Furthermore(43)

She mentioned this to Oliver.

“That’s not strange,” he said. “Eventually you’ll stop being hungry ever again.”

“Really?” she asked him. “But why?”

“Because the longer you stay in Furthermore, the farther you get from Ferenwood.”

“I don’t understand,” she said.

Oliver hesitated. Tilted his head.

“Back home in Ferenwood,” he explained, “we have to sleep every night and eat frequently throughout the day, don’t we?”

Alice nodded.

“Right. So, life without those two things,” he said, “would be impossible.”

“But not in Furthermore?”

Oliver shook his head. “In Furthermore you sleep for the dream and eat for the taste.”

Alice hesitated, considering his words.

“So when they eat people,” she said, “they do it only for the taste?”

Oliver was so caught off guard by her question that he laughed and coughed at the same time. “Well—no,” he said. “Not exactly. I have heard that humans have a very particular taste, and that the magical ones give the meals an extra kick”—Alice shuddered at the thought—“but,” Oliver said, holding a finger up in the air, “they eat people because their souls are empty, not their stomachs.

“Here, hunger and exhaustion don’t exist the way they do back home. The infrastructure of Furthermore was built with so much magic as to make the very air we breathe work differently—it makes it so food and sleep are no longer a necessity, but a luxury. It was an irreversible decadence that magically bankrupted the land. Now people can indulge in dinners and dreams only in the pursuit of pleasure. Because doing so for any other reason,” he said simply, “is considered a waste of—”

“—time,” she finished for him.

Oliver stopped walking and looked at her. He nodded slowly. “Yes.” He smiled, just a little. “You seem to be catching on.”

“You think so?” she said. “I don’t think so.”

“No?”

“No,” Alice said. “I don’t think I’m catching on at all. I haven’t the faintest idea why we need to meet Time, not a clue what it has to do with the pocketbook, and not the tiniest inkling what any of this has to do with finding Father.” She sighed. “Oliver,” she said, “I have never been more confused in all my life.”

Oliver looked worried for only a moment before his worries danced away. He laughed, which made him look lovely; and then he charged ahead, whistling a tune she could not place.





Finally.

They stood in front of a door attached to no house (this seemed to be commonplace in Furthermore), and Oliver was looking nervous. Alice couldn’t understand why—it was just a door, after all, and very similar to the one they had encountered at Border Control—though this one was even bigger, and much taller, and bright red and shiny as an apple, with a fancy handle made of gold. It was a beautiful door, but its secrets must’ve been contained somewhere she could not see, because on the other side of the door was nothing but trees.

She took a moment to inspect it.

“Where—Alice, where are on earth are you going?” Oliver said.

“I just want to look around,” she said. “It’s only right that I have a chance to see what we’re getting ourselves into, isn’t it?”

Oliver threw his hands up in defeat. And then he leaned against the door frame, crossed his arms, and nodded, as if to say, Please, by all means, take a good look.

So she did.

They were right at the edge of the woods now and surrounded on every side by very, very tall trees whose densely packed, triangle-shaped leaves were a shade of green so dark she had to squint to see their silhouettes. But when she tiptoed farther into the forest, Oliver panicked.

“Not in there,” he said, pleading. “Not—Alice—”

“Why?” She glanced back. The look on his face, really. “What’s the matter?”

“Not in the forest,” he said quietly. “Please, Alice.”

“Oh very well.” Alice relented and tried not to roll her eyes, thinking of how gracious, how patient and tolerant she was of Oliver’s whining, and turned to leave. But then—

Well, it was strange.

She couldn’t move.

She didn’t want to alarm Oliver, so she didn’t say a word, and anyway she was sure she’d just gotten her skirts caught on a branch or some such. It certainly felt that way.

Maybe if she tugged a little harder?

Hm.

No, that wasn’t working either.

She tried again.

Finally, she cleared her throat. “Oliver?” she said loudly. “I appear to be stuck.”

“What do you mean?” Oliver was in front of her in an instant, paler than a wax moon, but careful to maintain his distance.

“Oh, it’s nothing to worry about,” she assured him. “Really.” She tried to smile. “It’s just that”—she tried tugging—“I can’t seem to”—she tugged again—“get free.” She sighed. “Will you see if my skirts are caught on something?”

Oliver went even paler. He was such a little turtle sometimes, his neck disappearing into his chest. “I told you not to go in the forest,” was all he managed to whisper.