  “Step aside, young lady,” the tall, fat one says. “We prefer a peaceful entry to an enforced one.”

  “But we won’t hesitate to employ the latter if we must,” the short, fat one says.

  The tall one steps up so he’s standing level with Liyana, looking down at her. She stumbles back into the hallway as he pushes past her, quickly followed by his colleague. They’ve stomped into the kitchen before Liyana’s caught up.

  She stares at the men—already unplugging the espresso machine—feeling as if the water is rising too quickly, the waves crashing down.

  “Stop that!” Nya stands in the doorway, poised and immovable. “This instant!”

  The men turn to face her. The tall man doesn’t move, nor does he put down the red chrome Magimix. The short man steps over to Nya.

  “The lady of the house, I presume?”

  “You have no right to be here.” Nya’s voice freezes the waters in which Liyana feels herself drowning. “Get out, immediately.”

  “Oh, but we have every right, lady,” the short man sneers. “You were sent a notice of enforcement seven days ago. You didn’t appeal it. So now we’re—”

  “You’re not allowed to enter my premises without permission,” Nya snaps. “You will leave. Now.”

  “You’re not wrong there, lady. But your daughter let us in, of her own free will, enabling us to carry out our duties to the fullest reaches of the law.” He nods back at the tall, fat man, who recommences his removal of the Magimix.

  Nya glances at Liyana. “Did you let them in?”

  Liyana nods.

  “Jesus, Ana! Why would you do that? Now they can do whatever the hell they want, whenever—”

  “I didn’t,” Liyana mumbles. “I didn’t . . .”

  “You’ve got seventy-two hours to vacate the premises.” The short, fat man smirks. “An extra seventy-two if you appeal it. Either way, you’d better be out by Friday.”

  Liyana spins round to face her aunt. “That’s not right, is it? They can’t do that—this house is still ours. We own it, we . . .”

  Nya says nothing, but her look of pure sorrow and guilt is answer enough.

  10:37 p.m.—Scarlet

  To its credit, the insurance company doesn’t make her wait for the news. The email had arrived that morning. It’d taken Scarlet an hour to find the courage to open it. Its various sentences were the funereal soundtrack to her day. “I write in relation to your claim made for the ceiling repairs to the No. 33 Café. I am afraid that, following the report of our surveyor . . .” She shouldn’t have read on after that second sentence, but she’d had to twist the knife, to cut out the last growth of hope. “Given that you didn’t maintain the building in accordance with the landlord’s instructions, we are unable to meet the costs of the repair. I would draw your attention to clause 12.3 in your insurance policy . . .”

  Now Scarlet sits at her grandma’s favourite table by the bay window, staring into a half-empty cup of cold coffee. The café is silent. Esme is asleep upstairs. But Scarlet must tell her. She can’t keep it a secret forever. They’ll have to move—where to and how she’ll pay the rent, Scarlet has no idea. First, she’ll have to call Eli, to grovel and ask if his offer still stands. Minus £15,000 or so for ceiling repairs. And what will they be left with after that?

  The moon shines through the glass, casting a sliver of light onto the little pool of coffee. Scarlet stares at it, caught by a memory of moonlight on the surface of a lake.

  Scarlet frowns, trying to hold on to it. She’d seen a girl manipulating water once, creating waves that splashed on a riverbank, causing whirlpools with a clockwise turn of her index fingers. But who was the girl?

  Scarlet rests an open palm atop her coffee cup, eclipsing the reflection of the moon. As her hand heats up, she tries to remember more. Then she picks up the cup and takes a sip.

  11:48 p.m.—Bea

  Bea wakes suddenly and fully. Sitting in the chair beside her desk is a man. Lit by the light of her lamp, he is very tall, very thin, and very old.

  Strangely, she’s not scared. “Who are you?”

  He smiles. “Oh, my love. Don’t tell me you don’t recognize your own father.”

  Bea stares. It seems as if he’s been sitting in that chair for a thousand years.

  “I know it’s been a while, but I don’t think I’ve aged that much.” He touches a wrinkled hand to a wrinkled cheek. “Have I?”

  Bea sits up in bed. He is the man from her dream.

  “But it wasn’t a dream. Surely you’ve realized that by now.”

  Dazed, Bea nods.

  “It’s a great joy to see you again, Beauty. I’ve missed you.”

  Her father waits, perhaps expecting Bea to echo the sentiment. She does not. He studies her. Bea shifts under his gaze. If she’d thought her mamá was a falcon, then her father is a ten-headed vulture.

  “You were a pretty little girl,” he says. “But you’ve become a truly beautiful woman. Like mother, like daughter. Though I suppose I should be allowed to take some of the credit. Half, by rights—perhaps more.”

  “How did you get into my room?”

  He smiles again. It’s a smile that makes her shiver.

  “Where have you been for the last eighteen years?”

  “That’s unfair,” her father says. “I’ve visited you from time to time. I know you’re starting to remember.”

  Bea says nothing.

  “Don’t worry.” He nods thoughtfully. “I expected you’d have conflicted feelings upon seeing me again. I hope, in time, we can resolve them.”

