“… THINK ABOUT IT,” she said. “Until today I was doing a pretty good job, too. But some of what’s happened echoes and circles back to that, even down to that little click. I heard the same thing at the library door.” And in the vision of that insane asylum, come to think of it, when she’d locked the door in that iron grille.
“What if what you found was a force field put up by some machine?” Eric asked. “Like a … a device or tool or something?”
“That’s what Dad called the Mirror,” Lizzie said. “Same with the panops and Sign of Sure. He said they were all tools from a long time ago and another Now. I never thought of it before, but the time I saw my dad at the Mirror? When he … when he c-cut himself?” She knuckled her eyes, but Emma saw the tears starting again. “When he t-touched the M-Mirror, it made a c-click.”
“But I didn’t cut myself,” Emma said. “It just happened.” Then thought: Force field or barrier might be right, too. I keep thinking about where the barriers are thinnest. What would happen if those went away or sprang a leak?
“Might work like a fingerprint ID for a computer,” Eric said.
“You’re saying the machine recognized me?”
“It kind of fits, doesn’t it? Whatever was down cellar let you … well, log on.”
“What?” Bode asked. “What a log got to do with anything? A log’s just wood.”
“It’s just another word for a special kind of key,” Casey said. “Only this key unlocks a machine.”
Key. Emma felt the word hook her attention. Lizzie said … or was it her dad … one of them mentioned a key. But hadn’t Frank McDermott also said that this key was something they’d read? Yes, he said manuscript, and they found it in London.
“But log on to a machine that can do what?” Rima asked. “Draw out energy that you can use to make a book? Or glass?”
“Or anything.” Eric ran a hand over the hard edge of the coffee table. “Even something as simple as this. In the real world, the one we all think of as real, the only reason this wood table stays a table is because the energy required for wood and iron to hold their shapes is exactly right—for that reality. Add more energy—say, touch a match, start a fire—you destroy the wood’s ability to hold that shape. You’ve added too much energy to the system and initiated a different reaction.”
“Like the phase transition of ice to water, or water to steam,” Emma said. “To fog.”
Eric nodded. “So I guess this … this Dark Passages energy stays put in our reality only if you use a certain amount and no more.”
“You know … what happened out on the snow—those creatures just appearing, the church, Tania?” Sliding a copy of Whispers from the pile of books, Rima studied the cover art: the portrait of a girl with wild, staring eyes as black as oil and a frill of spider’s legs blooming from her mouth. “If I let myself just accept the idea for a second that my story’s already been written and the fog is energy waiting to be used and molded and fixed … it kind of explains a lot.”
Bode barked a laugh. “How?”
“Look, outside this house, there’s fog. Call it thought-magic, call it energy … whatever. Casey and I started out caught in a whole lot of nothing. Just … just fog,” she said, although from the look she shot Casey, Emma almost thought she had been about to say something else. “But then I made things out of the fog because of who I am,” Rima continued, skimming a light finger over the portrait’s forehead as if trying to smooth back the girl’s bangs. “I made Tania, and I did it because Lizzie’s dad had already written it all out for me. I made …” She offered up the book with a slight shrug. “I made the story that I came from, or it built itself around me.”
“But then why did it get so crazy?” Bode asked. “The way everything fell apart on the snow like that? Is that in the book?”
Lizzie sighed. “I told you. The book-world Now that she made broke. I think there were too many of you guys all together for too long on the White Space of the wrong story. Dad said that whenever a lot of book-people end up on the same White Space, they break it, because the stories can only go in certain directions. It would be like everyone all piling into a car and wanting to go his own way. But you’ve only got the one car,” Lizzie said, like a kid regurgitating a lesson she’s gone over so many times she could recite it in her sleep. “He said the wrong characters are like, you know, the things that give you a cold.”
“You mean viruses? An infection?” Eric asked.
“It actually makes sense,” Rima said. “That world was going pretty strong until you and Bode and Chad showed up and brought the … the energy of your stories. Like what you just said about adding energy to ice or wood? Only it was the world I was building from my story that broke.”
“So where’d Chad go?” Bode said. “He’s dead, right?”
“No. Well, sort of,” Lizzie said. “He’s just gone from here, this whole Now. He’s back where he belongs, in his book-world.”
