Furthermore(22)

“He’s not broken,” Oliver said, shaking his head at the clouds. “Just come here and look,” he said. “For heaven’s sake.”

“Oh, alright,” she said, cheeks stinging. It was hard for Alice to like Oliver—on account of she didn’t like him very much—but she wanted to find Father much more than she didn’t like Oliver, so she’d have to put up with him. And so she wandered closer, close enough to peer into his box.

Inside, was a door.

Alice gasped again.

“Yes, it’s very clever, isn’t it?” Oliver said. “But the journey will cost us a great deal—”

“Oh I haven’t any money,” Alice said. “I spent my last fink on a dillypop.”

“—of time.”

“Right, yes, time.” Alice cleared her throat.

“Once we step through,” Oliver said, “it will be very difficult to come back. We might be gone for very long.”

“As long as a caterpillar?” she asked, one eyebrow arched as she pinched the sky. “Or as long as an ocean?” She threw her arms wide.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Last time I was gone for a year.”

“A whole year?” Alice said, dropping her arms. “That’s where you’ve been all this time? Trying to find Father?”

He nodded.

Alice sat down.

She reached for a daisy without looking, plucking it from the ground only to stuff it in her mouth. “So where does it lead?” she asked, staring into the distance as she chewed. “The door?”

Oliver sighed.

Alice squinted up at him, shading her eyes against the rainbows. Finally, he placed the box on the ground and sat down beside her. “It goes to Furthermore.”

Alice laughed, mouth half full of daisy. “Oh, go on,” she said. “Really. Tell me where it goes.”

“It goes to Furthermore,” he said firmly.

“But—” Alice faltered.

Oliver raised an eyebrow.

“But, no,” Alice said slowly, quietly. “I thought—everyone thought—” She hesitated. “Oliver, Furthermore isn’t real.”

“Your father thought it was. He was tasked to Furthermore when he was your age, didn’t you know? He wasn’t just mapping Ferenwood, Alice. He was making maps of all magical places. He was doing work far more important than anyone in Ferenwood’s ever done.” Oliver tapped his bag twice. “Your father’s maps saved my life countless times.”

Alice’s eyes had gone round as plates. Alice hadn’t known any of this. (Had Mother known about this?) Father, the town, and the Elders—they’d kept these truths from her. And even though she’d always hoped, always wanted to believe there was something more out there—another magical place in the world—now that the actual possibility was staring her in the face, she wasn’t sure how to believe it. (Still—and perhaps unfortunately—Alice knew that Oliver spoke the truth, which made it inconvenient for her to incline toward disbelief.)

“What’s it like?” she whispered. “Furthermore?”

Oliver looked away, but not before Alice saw a flash of nervousness flit in and out of his eyes. “There’s a reason we don’t talk about it,” was all he said.

Alice gasped, finally understanding.

“Oh, Oliver,” she said. “Is it dangerous? Has Father gotten himself into trouble?”

Oliver turned to face her, determined now. He nodded at the box between them. “Are you willing to find out?”

Alice looked into the box and the tiny door it held. She thought of fear and she thought of courage; she thought of home and hope and the chance for adventure.

She thought of Mother.

Mother, who wouldn’t miss her; three brothers, who never knew her; and Father, who always loved her.

Alice had nothing left to lose and an entire father to find.

There it was: For the very second time, she knew what she was meant to do. So she reached inside and turned the knob.





Alice peered into the open doorway and saw nothing at all.

“There doesn’t appear to be anything inside,” she told Oliver, rattling the box a little. “I think maybe you’ve got the wrong door.”

“There is nothing the matter with my door.” Oliver snatched the box away from her, setting it down a few feet away. “You must step inside a world to see it honestly. A passing glance won’t do.”

She wanted to say something unkind to Oliver, but decided instead to study him awhile, curiouser and curiouser about this boy with the mouth of a liar and hair the color of silver herring. She noticed then that he wore a quiet tunic with no adornments. It was not very stylish. In fact, it had little to recommend it but its hue. It was the color of an unripe eggplant.

Oliver noticed her staring and began to fidget. “Well?” he said.

“Are you certain the door is the only way to get in?” Alice asked. “Perhaps there’s a window, something that would give us a quick peek—”

“Are you going to question everything I say?” Oliver asked, his arms flailing about. “Is this how it’ll be the entire time?” He caught a passing butterfly and whispered in its ear. “I should snip my head off right now, shouldn’t I?”