  “So, you’re planning on sticking around then?” Bea sits up straighter. “You’ve decided to stay?”

  “Well, my love. You’ve been showing such great promise lately. After the events of last week, I thought it high time we had a talk.”

  Bea stares at him, speechless. Vali’s ghost has returned to her after all.

  “Yes, I was very impressed.” He leans back in her chair, resting his elbows on its wooden arms, steepling his fingers. “So many of my daughters are a disappointment, but you . . . Well, your mother has done well with you.”

  At the mention of her mamá, Bea scowls. Her father smiles.

  “And you thought she was deranged—like so many other poor, misunderstood souls who simply see what others do not.” He raises a single eyebrow and his eyes seem to glow like a cat’s in the half-light. “I’m delighted that you’re also taking after me.”

  Bea blinks. “I don’t know what you think you know but—”

  “Oh, I know what you’ve been up to,” he says. “I’ve always known. You simply hadn’t shown signs of anything particularly worthwhile, until recently.”

  “You’ve always known? But how is that—?”

  “Possible?” He looks disappointed. “I know you’ve been willfully ignoring your mother, but after what you did to that lovesick pup I’d have thought you’d have expanded your understanding of what’s possible. And in case you’re concerned, the coroner will rule death by natural causes—heart attack.”

  Bea tries to ignore her shaking hands, the increasing thump of her heart. “I don’t know how—but you’ve got no idea what happened. I’m not even—”

  Her father laughs. “Oh, Bea, I know everything about you. I know your favourite breakfast cereal was Coco Pops until you turned five, when you began favouring Corn Flake
s. I know you lost your virginity at fourteen to Kevin Fitzpatrick. A poor choice, I think you’ll agree.”

  Bea stares at him, open-mouthed. His grin is like the slash of a knife.

  “I know that you cheated on your Maths GCSE, simply to see if you could pull it off. I know that you once let Lottie Granger take the blame for that very naughty thing you—”

  “Stop!”

  Her father tuts. “Spoilsport. I felt a splash of parental pride at what you did to poor little Lottie. Indeed, I’d hoped . . . Sadly, you made me wait another decade before you fulfilled that potential. But then, you always have been a bit of a tease, haven’t you?” His cat-eyes flash. “Probably why that poor fat pup was drawn to you. Why you were so drawn to him, though, I couldn’t quite understand. Still, I suppose there’s no accounting for taste.”

  “What the hell do you want?”

  “You haven’t worked that out yet?” Her father smiles, the knife cuts deeper. “I’m surprised, clever girl like you—”

  “What have you been doing all these years? Where have you been?” Bea snaps. “I bet you’ve got a wife, other children—”

  “Of a fashion. I certainly have a great many daughters.”

  “How many?”

  “Well, I’ve never taken a precise count, to be true, but somewhere in the region of four to five . . . thousand, I would guess.”

  Bea narrows her eyes. “Don’t be—”

  “You’re wondering how that’s possible?”

  “No, I’m thinking you’re a shit liar—mentiroso de mierda—and a lunatic to boot—just like Mamá.”

  “No, you’re not, you’ve seen too much to think that.” Her father tuts. “The bad news is that, sadly, most of my daughters are dead. The good news is you’ll be meeting three of your surviving sisters very soon.”

  Bea thinks of the dream, her mamá talking about her sisters. She thinks of the blackbird illustration she found in Fitzbillies. The recognition. The rising memories.

  “But we’ll get to that,” her father is saying. “First, let’s talk about how I’m going to take you under my wing, teach you everything—”

  “I don’t have a father,” Bea interrupts. “I don’t have one, don’t want one, never needed one. Mamá is quite enough of a handful. Now, piss off and leave me alone like you did before.”

  His laughter slices under her fingernails. “You can deny it, my dear, you can fight it all you like, but in a few days . . . Well, you just wait and see.”

  And, with that, he vanishes.

  For a long time, Bea stares at the chair where her father had sat, at the imprint he’s left on the air. It’s hours before her thoughts and breath begin to slow and calm—though, she thinks, perhaps they never will—and then she starts to shake.

  11:56 p.m.—Leo

  Leo strides along King’s Parade. Tonight, he doesn’t even bother glancing up into the lit windows, no longer cares who might be there. The light spilling onto the pavements still reminds Leo of cracked egg yolks, but the thought doesn’t slow him, he simply steps through the light and back into the dark.

  If he’s going to convince Goldie, Leo needs to do something dramatic. Careful and considered aren’t working. And, with only five days to go, he can’t afford to waste any more time. He knows the one thing he could say that will make her believe. But, if he does that, he’ll lose her. Which means he must choose between keeping her love or saving her life.

  Less than a decade ago

  Everwhere

  You don’t go back. Months pass. Years. Gradually, the memory of Everwhere fades. When you think about it, if you think about it at all, you berate yourself for ever believing it was real. It couldn’t have been. You were foolish to ever imagine otherwise. It must have been nothing but a dream.

  A terrific, terrifying, incredible dream.

  Goldie

  I didn’t want to forget and I didn’t want to die. I wasn’t sure which I feared more. To forget Everwhere would be like forgetting the most essential part of myself: my spirit, my soul. But what could I do?

