Furthermore(75)

“So,” Isal said abruptly, “you are looking for a painter.”

“Yes,” Oliver said, startled. “How did you know?”

Isal narrowed her eyes at Oliver like he might be a bit bent in the head. “Your friend is missing an arm.”

“Right,” he said quickly. “Right, of course.”

“And you are certain,” Isal said, “that this is the one piece of information you seek? There is no greater question you’d care to ask?”

Alice’s heart kicked into gear. She looked frantically at Oliver. Would this be their only chance to ask for help? Shouldn’t they use it to ask about Father?

“Oliver,” she said, “don’t you think—”

“This is not your decision,” Isal said swiftly. She gave Alice a look that was not exactly unkind, but a bit cold. “It’s not your Tibbin to interfere.”

“But—”

“I’m certain,” Oliver said firmly. “We need to get her arm fixed.”

“Oliver, please—”

“We can still do both,” he said to her, taking her only hand. “I promise, Alice. We’ll find a way. Even if we have to start all over again. But before we do anything else, you’re getting your arm back.”

Alice swallowed hard. She was nearly in tears.

“Very good,” Isal said. “Your solution is simple. Pick any painting”—she gestured to her walls—“and step inside.”

Oliver’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s all?”

Isal nodded.

Alice and Oliver looked at each other, faces breaking into smiles, relief flooding through their veins.

“Alright,” Oliver said, grinning up to his ears. He looked over the paintings. “How about—oh, I don’t know—how’s this one?” he said to Alice.

Isal stepped in front of him. “Choose wisely,” she said. “If the painter refuses to let you enter his home, you will remain here,” she said, touching the canvas, “in the painting of your choosing.”

“What?” said Oliver.

“For how long?” said Alice.

“Forever,” Isal said.

Sudden horror buckled Alice’s knees.

“What do you mean?” Oliver demanded. “What nonsense is this? Why didn’t you tell us there was a catch before you gave us our answer? You said the solution was simple,” he said, his neck going red with anger.

“It is not my job to protect you from the consequences of your own questions,” Isal said unkindly. “You wanted to know how to find a painter. I told you how to find one. My duty is done.”

“But—”

Suddenly the ground groaned and the walls shook; just outside the window a storm of yellow leaves had thrown itself against the glass. Alice knew instantly that it was a sign. Those were the leaves Isal had left behind, and now they’d come to find her.

“They’re here,” Isal said softly, staring at nothing as she spoke. And in the time it took Alice and Oliver to catch their breath, there were four knocks at the door: one for every set of knuckles, which meant four people were waiting outside.

Alice knew they wouldn’t be polite for very long.

Isal grabbed her cloak. “Choose wisely,” she whispered. “Choose wisely, and good luck.”





Oliver met Alice’s eyes in a sudden panic, and she knew there was no time to deliberate. She took Oliver’s hand, scanned the frames for a scene that reminded her most of home and love and Father, and pushed their clasped hands through the painting.

It really was that simple.

Their bodies were sucked through by a force Alice could not name, and soon they were pulled and pushed through a tightness that squeezed their chests until she was sure they would burst, and when Alice next opened her eyes, she and Oliver were standing in what looked like an ancient prison cell; it smelled like mold and rust, the ceiling so low Oliver was forced to stoop.

The two of them didn’t even have a chance to panic before a slim panel in the wall was forced open, letting a slice of light slip through. Alice squinted against the brightness.

“What’s your business?” a voice barked at them. It sounded distinctly male, but there was no way to be certain.

“I-I’ve come to fix my arm,” said Alice nervously. “I heard you were a p—”

“Which arm is it?” the stranger snapped.

“My right.”

The man grunted, but said no more.

“Please,” she said. “Please help us—”

The panel slammed shut.

Alice was nearly in tears with worry.

This was their last chance, and she didn’t know what they’d do if the painter didn’t allow them clearance to pass. And no sooner had she begun to wonder whether the painter wouldn’t simply leave them in that cell to die, when one of the cell walls swung open, and she and Oliver were ejected unceremoniously into a foot of fresh snow.

Once she shook the snow out of her eyes, Alice tried to take in their surroundings; but no matter how many times she blinked, she couldn’t get the colors to come into focus. The trouble was, there were no colors here at all.

It was like a scene clipped from a newspaper and made whole unto itself. They were in the middle of an eerily flat, snowy landscape, not a single tree in sight, and every shade and shadow was a variation on white and black. Compared to this world, Alice was practically neon, and her whiteness seemed suddenly nuanced, layered: its own kind of color. Where she and Oliver felt real and full of life, everything in this world looked drab and dim and, frankly, a little dead. It was as though all color had been snuffed out, sapped of life, and in its place were gray skies, gray wind, gray cold. Before them and beyond them was absolutely nothing, save one single, solitary structure: