“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 find 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.