Furthermore(34)

“But—”

“I’m so sorry, Alice, but now we really must be going. We’ve already used up a great deal of time and any more than this would be a waste. I promise I’ll answer more of your questions when there’s time to spare.”

“Alright,” she whispered, staring at their clasped hands. But then—“Can I ask just one more question?”

Oliver sighed and smiled. “Yes?”

“Is Father in very great danger?”

Oliver’s smile wavered, and he would not answer immediately. He looked away before he spoke, and when he did, he only said, “It’s so good that you’ve come, Alice. We’ve needed you.”

“We?”

“Yes,” said Oliver. “Your father and I.”

Shock shook her.

“You’ve seen him?” Alice asked, grabbing Oliver’s shirt. “You’ve seen him?” She nearly burst into tears. “Oh, you’ve seen him, please tell me you’ve seen him—”

“I—” Oliver said, swallowing hard. “That is—I mean, yes, I have.”

“How was he? Did he look healthy? Did he say anything to you?”

“Yes,” Oliver said. The stars were so bright behind him. The sky, so dark. “He spoke to me, but—only once.”

“And?” Alice was impatient now. Terrified. Horrified. So happy. “What did he say?”

Oliver looked down. “He told me to find you.”





Alice stared at Oliver in stunned silence, just until the clouds shook and the moons flickered and the stars swayed in the sky. The air was changing, and Oliver noticed.

He was in a hurry to get moving, but she was still numb, somehow. Still trying to process everything she couldn’t understand.

Father had asked for her.

Oh, it made her very knees tremble. It made her miss him more than ever. More in every moment.

But then Oliver pulled a vial out of his pocket, and curiosity pushed her back into the present.

“What’s that for?” she asked.

“The sky has something we need,” he said, “so we must give it something it wants.”

“What could a sky possibly want?” Alice wrapped her arms about herself and fought back a shiver as she spoke. She was suddenly cold. “That seems silly.”

“Don’t be absurd,” he said, surprised. “Everything wants something.”

And with that, he uncorked the vial and poured its contents upside down. It was too dark for her to see.

“It’s dirt,” Oliver said, answering her silent question. “This stretch of sky,” he said, gesturing to the air around them, “will never touch the ground. It’s a prisoner, all alone, stuck here forever, always gazing down upon the land, always estranged from all the excitement.”

Alice had never considered a lonely sky. It was a new thought for her, and she wanted to explore it, but then the wind snapped like a crack of lightning, and Alice and Oliver looked toward the sound. A book hung in the air, big and brown and leather-bound, and Oliver snatched it out of the sky, grabbing Alice’s hand in the process. Without a wink or a warning (or a sentence to spare on the matter), she and Oliver were sent crashing down. The weight of the book made them heavy; and though they fell far and hit the ground hard, they were only slightly bruised and out of breath upon landing. Alice opened her eyes to find their limbs tangled together, and she hurried to unhook herself from Oliver, drooping sideways as she stood up. It took her a few moments to find her head. Strangest of all: She wasn’t dead.

“Why didn’t that kill us?” asked Alice, peering up at the sky. “We fell such a long way.”

Oliver shrugged, dusting the dirt off his pant legs. “Falling down would be a tragically boring way to die in Furthermore. They’d never stand for it.”

“Right,” said Alice, who wondered whether Oliver hadn’t gone a bit mad.

Once they’d both recovered their footing, they turned their eyes to their prize.

A pocketbook, Oliver had said.

But this was not that. And Alice told him so.

“What do you mean?” Oliver asked. “Of course this is a pocketbook. What else could it be?”

“A pocketbook is a ladies’ purse,” she said, tapping the book. “And this is not a ladies’ purse.”

“A ladies’ what?” Oliver asked, frowning. “See now, I haven’t the faintest idea what nonsense they’re teaching to young people these days”—Oliver cracked open the cover—“but this,” he said, “this is indeed a pocketbook.”

And so it was.

It was a book. Where every page had a different pocket.

Alice reached out, amazed, to touch one of the pockets, and Oliver jerked the book away from her.

“What are you doing?” he asked, horrified.

“I just wanted to—”

“One does not simply reach into a pocket!”

“Why not?”

“What do you mean, why not?” Oliver looked absolutely ashamed of her. “What kind of manners were you raised with?”

“Hey,” she said, stomping one foot. “That’s not fair. I have very good manners.”

“Oh? And your mother taught you to go digging in other people’s pockets, then?”