Worlds of Ink and Shadow (8 page)

“I've been to school, you see.” Charlotte's gray eyes seemed to plead with her, but Emily didn't know for what. “I've socialized with other people. They're not like us. We're odd. We have opinions. We've been overeducated in some things and under-educated in others. Once we leave the parsonage, we'll never truly find another home.”

Emily's heart sank at these words, though she knew they were true. The idea of leaving the parsonage and the moor had always been a chilling one for her. “Is this why you brought me here? To tell me things I already know?”

Charlotte frowned. When she spoke again, her voice was hardly audible above the factory din. “Emily, knowing what's ahead of us, how do you bear it all?”

Emily felt a chill of annoyance filter through her. “How do we ordinary folk, with no fantastical worlds to escape to, manage to survive the banality of daily life? Is that what you are asking?”

Charlotte cast her eyes to her feet. “Yes. I suppose it is.”

“Anne and I survive because daily life is all you left us with,” Emily said crisply. “You banished us, as I recall.”

Charlotte looked up. “Banished? Is that how you feel?” She seemed surprised, though Emily didn't know how she could be.

A horse-drawn wagon came rattling toward them, and the girls had to squeeze up against the stone parapet to let it pass. The driver raised his hat to them as he went by.

“Keep that little lass out of trouble now, miss,” he said to Emily with a wink.

She was mortified to be winked at by a stranger, but the fact that he had obviously mistaken Charlotte for a small child made it much worse. She glanced at her sister, but Charlotte only set her face to stone, as if her outward appearance was just another cross she had to bear, and not the heaviest one at that. Emily felt a sting of pity for her. The wagon turned into the mill yard, joining others bringing raw wool and lumber or leaving with dyed cloth and yarn.

“It was for your own good,” Charlotte said. “Keeping you from the invented worlds.”

The warmth Emily had been feeling for her sister iced over. “My own good. Is that so?”

“How bitter you sound. I always hoped you would find other pursuits to take the place of crossing over with us.”

Emily's anger rose. “And what pursuits do you think could
take the place of going to the moon, Charlotte? Or to Ali Baba's palace, or Lilliput? I was one of the Genii, flying over the land on my satin pillow, and now I'm . . . I'm nobody.”

Charlotte shook her head. “I'm sorry. I truly am.”

“Don't apologize, teach me. Show me. How can I make a world of my own?”

Charlotte's eyes widened, and she grasped Emily by the arm. “Don't even say that. It would be the greatest mistake of your life!”

“You may think you are acting in my best interest,” Emily said, pulling away from her touch. She turned away so as not to see Charlotte's face as she went on. “But a part of me will always loathe you for keeping the invented worlds to yourself.”

There was a long pause. It was a shocking thing to say, but Emily fought the urge to take it back, fought the urge to look over at her sister. She felt a hand touch her arm gently.

“It wasn't an accident that Papa found that paper, was it?” Charlotte asked quietly. “You left it for him to find.”

Emily continued to stare fixedly at the water, knowing that if she met her sister's gaze she might start to cry, and then all her anger would dissipate. She wanted to keep her anger a while longer.

“Yes. I did.” She had wanted to see her sister scolded but had gotten no satisfaction from it. “I did, and I'm not sorry.”

“I suppose you felt I deserved it.”

Emily bit her lip. Guilt was such an inconvenient
emotion. “Oh, why won't you at least do me the courtesy of losing your temper?” Tears did come to her eyes now, just as she'd known they would. “It was a wicked thing to do. I know it was.”

“It was for the best,” Charlotte said. She was being maddeningly calm. “It did me good to see my writing through Papa's eyes.”

“How can you say that? He thinks your stories are childish, and they are anything but. Now they are coming to an end, all your beautiful words, and it's my fault!”

“It's not,” Charlotte assured her. “I think I would have stopped writing at any rate.”

Emily pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and noticed that it was one of the ones Charlotte had given her for Christmas with little roses embroidered on it. “Oh! I'm a terrible person, I know I am.” She used the handkerchief to blot the corners of her eyes. “It's only . . .” She considered telling her sister about Gondal, about how she longed for it, but she was afraid words could never do her world justice.

