The Fandom(58)

‘Oh God,’ Nate says. ‘You’ve fallen for the wrong guy. I knew this was going to happen. The stupid way you gawp at him.’

‘No . . . no . . . it’s just . . .’ I process the end of his sentence. ‘I gawp at him?’

‘Look, sis, you’re Cinderella, and Willow’s Prince Charming and Ash is . . .’

‘Buttons,’ I say. This analogy keeps popping into my brain, especially with the ball so fresh in my memory.

‘Yes. Bloody Buttons.’

‘Nate, don’t swear.’

He shakes his head, irritated. ‘Cinderella does not end up with Buttons. She marries the prince and lives in a palace and – and – she hangs at the Gallows Dance so we can all go home.’

‘OK, OK.’ I roll on to my back again, indicating the end of the conversation.

‘Just forget about Ash,’ Nate says. ‘Focus on what really matters, and quit flapping those wings of yours.’

I know he’s right. I just need to stick to the script – play it safe. And what kind of a shit fairy tale has the princess falling for the butler, anyway? But Cinderella always was my favourite fairy tale, and I’ve always had a soft spot for the underdog.

‘Night, Vi,’ Nate whispers, even though it’s late morning.

‘Yeah, night. Sweet dreams.’

‘You too.’

But when I finally fall asleep, my dreams are anything but sweet. I’m kneeling – bent double – over these stone flags, scrubbing at a hearth which is covered in red paint. I dip my scrubbing brush in a pail, slop water on the paint, and I scrub and scrub and scrub. But the red won’t budge. And then I hear a voice narrating my favourite fairy tale. It sounds like Dad. Poor Cinderella desperately wanted to go to the ball, but her evil stepmother would not allow it. I wipe a giant tear from my cheek, leaving a crimson smudge across my skin. The narrator changes his tone, like he talks to someone off stage. I feel kind of silly, are you sure she can hear me? I hear a woman’s voice. Yes. I’m sure. Carry on.

I can smell medicine and washing powder and aftershave and coffee. Poor Cinderella cried all night, dreaming of waltzing and shimmering ball gowns. I look up from my scrubbing. ‘Dad?’ I shout. ‘Dad? Where are you?’ I stand, knocking over the pail, its contents spilling on to the floor. But it isn’t water – it’s just more of that damned red paint. A noise draws my attention, a smothered groan mixed with squelching like oozing liquid. I look up, and that’s when I notice them for the first time – strewn across the beams like in some disgusting slasher movie. A paper chain of dead Imps, dripping blood on to my floor.

I look at my hands. They’re covered in blood and they hold a noose.

I wake, choking on a scream.

In three days, I will hang.

I lower myself from my bunk, careful not to wake Nate, and cross to the sink. It’s dusk, and I console myself with the thought that I at least slept for most of the day. Tentatively, I rinse my face with the cold, brown-flecked water. These dreams . . . they seem so real. Sometimes I wonder if this is the dream and real-Violet lies asleep in bed. But the water stinging my skin feels too cold, and the pain in my back from sleeping on a block of wood feels too intense, and the early evening chatter of the Day-Imps as they leave and the Night-Imps as they arrive sounds far too cowed and subdued to be generated by my unconscious. It’s just too lifelike, too coherent, too detailed. Shame, I think to myself.

Saskia’s voice cuts through me. ‘We got word from headquarters.’

I turn around, my face still dripping with icy water. She looks at a tattered envelope in her hand as though debating whether to give it to me or not. She sighs, her conscience finally winning the battle, and slaps it against my chest. ‘It’s from your little ginger mate.’

‘Katie?’

‘Don’t pretend you got more mates than you have, of course Katie.’

‘Is she OK?’

‘Read the bloody letter.’

I dash to my bunk and pull the divider back into position again, cocooned in my own little world. Please let her be OK, please let her be OK. I can’t open the envelope fast enough, yet my fingers seem to be on a go-slow, trembling and stumbling over the seal. I slip the letter out, trying not to tear it in my desperation.

A page of Katie’s handwriting. I love it – it’s an extension of her, neat and small with a bit of an edge. I’m used to seeing it scribbled across a notebook in English lessons, sentences like, Will this bloody lesson ever end? I’m starving! What I wouldn’t give for a Nando’s right now! It’s so peculiar, seeing that same writing stare at me from a sheet of crinkled, ancient parchment while I hide behind a dirty sheet. I steady my hands and start to read.

Vi,

Thorn said I should write to you. He thinks it will help keep you focused on your mission. At the very least, it’s something for me to do. Christ, I am soooo bored. I’m still in that horrible little room, although Thorn gave me a knackered old sofa and helped me clean the window so I can watch the sunset, so it isn’t AS bad.

I wish I could somehow help. I feel so bloody useless stuck here day and night. And I’ve started eating the rat stew – you’re right, it tastes OK. Who knew? Anyway, I was trying to think if there was anything I could do to help, other than Alice’s suggestion, and I decided the only thing I can offer are some words of infinite wisdom. Sadly, they’re not my own.