  There was something else. Ever since Bea gave us an end date, a deadline for this life, this experience, it had made me think about things differently. I no longer wanted to compromise, to endure, to suffer through anything I didn’t have to. The sharpest thorn in my sole was my stepfather. And it was up to me to stop him, since Ma was clueless and Teddy couldn’t help.

  I kept thinking on something else Bea had said. About life and death, about the fight for survival. I might not have Scarlet’s strength, but I was much stronger than I’d ever believed and far more than anyone suspected. And even if none of us was tough enough to kill our father, I was beginning to think that my stepfather wouldn’t be so very difficult to dispatch. I didn’t know how I’d do it, didn’t yet know if I would, but I was beginning to enjoy thinking that I might, and it was exciting to imagine that I could.

  Liyana

  Liyana checked the cards, night after night, every time hoping to prove Bea mistaken, that she’d never have to leave Everwhere, never have to give up the place and people she loved so much. But the readings were always the same. The cards differed, but the story they told did not. The Tower. The Five of Cups. The Ten of Swords. The Nine of Wands . . . A story of loss, mourning, longing, suffering, and sorrow. She would lose Everwhere, her sisters, and herself.

  After mourning this for a while, Liyana decided to thwart the cards. They would not predict her fate. She would run. On the night before her thirteenth birthday she would go to Everwhere and not come back. That would defeat the fact of forgetting. After all, how could she become too tied to this world if she left it, and how could she forget the place where she lived?

  Liyana would leave a letter. She wouldn’t try to explain the truth. Instead she’d say she was running away to Paris or New York City. At least then her mother would fear only for her safety and not her sanity too. Liyana didn’t know exactly what she’d write. Still, she had several years to think about it. So the plan was set. Liyana would dedicate the first thirteen years of her life to Isisa Chiweshe. Then she would leave and live the rest of her life as she pleased.

  Scarlet

  Scarlet too had a plan to cheat Bea’s prophecy. She would write herself a letter, to be opened the day of her thirteenth birthday, telling herself all about the Place, the Forgetting, and the Choice. She would explain everything to the teenage Scarlet and then she’d be able to return whenever she wanted.

  Naturally, Scarlet realized the initial flaw in the plan. Her thirteen-year-old self would dismiss the writings of her eight-year-old self as childish fantasy. After all, if she told any ordinary adult about Everwhere now, they’d think she was making it all up. So she decided to take a photograph. Not of the place, since she didn’t know if that was even possible—could she walk through a gate with her grandma’s Polaroid camera? Surely not. It’d be impossible to capture a dream, to fix it in time and space, even a real one.

  Instead, Scarlet would take a picture of the sparks that spat from her fingertips on Earth whenever she was angry. It happened only sometimes, but it was enough. All she had to do was wait.

  When Scarlet at last had the photograph—a juggling act she hadn’t anticipated—she sealed it in the envelope along with the letter and locked it in the top drawer of her desk. She had inscribed upon it, in elaborate but clear script, the words: To be opened on my thirteenth birthday.

  Bea

  Although she’d pretended to her sisters that she didn’t care, she did, perhaps most of all. Bea couldn’t bear the thought of not returning to Everwhere, of not seeing her sisters again for half a decade. She supposed she could visit them on Earth, but it wouldn’t be the same. Nothing would. And since she didn’t share their naivety, since she knew she couldn’t get back, Bea tried to resign herself to spending five lonely years with only her mamá and abuela for company.

  27th October

  Five days . . .

  8:58 a.m.—Bea

  To he
r shame, Bea took the first train to London that morning, though she hadn’t been due to visit for another four days. Still, as much as she hates her mamá, the experience of seeing her father again in the flesh was so unsettling that even Cleo as a source of comfort is preferable to being alone. Still, she won’t say anything about Vali, no matter how rigorous the interrogation.

  “I can’t understand why you’re upset.” Cleo takes two slices of bread from the toaster. “You should be happy. Now that you’re nearly eighteen, he’s come back for you.”

  “Well, he’s not having me. He lost that chance years ago.”

  “Por amor al . . . demonio.” Her mamá sighs. “You’ve always been like this.”

  “Like what?”

  “Whenever you felt rejected you pretended you didn’t care.” Her mamá butters the toast. “You were good at it too—you’d soon convince yourself that you weren’t full of hurt but full of hatred.”

  Bea ignores this remark, pressing her fingertips into the table.

  “Jam or Marmite?”

  “What kind of jam?”

  “Raspberry.”

  “Marmite.”

  “Buen.” Her mamá nods. “Don’t let Little Cat lick your fingers. Marmite makes him sick.”

  “It never used to.”

  “He’s getting old.”

  Bea imagines her cat decaying under the apple tree in their garden. She imagines Vali in the morgue.

  Cleo stops spreading Marmite. “¿Que pasa, niña?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Then why are you home so soon? Last time I saw you, you weren’t exactly keen to come.”

  “I fancied a break.”

  “Liar.”

  “All right then, I broke up with my boyfriend. Okay?” Bea steadies her voice. She’ll be strong; she will not let her mamá see a single crack. “And I just wanted to take a few days—”