Charlotte gazed at her in silence for a while. She wore the same puzzled expression that she did when trying to translate a particularly complicated passage from the French. “Would it help if you were allowed to say good-bye to Verdopolis?” she asked finally.

Emily froze. “What do you mean?” Hope fluttered in her stomach, but she couldn't allow herself to believe that her sister was talking about letting her cross over.

“The truth is that Branwell wants me to write one more story. An ending. A final farewell. I think perhaps I should accommodate him. And . . . it occurs to me that since you and Anne were there at the beginning of that place, you should be there at the end.”

Emily felt her heart lurch. “Do you mean . . . Are you saying that you will let us go with you again?”
I'm going to see Rogue
, she thought, and for one moment her whole body seemed to float.

“Don't excite yourself, now, for heaven's sake! It's only the one time.”

Emily tried to make her face as serene as her sister's, terrified lest she change her mind. “Don't excite myself,” she repeated. “How can I not?”

Charlotte took her hand and squeezed it, and Emily felt the warmth of her through their thin summer gloves. “Listen to me, Emily. This is important. If the four of us cross over again, I need you to promise that you will be content with the ending I create. I need you to promise that you will not beg for more.”

“Anything,” Emily said, a giddy laugh escaping her. “Anything, anything!”

“And most of all, I need you to promise you will not try to discover how Branwell and I are able to cross over. That is a secret that must be left alone.”

“Of course,” Emily said quickly. “I promise.”

CHARLOTTE

A
FTER MONTHS AT SEA, TWELVE ADVENTURERS
were shipwrecked on the coast of Africa. The land was beautiful and fertile, and so they planted flags and claimed it for England. With the help of the four Genii, they built the city of Glasstown on the very spot where their ship had come to rest.

I hope I'm doing the right thing
, Charlotte thought.

She was sitting on a chair in the bedroom she shared with Emily. Her two younger sisters sat on the bed, holding hands, unable to hide the excitement shining in their eyes. The Brontë siblings had waited three days for the perfect time to cross over. It was rare to have the house to themselves, but today Tabby was visiting her sister and Papa had taken Aunt Branwell into
Keighley. Branwell was writing his own story in the next room, but, by mutual agreement, the two stories would converge at the party.

“Now remember,” Charlotte said, “no event can be revised in Verdopolis—no dead characters resurrected, no ruined ladies unruined. Branwell and I have tried many times but to no avail. The plot can be directed, of course—must be, in fact—but once an event happens, it has happened for good and all.”

“We know,” Emily insisted. “We've been to the worlds before, remember.”

“Ah,” Charlotte said. “That brings me to another point.”

Emily groaned. Charlotte knew that she was being a bit insufferable, but she couldn't help it. Now that the moment had finally arrived, she was feeling protective of Verdopolis. She felt as if she were letting a precious glass bauble into the hands of two children who wanted to play catch with it.

“As I was saying. The last time you were in Verdopolis, you were there as one of the Genii, the great creators, but magical entities don't figure in Verdopolis anymore, except as part of ancient history. Now our stories are more realistic, and we must play characters. The two of you will need to decide who you might be. Take some time now—”

“I know who I will be,” Emily interjected.

“As do I,” Anne said quietly.

Charlotte hoped they'd given the matter enough thought. “I see . . . There are only a few more things . . .”

“For heaven's sake!” Emily cried. “Papa and Aunt Branwell will be back in a few hours.”

“I'm sorry,” Charlotte said. “It's just . . . I've loved this world. I want to give it a perfect ending.”

“You will,” Emily assured her. “Your stories are always perfect. Isn't that right, Anne?”

For a moment Charlotte thought Anne could not have heard, for she only stared straight ahead, frozen, like Jasper Pheasant when he's seen the cat.

“Isn't that right, Anne?” Emily repeated, poking her sister in the side.

