The Fandom(60)

I try not to look too interested, my curiosity roused. ‘But I’m meeting—’

He laughs. ‘You’re meeting Willow.’

‘Yeah.’

‘OK, then after you’ve met Willow. I’ll wait next to the chicken coop. Promise you’ll come. But don’t tell anyone, OK? It’s really important it stays between us.’

I think of that bastard butterfly, inadvertently spreading her natural disasters. I think of the canon and of home, and Katie’s letter feels like it’s burning a hole in my skin. A few unscripted conversations, the odd innocent stroll, well, I can justify those, surely. But a secret night-time unveiling? I may as well give the butterfly a baseball bat and let the havoc commence.

But when Ash trickles his fingers down the backs of my arms, he leaves two parallel trails of light, and before I can stop myself, I’ve already said the words: ‘I promise.’

Later that night, I meet Willow. It’s the scene in canon where Willow taught Rose to read. A sweet, tender scene which showed their fledgling relationship really starting to fly. Willow smuggled this ancient book out of the manor. He’d stolen it from a museum when he was just a boy and kept it hidden under his bed. A book of Imp poems, one of the few to survive the Gem burning of the Imp books all those years ago.

The lovebirds huddled in the loft of the old hay barn, crouched over a paraffin lamp, running their fingers over the letters. I follow the script, cuddled into Willow’s chest, but I struggle to concentrate. Not just because I know how to read, but because I can’t stop thinking about what Ash said.

‘So the curly letter there, that’s a C,’ Willow whispers into my ear. It really tickles.

I nod, but my mind won’t stop turning. What does Ash think so important? There’s nothing in canon to give me any clue. I should probably just leave it, stick to canon and focus on my end goal – returning home.

‘Rose?’ Willow says.

‘Sorry, yes, C, like cup and card.’

‘That’s right.’ He turns the page, eyebrows raised, unable to hide his surprise at what a fast learner I am.

My mind wanders again. Why would this mysterious revelation make me think so badly of Willow? Surely that can only be a bad thing. I mean, I don’t need to like Willow to complete the story, but it kind of helps. No, I definitely shouldn’t go to the chicken coop tonight.

‘Rose, are you even interested?’ Willow says.

Shit. We’re off-script. I kiss him on the cheek to distract him. ‘Sorry, go ahead, what’s that letter there? The one shaped like a nought?’ Imps can read numbers because of their slave tattoos.

‘That’s an O. As in orange.’

We launch back into our lines, but my brain is elsewhere. I barely notice when Willow starts to kiss me. I’d forgotten about the making-out scene. It seemed so romantic – Rose and Willow nestled in the straw, basking in the flickering glow of a paraffin lamp. But in reality, the straw pricks my face and the lamp is a massive fire hazard, and I just feel guilty for kissing Willow when I’m thinking about Ash. I suddenly wish we were in a movie or a book, then I could just hit the fast-forward button or flick through the pages at record speed.

‘So, I’ll see you tomorrow?’ Willow asks.

‘I’d like that.’

Willow helps me down the wooden ladder, book tucked beneath his arm. I feel a swell of relief – the scene finally drawing to a close. I can’t believe I didn’t enjoy that. What’s my problem? It’s Willow for Christ’s sake. My fangirl crush since I was fifteen.

This place must be getting to me.

We share a final kiss, which is a little on the sloppy side, and I watch him meander back to the manor, his silhouette fading into the dark. I think I said my lines right; he certainly seemed happy enough. More than happy, I think he has genuine feelings for me. I guess this isn’t a script for him. It’s real.

And I think I’ve just figured out what my problem is. Love can’t be prescribed or thrust upon you. Love doesn’t follow a script. Falling in love is about falling into unpredictability – it’s about taking a risk.

And on that note, I run towards the chicken coop.





I see the flicker of Ash’s torch – like the beam of a dying lighthouse – before I see him. I move towards it until I can hear his breath. He leans against the coop, and I notice how monochrome he looks in the dark, the white of his skin against the black of his hair. I catch his scent on the breeze, weaving beneath the smell of creosote, and I inhale a little deeper.

‘I wasn’t sure you’d come.’ He whispers, even though there’s nobody else around.

‘You said it was important.’

‘It is.’ He shines the torch in my face. ‘But you have to promise not to tell a soul.’

‘Yeah, course.’

He moves the beam across my face, as though trying to see beneath my skin and into the contents of my head. ‘Because it could end up getting us both killed . . . I mean it.’

‘Shit, Ash. Just show me.’ I hate change, I hate surprises. I should be hiding in the Imp-hut practising my lines with Nate. Yet, being here with Ash, I find I actually want to take a risk – perhaps this universe is forcing me to let go a little, desensitizing me to all things new. Or maybe being with him just makes me feel safe enough to shut my eyes and jump. Maybe he brings out a different side to me . . . a better side.