It was when Emily thought about her mother that she first made Clara’s toy theatre move. As the pain of losing her filled Emily’s body, she saw the paper actor twitch. A few more experiments and she realised she could maniplate it whenever she felt strong emotions. The trick was to feel the emotion without getting dragged down by her spiralling self-destructive thoughts.
Her motivation did not come from a desire to impact the physical world. Emily simply wanted to play with the most magnificent toy she had ever laid her eyes on. Only when Clara began to watch intently did she consider that she could use the theatre to communicate with her. Clara sat patiently for hours waiting for Emily to perfect her performance. Emily came to worry that she was taking too long and that Clara would lose interest, but eventually she got it right.
Her play opened when she pushed out onto the stage a little girl dressed in rags. Emily wasn’t to know she had picked Cinderella to play the part of herself.
‘This is you?’ said Clara, instantly understanding.
Ever so delicately, Emily reached her other hand into the theatre and tapped the back of the paper character’s head, making Cinderella nod in answer to the question.
‘You’re the poor girl from the kitchen.’
Another nod.
‘Do you know who did it?’
Emily shook the character’s head to indicate No.
‘What happened?’ asked Clara.
Emily had never laid eyes on her murderer, but she’d found the figure she felt best suited his rasping voice. The character she had chosen to play Jack was King Rat, the villain from Dick Whittington. Even the curling tail from his backside didn’t seem out of place with how she imagined the man who had dragged her bleeding through the streets of London. Slowly she pushed him across the stage, behind Cinderella’s back. He pounced and Cinderella fell.
Clara watched fascinated as King Rat dragged Cinderella off the side of the stage. She gasped when Emily plucked a red petal from a bowl of dried flowers on the window sill and allowed it to flutter down onto the spot where Cinderella lay.
‘He killed you and dragged you inside. Why?’ whispered Clara.
Nothing moved; Emily could not respond to such open questions.
‘Are you able to leave the house?’ asked Clara.
Emily pushed Cinderella into the back of the stage, demonstrating that the outside walls were as impassable for her as they were for Clara.
‘You’re stuck here alone,’ said Clara.
Emily brought another character onto the stage. It was Cinderella again, only now her tattered rags had been transformed into a beautiful gown. Emily knew that Clara understood what she meant when she saw a tear form in her eye. The transformed Cinderella represented Clara. Emily was showing her that she did not feel alone, because she had Clara for company.
‘If my mother has her way we will move,’ said Clara sadly. ‘The fear is affecting her health. She gets worse every day. Father is worried about her. I am worried about her. I do not want to leave London, but nor do I want to see my mother suffer so much. Living in the suburbs one may as well be dead . . .’ She stopped. ‘Sorry, that was thoughtless. It’s just I cannot bear to be torn apart from this place. Tomorrow we catch the train to see a house my father has found. Somewhere south. I don’t want to leave you, but I don’t think I can stop it now.’
Emily wished she could cry too, but no tears would come and her dead eyes remained dry and clear. She let both Cinderellas flutter to the ground and found the mechanism which operated the theatre curtains. She lowered the red curtain in front of the stage to indicate that the play was over. If Clara left, Emily was alone in this house. Alone forever.