Anyone else would simply nod her head, but Charlotte saw that for Anne this would be a falsehood. She did not think Charlotte's stories were perfect.

“I see,” Charlotte said, trying not to sound icy. “Well, I hope I shall always welcome literary criticism.”

Anne glanced around the room as if looking for an escape. Finally she fixed her eyes to her knees and whispered, “It's nothing, really. It's just . . . I suppose I've always wished your writings were a little more . . . true, Charlotte.” She was blushing very red now.

This came so close to Charlotte's unspoken fears about her own work that she felt her eyes widen in surprise. “What do you mean by true?” she asked, but Anne's only answer was to shake her head.

“Anne has mentioned that she wishes your stories took place
closer to home,” Emily said hesitantly. “After all, we don't actually know anything about Africa, and it doesn't figure much in the story, except that it never snows and there are palm trees.”

“I know one thing about Africa,” Anne said, finding her voice. “There are Africans in it—but in Verdopolis they only appear when Branwell wants to have a war. That seems . . . well, I can't put my finger on it, but it doesn't seem . . . Oh dear, I wish I hadn't begun this line of thought.” She dropped her head again. “Please ignore me.”

“You shouldn't have mentioned it,” Emily hissed. “What can Charlotte do about it now?”

“Not at all. The point is well taken,” Charlotte said, but her little sister's words rankled. She herself had chosen Africa as a location long ago, mostly because it was far away and warm. She'd been a child then and had given little thought to it, but it occurred to her now that perhaps she had no business writing about a place she'd never seen and knew little about.

She stood up and inserted herself between her two sisters on the bed, cutting off any further discussion. “Very well, then. Are we ready? Each of you hold onto an arm.” She forced a brightness into her voice that she didn't quite feel. Her sisters took her arms.

“At last,” Emily said.

“You won't be able to get home by yourself, of course. You'll need Branwell or me to cross you over again—and we must be touching you.”

“We know. We know everything. Hurry!” said Emily, bouncing a little with barely contained glee.

Charlotte closed her eyes, trying to push aside a feeling of unease. She had said she wanted the end of Verdopolis to be perfect, but now, after Anne's criticisms, she had a strange presentiment that it would not be. She reminded herself that she was the world's creator; its ending would be what she willed it to be.

“
All the party guests had arrived
,” she murmured. “
Young Lord Charles moved from group to group unnoticed, listening to men talk about Verdopolitan politics, admiring the ladies' clothes, their long necks, the nets of jewels in their hair.
”

Without opening her eyes, she knew that the room had grown brighter. The door was here—at least, she and Branwell had always called it a door. It wasn't something they went through, though; it was something that went through them. She held out her hand, palm upward. Immediately she knew that it was coming, and she braced herself. It always felt as if some great maw was rushing toward her, to swallow her up.
This is the worst part
, she thought.

“This is the best part,” she heard Emily whisper.

Charlotte felt a moment of sheer terror, knowing it was upon her, and then—
whump
—it was over.

“
He slipped into a small salon decorated in green and gold
,” she said, “
where a fire danced in a carved malachite fireplace. Two guests came in with him to take refuge from the noise and bustle of the party.
”

Charlotte opened her eyes. A thrill ran up her sides and
all the way down her arms. She was here. She was home. She examined her boy's body, smoothing down the blue suit and touching the lace frill at her throat. Charles Albert Florian Wellesley, her other self. Everything seemed to be right. Next to her was the Countess Zenobia, Alexander Rogue's wife, which was rather odd. She wouldn't have been invited to the party.

“Why, it's young Charles,” the countess said, setting a gloved hand on the fireplace and looking down at Charlotte with a bored smile.

She wore a velvet gown in her signature color—blood red. A black feather drooped from her pert French chapeau. Charlotte's eyes widened as the realization dawned: This was Emily.

“Absolutely not,” Charlotte said.

Everything about the Red Countess—from her bare white arms to her tiny corseted waist to her seductive, heavy-lidded gaze—seemed to radiate a knowledge of things a sixteen-year-old parson's daughter should have no knowledge of.