The Editor interviewed Emily about the store’s opening for the Friendship Mirror. “Our readers will want to know why you have decided to open a…” The Editor searched his memory. “…a bookstore, is it?”
“I am an occasional poet and an avid reader,” Emily said.
“Yes, of course, you are,” the Editor said, “but what does this have to do with the daily lives and struggles of Friendshippers?”
“I believe that virtual worlds can help people solve problems in the real one.”
“What is ‘virtual’？”
“Nearly appearing so. Like yourself.”
“You speak in riddles,” the Editor said.
By her sixth month of pregnancy, Emily knew the reason Friendship lacked a bookstore: it was not a town of readers. With the demands of farming and gifting, Friendshippers were left with little free time, and what free time they had, they did not wish to devote to reading Walden by candlelight.
By her seventh month, she was on the verge of closing the store—she did not possess the missionary zeal for converting nonreaders into readers—and perhaps even abandoning Friendship for good. It was Alabaster who suggested she expand her business by selling greeting cards. “In addition to the books, of course,” Alabaster said.
“Will it make a difference?” Emily rejoined. “Do people like greeting cards?”
“Yes, I believe they do. There are numerous heads of cabbage and birthdays to acknowledge.” Almost as an afterthought, Alabaster added, “You could also sell games. Reading is a chore, but I have heard told there is much money to be made in amusements.”
Emily changed the name of the store to Friendship Books, Stationery, & Games, and she began to stock the store in kind. Board games and stationery proved slightly more popular than the books alone had been. Emily was perpetually at two or less hearts, but she was able to make a living.
One evening, Alabaster found Emily passed out on the front steps of her house. Alabaster roused her. “Is it the baby?”
She shook her head, but she could not speak.
“I fear that you are not eating enough. I can plainly see that you’ve let your hearts get too low.” Alabaster gave her a can of PioneerAde from his inventory. “Drink.”
“I have a pain that exists only in my head,” she said, once some of her vitality had been restored. “I have had it my whole life. But when I feel that pain, I am incapacitated by it, and I am certain that I can’t go on.”
Alabaster studied Emily. “I think it is your glasses. They are far too small for your face. You should go see the optometrist.”
“Does Friendship even have one?”
“Yes, her name is Dr. Daedalus, and her shop is a few doors down from your own. I’m surprised you didn’t notice it before.”
NEW OPTOMETRIST ACCEPTS INTERESTING TRADES
In the morning, Emily called on Dr. Edna Daedalus, whose office was, indeed, three doors down from Friendship Books, Etc. Dr. Daedalus was occupied with another patient, so Emily passed the time browsing. In addition to eyeglasses, the office carried a variety of glass objects in vivid colors: sculptural whimsies and more practical glassware as well. Emily picked up a miniature crystal horse to examine it more closely.
“Naaaayyyy.” Emily started at the braying sound. She discovered the noise derived from the doctor. “She likes you,” Dr. Daedalus said.
“Madame, this simulacrum bears an uncanny resemblance to my horse, Pixel,” Emily said. “She is the precise shade of azure.”
“It is your horse, though she never told me her name. She is always waiting outside your shop. Your horse and I, we’re quite good friends,” Dr. Daedalus said. “Pixel, you say? Is that P-I-X-L-E?”
“No. P-I-X-E-L. You are an artist, Dr. Daedalus,” Emily averred. She carefully returned the horse to the menagerie.
“I amuse myself,” she said. “My main occupation, of course, is the fabrication of lenses. I assume that’s why you’re here.”
Emily looked at Dr. Daedalus. They were dressed identically, in the wardrobe typical of Friendship merchants: black skirt, white blouse with black tie. Dr. Daedalus was shorter than Emily, and her skin was pale and cast with undertones of verdigris. Her curly hair was the indigo black of comic book characters, and her round eyes, beneath her round glasses, were emerald and large. To depict her, Emily thought, I would require a great many circles. “Your eyes remind me of someone I used to know,” Emily observed. “Where do you come from?”
“Isn’t that the one question we’re never supposed to ask each other around here?” Dr. Daedalus said.
“I forget myself! Of course, we were both born on the day we arrived in Friendship!”
Dr. Daedalus led Emily to the back office, where the doctor had Emily read the eye chart and then she shined a slim flashlight in Emily’s eyes.
“May I ask the origin of your horse’s name?” Dr. Daedalus inquired. “I have never heard the name Pixel before.”
“It’s a portmanteau of my own devising. A combination of pixie and axle,” Emily said. “Pixel is fast to turn and light on her feet.”
“Pixel,” the doctor repeated. “How clever. I thought it had something to do with a tiny picture.”
“I’ve invented the word,” Emily said. “But you may invent the second meaning, if you wish.”
“Thank you,” the doctor said. “To restate. Pixel. Definition One: Noun. An animal that is fleet of foot. Definition Two: Also, noun. The smallest portion of an image on a screen.”
“What is a ‘screen’？” Emily asked.
“It is my own term for a length of land. It’s very useful, so I’m hoping to force it into a broader parlance. For example, your house in the Upper Foglands is three screens from Alabaster Brown’s house.”
Emily and the doctor smiled at each other, as if they had a secret.
They did have a secret. The secret was the delight one feels when discovering a person who speaks one’s native tongue.
“Are you and Alabaster friends?”
“I know of them,” Dr. Daedalus said. “Your prescription is incorrect. I question if these glasses could have possibly been made for you. They seem as if they came from a menu of preset, aesthetic options, and glasses should never be obtained this way. Even considering that women experience vision changes during pregnancy, you will need a new pair.” The doctor paused. “You are pregnant, aren’t you?”
“No,” Emily said. “What makes you say that?”
“My apologies, then! I shouldn’t have assumed.”
Emily laughed. “I am indeed eight months pregnant. Whatever that means in Friendship.”
“Is time different here?”
“I think you know that it is.”
“Give me a couple of days—”
“Whatever days are.”
“Give me a couple of days to fabricate a new pair of glasses. We’ll have you seeing all the pixels in no time.”
“Is this proper usage of ‘pixel’？” Emily admonished.
“I believe so. In this context, to see all the pixels means to have fine vision.”