A birthday party. Four candles on the cake. Bethany watched, dreamlike, as a bunch of little kids screamed and yelled, while a woman and a man corraled them all toward the table.
In front of the cake sat a little girl with bronze-colored hair, wearing a bright-blue dress and a huge smile.
“Daddy, watch!” she shouted, bending her head over the cake.
Then she pitched face-first straight into it, sending frosting, candles, and cake flying everywhere.
The man laughed, long and loudly as the girl in the blue dress pulled her head out of the cake and laughed too, wiping the frosting off her face with both hands, then shoving those hands into her mouth.
“That’s not how we eat cake!” the woman said, but smiled in spite of herself. “What about the other kids?”
“You heard her, kids!” the man said. “Go for it!”
One by one, the kids shoved their faces into the cake, taking away mouthfuls as they retreated for the next kid in line to have a turn. Cake and frosting ended up on every surface in the dining room, while the girl in the blue dress clapped her hands loudly. “I love my party!” she shouted.
Bethany walked through the room unnoticed, no one touching her, even as the kids ran around her, mere inches away. It was as if she weren’t there at all, a presence that no one could see or touch.
She squatted in front of the girl in the blue dress.
“I’m Bethany,” Bethany said to the girl, everything feeling unreal and foggy. “What’s your name?”
“Bethany?” said the man, and Bethany turned. As did the girl in the blue dress.
The man held up a pile of wrapped gifts. “Who’s ready to open some presents?”
“PRESENTS!” the girl in the blue dress yelled, and ran past Bethany toward the living room.
“Get them out of here,” the woman told the man. “I’ll . . . well, I was going to say clean up, but I think we’re past that now.”
“This should distract them for a little while at least,” the man said, carrying the presents into the other room.
“No,” Bethany whispered, but wasn’t sure exactly why. What was this? Why did it seem so familiar?
“You know how this story goes, Bethany,” said a deep male voice, a voice she recognized. Bethany looked around, but she was alone now, apart from the woman. The man and all the kids had left to open presents in the other room.
“I don’t,” Bethany said, fighting to clear her head. “Who are you? Where . . . where is this?”
“This is your home,” the voice said. “You are living out the story of your life. A mistake was made here, a mistake that will haunt you for years to come.”
“I’ll . . . I’ll change it,” Bethany said, and took a step toward the living room, not knowing what the mistake was, but feeling like that’s where she ought to be. “I’ll fix things. Whatever went wrong, I’ll make it right.”
“Will you?” the voice asked, and suddenly Bethany froze, unable to move. She struggled against whatever invisible bonds held her, but they tightened even more in response.
From the other room the girl in the blue dress yelled in surprise and happiness. All the other kids shouted too. Something about a gift.
“This is your life, Bethany,” said the deep voice. “Yet you are not in control here. You have no power. Your life happens here, now, at my will, and you have no power to change it.”
“No,” Bethany whispered, and something in her mind screamed that she’d been here before, seen all of this. Years and years ago . . . The memory was so hazy, though. Why couldn’t she think?
“What is it?” the man in the other room asked.
“A book!” shouted the girl in the blue dress.
The woman in the dining room next to Bethany froze in place, then dropped the plates she was holding back to the table. “No,” she whispered, just like Bethany had.
“How does this feel, Bethany?” asked the deep voice. Time seemed to slow down as Bethany watched the woman start to run to the other room, her mouth open like she was screaming something.
And then Bethany was moving with her, too slowly to do anything, too slowly to change anything, just fast enough to reach the doorway to the living room at the exact same point as the woman, as her mother. . . .
The empty living room. Empty but for a few wrapped gifts, a couple of toys, and a book lying open on the couch right in the middle of everything.
“NO!” her mother screamed, and she ran for the book, time speeding up again.
“NO!” Bethany screamed as well. “Not again! This isn’t happening again!”
“Come back!” her mother screamed at the book, her voice breaking. She scraped at the pages desperately, as if she could reach through and pull someone out. “Please, no, come back, Bethany, my little girl!”
As her mother screamed, Bethany turned away, unable to watch and more angry than she’d ever felt in her life. “Why are you showing me this?” she shouted at the voice. “Why are you torturing me?!”
“You have to see how it feels to live a life out of your control,” the voice told her. “A life that chooses for you. A story controlled by another, putting you through horrible things for the entertainment of others. This is what you would have for me, and for my people. Do you see now, Bethany?”
“This is some sort of lesson?” Bethany shouted as her mother fell to the couch, sobbing, the book clutched to her chest. “You put me through this just to make a point? How could you!”
“Perhaps I did,” said the voice. “But the lesson isn’t over.”
Abruptly, a tiny hand reached out of the book.
Bethany’s mother shouted in surprise and grabbed the hand, pulling it and the body that followed out of the book. It was one of the children from the party, with another following right behind. Another, then another child climbed from the book, some crying, some seemingly happy.
Finally, the girl in the blue dress climbed out, a huge grin on her face. “Did you see, Mommy?” the girl asked excitedly. “Did you see what I did?”
“Where is your father, Bethany?” her mother yelled, holding the girl tightly by the shoulders. “Please, tell me where he is!”
“Perhaps stories might still be changed,” said the voice of the Magister, “when writers are no longer in control of them.”
The little girl’s face grew determined, and she leaned back into the book, her arm completely disappearing, only to grunt and pull back out.
And holding her hand tightly was a man’s hand, a hand that then grabbed the edge of the book and pulled. And there, just moments later, stood her father.
Her mother cried out, grabbing the man and hugging him tightly.
“Let’s not give her any more books for now,” her father said, and hugged little Bethany and her mother closely.