Between the Lines Read online

  I immediately sit down at the computer, furiously typing THE NEW END to the altered fairy tale that will allow Oliver out of the story—but the cursor leaps upward and begins to erase the words I’ve already written. The word NEW is the last to go, leaving THE END just the way it used to be.

  “No.” I gasp, and I turn around to confirm my suspicions: Oliver’s body, which has been gradually appearing before our eyes, has vanished.

  “Where did he go?” Edgar asks, looking underneath the bed and in the closet.

  I don’t know why I can’t make the simple changes on the computer. Maybe it’s a strange firewall the author installed for protection; maybe it’s just some crazy virus. But this is a physical manifestation of what Jessamyn Jacobs told me: this particular story lives in the minds of its readers. It can’t be altered, because it already exists in its original form.

  It is just like the time Oliver tried to rewrite the ending of the book from within its confines, just like the time he summoned me into the pages. If something isn’t part of the original version of the story, the change can’t sustain itself. Once you call something a story, it’s set in stone. It has a beginning, a middle, and an end that can’t be transformed, because by definition, if you do that, it’s not the same story anymore.

  “It’s happened before,” I explain to Edgar. “It’s like the story has a mind of its own.”

  He thinks for a moment. “How good a writer are you?”

  “Why?”

  “Because I have an idea.” He sits down on the bed, placing his hand on the cover of the book. “You can’t change a story once it’s been told. But what if you create a new story?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Edgar leans forward, excited. “Right now, Oliver is the only one who wants to change the plot. Imagine if all the characters inside that book are given a whole new play to perform. If they all buy into it, maybe the story will allow the change.”

  I grab the book and open it to page 43. Oliver—white-faced and exhausted—stares up at me from the rock ledge. “You’re all right,” I whisper.

  “I’m what I always am,” he mutters. “That’s the problem.”

  “Edgar has an idea.” I explain the concept to Oliver.

  “I don’t see why this is any different,” he says when I finish. “I’m still a character in the story.”

  “But at the end of the new story, you leave,” I tell him, “and all the characters are expecting it to happen.”

  Oliver sighs. “At this point, I suppose I’m willing to try anything.”

  I sit at the computer, because I’m the faster typist. I look at Edgar. “So,” I say. “How does it start?”

  We all get quiet. As it turns out, it’s a lot harder than any of us imagined to create something from nothing.

  “How about a dog that meets a cat and falls in love even though their families are against it?” Oliver suggests.

  “Okay, Romeo,” I reply. “Would you like to come out of the book as a poodle or a pit bull?”

  Oliver shakes his head.

  “No, I’ve got one.” Edgar’s eyes gleam. “It’s a dark and stormy night, and a zombie ax murderer is on the loose—”

  “You really are your mother’s son,” I murmur.

  Edgar shrugs. “Well, I don’t see you suggesting anything.”

  And then, all of a sudden, it comes to me. “There’s this prince,” I say. “And he’s stuck in a fairy tale. Until a girl on the outside can hear him.”

  Bending toward the keyboard, I begin to type.

  page 58

  Rapscullio’s footsteps thundered up the stone stairs of the tower. As he strode inside the room, a wind blew through the wide arched window. Beside it, Seraphima stood with her back to him, staring out at the ocean below.

  “The pensive bride,” Rapscullio said drily, coming closer. “If you’re thinking of jumping… don’t.”

  She didn’t respond, just continued to stare at the crashing waves.

  Rapscullio put his hands on her shoulders, squeezing. She shuddered. His breath was at her neck. “You will learn to love me,” he commanded.

  Seraphima turned in Rapscullio’s embrace. He lifted the veil that obscured her features.

  But it wasn’t her face at all. “Don’t count on it,” Oliver said, and he rammed his head into Rapscullio’s belly, knocking him backward.

  The villain drew his sword. “What did you do with her?”

  “She’s safe,” Oliver said. “And she’s mine.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, Your Highness. This is just payback, and it’s been a long time coming.”

  Oliver stared at the pitted scars on Rapscullio’s face. He had never met this man before; how could Rapscullio possibly hold a grudge against him?

  “I won’t let you get away with this,” Oliver said.

  Rapscullio’s lips twisted in a mockery of a smile. “Why, that’s exactly what Maurice said, just before I released the dragon on him. Like father, like son.”

  Oliver fell back a step. “You… you knew my father?”

  “Correction,” Rapscullio said. “I killed your father.”

  Suddenly Oliver’s vision swam in a red tide. He couldn’t think, he could only feel. He understood, in that crystalline instant, that courage wasn’t something you were bequeathed at birth, and it wasn’t a lack of fright. It was overcoming your fear, because the ones you love mattered more.

  He drove forward, moving with pure adrenaline, and threw himself at the villain.

  The skirts of Seraphima’s gown were suddenly a hindrance to his speed and agility; what had seemed like a fantastic plan to trap Rapscullio suddenly wasn’t so splendid anymore. Rapscullio swung his sword, cutting through the layers of tulle and nicking Oliver’s shoulder. “Your father took from me the one I loved most in this world,” he panted. “So now I’ll return the favor.”

  Oliver dodged the next blow. The sword struck the wall, sending sparks flying. He rolled, tangling in this unfamiliar dress, and then tripped Rapscullio so that he fell facedown on the stone floor. Rapscullio grabbed Oliver’s boot and pulled him down.

  Oliver wrapped the veil around Rapscullio’s wrist, trying to draw his sword arm back so that the weapon would fall. But in a match of sheer strength, Rapscullio had the upper hand. He slammed Oliver’s elbow against the floor, forcing his release.

  Free again, Rapscullio swung at Oliver, landing blows to his face and chest. Oliver rolled away, dazed and reeling, and staggered to his feet. It was enough of a pause for Rapscullio to leap up and point his sword at the prince’s neck. “So, boy,” he said, sneering. “Now what?”

  Oliver took one tiny step back. The sword point bit into his neck, drawing blood. Rapscullio forced Oliver to take another step in retreat, and another, approaching the wall. In a moment, Oliver would have nowhere left to go.

  Promise me you won’t fight, his mother had said. Anyone or anything.

  It was one thing to outsmart a dragon or trick a troll, to bargain with a pirate captain or compromise with mermaids… but how could he win a sword battle, when he didn’t even carry a sword?

  Rapscullio drew back his blade, his eyes wild. “Goodbye, Prince Oliver.” He lunged forward, intent on driving his sword through Oliver’s heart.

  Call it coward’s instinct, call it brilliant, call it whatever you like: Oliver ducked.

  With no body to plunge his sword into, and an open window in front of him, Rapscullio fell forward, scrabbling for a moment on the slick granite of the sill before falling out.

  Oliver sank to his knees, gasping. But before he could even feel relief, he sensed a tug on the skirt of Seraphima’s wedding gown and realized that the last thing Rapscullio had grabbed on to for purchase was his clothing. Oliver found himself tumbling out the window too, hurtling down a sixty-foot drop to the jagged rocks below.

  OLIVER

  MY ARM IS ACHING. AS DELILAH HAS BEEN TYPING, I’ve written the entire story by hand with a small l