The Children(33)

March came at last. Edith stopped typing and started pacing, marking up her stack of pages in pencil. Guinevere and Ennis abandoned their indoor games—hand after hand of Speed, Garbage, War, enough to make you swear off cards forever—and ventured out into the butt end of that filthy winter.

Then it was April again, one year since the day they arrived. There were crocuses coming up, purple and yellow and white, and Edith walking in the front door shouting, “Llewellyn! Llew! Get down here!”

Her voice was almost frantic. She’d driven to a diner an hour away to meet with a New York editor, who’d come from much farther to speak to her. She returned with a bottle of champagne and another of sparkling apple juice, and she was talking very fast. Words stood out like black buttons: six figures and lead title and crash release.

As she spoke she opened the bottles, filled four glasses, let them bubble over in her haste. Llewellyn sat on the window seat, daylight coming in from behind and rendering him hazy. Edith was all fizz and nicotine, moving around the room.

“It was worth it.” Prayer hands pressed to her lips, eyes so wide with triumph their whites stood out in rings. “I knew it would be. The things he said about the book, Llew. And the money. This is money like we never—and this is the start! The book is going to editors all over, my agent thinks—”

“What was it worth?”

Llewellyn’s voice was mild. It stopped her chatter cold.

“What?”

“You said ‘it was worth it.’ It. The book, the money. Was worth what.”

“All that work.” Her laugh rang with nerves. A crash was in the offing, following the sugar high of getting everything she ever wanted. “All the late-night writing, all those revisions. And you, making sure we got fed and the place didn’t burn down when I wasn’t looking. And you two.” She winked at Guinevere and Ennis. She was bad at winking, it looked like a tic. “You’ve been so patient with me. So good about giving me space to write.”

Guinevere shrugged. Ennis and Llewellyn reacted not at all. At least Dad had gotten dressed today. Or—a glum recalculation—he was still dressed, from yesterday. His new beard hid the thinness of his face. Her daydreams were full of curative magics a little girl might stumble upon in the woods: fairy flowers you could brew into tea, healing lozenges found in clear water, disguised as pretty stones. A single wish, granted by an entity she’d yet to find.

Now he gave a tight smile and said, “Well done. All your sacrifice, paid off.”

The triumphant shine in Edith’s eyes was fading. She huffed a half laugh and said, “I guess I thought you’d be proud of me. Pretty stupid, huh?”

Llewellyn stood. His movements were measured, his expression one of vague equanimity, yet she flinched. He only lofted his jelly jar, half full of champagne, and said, “Of course I’m proud. To the victors go the—et cetera.” Moving with the careful dignity that meant he’d switched from tea to whiskey earlier than usual, he left the room. Ennis slipped away behind him.

Edith watched them go, chin trembling. Apple soda burned the back of Guinevere’s throat. “Mom?”

No answer.

“. . . Mom? Mo—”

“Jesus, Guinevere, what.”

She swallowed. “What’s your book called?”

“Oh.” Her mother’s shoulders dropped. “God. Sorry I yelled.” She bit her lip. “It’s called, The Ninth City.”

The way she said it, with that little pause first. Like a secret. Like a pearl. “The Ninth City.” Guinevere tried it out. “What’s it about?”

“Magic. Adventure. Doors to other places. All the good stuff.”

“Wow.” She felt dazzled and shy, her mother transformed into a glamorous stranger. “Can I read it?”

Edith smiled shakily. “Of course you can. It’s not ready yet, but . . . soon.”



* * *




Guinevere drank carbonated apple juice until her stomach hurt and her blood felt bubbly. For months she’d been listening to her mother typing away. Now the words she wrote in this house, within Guinevere’s earshot, were being turned into an actual book.

The idea lit a flame in her. It fizzed steadily along a fuse in her chest she hadn’t even known was there, burning down to an explosion at her very center.

She would write a book. She already did it in her head all the time, reading until her eyes ached and continuing the story in her head as she dropped into sleep. Sometimes her version was better than the real thing.

She would tell no one. Just Ennis, obviously. When she was done, she’d sell it. Her parents wouldn’t know a thing until the book was in their hands, bound in hardcover with her name on the front. Her father would read it aloud by the light of the fire, his voice turning the room into a stage. Oh, my fairy, he’d say when he was through, wiping the tears away. It’s magnificent.

And her mother. Edith would give her a private smile and they’d both know what it meant. I see you. And you are the same as me.

Guinevere would have her own desk. She and her mother would write together side by side, in their beautiful house in the woods. And all would be well.





Twenty

Five days until Mother




Guin stayed on the beach until her underwear dried. Then she pulled her clothes on and found the nearest bar.