“But Tony …” Casey nudged out Now Done Darkness, a book whose cover art—a bulbous, slimy-looking monster, with more tentacles than an anemone and what seemed a million eye stalks, chewing its way out of a woman’s stomach—made Emma actually ill. “We saw him die. So, is he really dead? Does he die in his book?”
“No,” Lizzie said. “I’ve visited that book-world a bunch of times.”
“But he’s dead,” Casey repeated.
“Yeah, kind of,” Lizzie said. “He got killed here, so he’s gone from here. But he’s not dead dead. Just who he was here is gone.”
“What?” Casey said, but Rima interrupted, “I think there’s a difference between dead and gone. I know what we saw, but …” Rima’s fingers crept to a crocheted scarf wound in a loose cowl around her neck. “His whisper, in the scarf? And his mother’s? They just disappeared, as if they’d been erased, and that never happens. Taylor, for example.” Rima stroked an arm of her ratty parka. “She’s still here. Even when her whisper finally fades, there’ll still be the tiniest trace, like a watermark. That makes sense because she’s written into my story already. But there’s nothing in this scarf. Tony isn’t tangled up in my book, and if he was never a person but just the idea of one—the energy it takes to make a person come to life on a page—maybe that’s why. It’s like his chapter closed. Tony was never supposed to be here permanently.” Rima nodded at Now Done Darkness. “That’s the version of Tony we met, and he belongs there.”
Lizzie’s mouth worked. “I just said that.”
“But then how come he showed up to give Rima a ride?” Bode said. “That was still her … what? Book-world or something? And she and I met at the rest stop.”
“That’s because I was starting to pull you guys all together,” Lizzie said. “It’s hard, and I sometimes drop you where I don’t mean to. Things would’ve fallen apart if I hadn’t separated you all again. Right after that, all of you … you know, you think you drove here, but really, I dropped you into this Now.”
“How do you do that?” Casey asked, as Eric said, “So can you get Tony again?”
“No, I can’t,” Lizzie said, choosing Eric’s question. “Once you die in this Now, you can’t come back here. You can be in other Nows, just not this one, or any Now where you get killed.”
“Wait a minute.” Bode frowned. “So let me get this straight. Tony’s alive. So are Chad and Emma’s friend?”
“Yes, Chad is in his book-world and”—the little girl waved a hand through the air—“other Nows, but only one Chad is allowed in a Now, no matter if it’s a book-world or, like, you know,” Lizzie said, “a regular Now.”
So this wasn’t like The Matrix. Frowning, Emma worried the inside of her lip. Which would make sense, because the film was about a simulation: a Neo-avatar slotting into a computer program. In a regular Now—call it an alternative timeline—if she died, she was gone from that timeline, period. That didn’t mean there weren’t a lot of other Emmas and Bodes and Erics and on and on, like an infinite number of Xeroxed copies. But which was the original?
“Why do you call them that?” Bode frowned down at Lizzie. “Nows. I don’t get that.”
“Gosh, you guys … You’re thinking in straight lines too much. Look. Here’s the difference.” Sweeping up Echo Rats, she cracked open the covers and jabbed a page. “That’s a book-world Now.” She flipped two-thirds of the way through. “Here’s another Now.” She turned the page. “This is another book-world Now,” she said, stabbing the left-hand page and then the facing page, “and that’s another.” She riffled the pages in a fan. “All of these, the pages, they’re all book-world Nows. There’s no yesterday in a book-world. There’s no tomorrow. There is only the page where you start reading, and you can skip around back and forth and start wherever you want. Do you get it? You can read a book from what you think is the beginning to the end—go on, follow all the stupid numbers—and then start all over again, or in the middle; it doesn’t matter. You can decide where the beginning is, because the book-world is the book-world. It never changes. That’s not the same as a Now where there’s Christmas and stuff and people get older and things like that, but there are lots and lots of different Nows and you can visit them by going through the Dark Passages.”
“To visit different timelines,” Eric said, “or alternative universes.”
“Fine, whatever.” Sudden tears pooled in Lizzie’s eyes as her lower lip quivered. “What’s so hard about this?” Lizzie hurled Now Done Darkness across the room, the book doing an awkward cartwheel to crash against a wall. “For book-people who are all me, you’re so stupid!”
After a moment, Bode said, “All me? Say what?”