Furthermore (20 page)

Alice was very likely screaming,
though if you ask her about this today, she denies it, and I don't know why. Pride, I suppose. I'd not guilt her for screaming had she done so; her histrionics would have been for good reason. The fox, you will remember, was still with her, except that he now had Alice's arm in his mouth, and was very desperately trying to tug her sideways into his paper world. Alice was on the cusp of entering the village of Print, and she was still suffering the effects of being just close enough to a village that could collapse her. She was now moments from being dragged inside and made two-dimensional forever, and she was fighting for her life.

It was Fox against Alice.

Alice tugged and tugged, but it was difficult to know how hard to fight, because in so many ways she felt nothing. Part of her felt half real. Paper-thin. She could only sort of feel the pain of being pulled in different directions, because some part of her had suddenly become something else, and she didn't
know what that was. She hadn't realized that the fox had managed to pull one of her arms all the way through to the two-dimensional town, and it wasn't until she heard a great roaring
rip
that she understood how tremendously wrong all this had become.

Technically, she won the fight.

The fox was scampering away, so Alice must've won the fight. Why, then, was Alice screaming so much louder now? (Again, she denies this.) What was there to shout about? And while we're asking questions, I'd like to wonder, why, in that very same moment, was Alice feeling so much regret?

Well, I will tell you what I think.

I think Alice was wishing she'd never run away from Tim and Oliver. I think she was wishing she'd never left Ferenwood at all. I think she was wishing Furthermore had never existed and that she'd never had a twelfth birthday and that she'd never Surrendered the wrong talent.

Oh, I think Alice was filled with all kinds of regret.

She ran blindly, wildly, charging back down an impossible path of impossible gravity, one foot pounding harder than the other in the blazing heat of an impossible sun.

Alice was sorry.

She was sorry for everything. She was sorry Mother didn't love her and sorry Father had left her and sorry for ever
thinking she could save him. Alice ran until she tripped, until she fell to her knees and her face hit the ground, until she felt tears falling fast down her face. Only then did Alice understand true loss.

Only then did she discover she was missing an entire arm.

She wasn't bleeding,
and this was the first thing Alice noticed. The second thing she noticed was that her right arm had been ripped off at the shoulder, and as she was only now beginning to regain the full use of her mind, the third thing she noticed was that she had been partly turned to paper.

Where blood should have been there were instead wisps of tissue, and where bone should have been there was instead a strange breeze. And though she felt the inclination to bend her arm, to make a fist, to shake herself out of hysteria and tell herself to stop crying—(
It's alright, I'm alive, I'll survive
, she would say)—she could do nothing but stare at the space where something important once was. And then, dear friends, the fourth thing she noticed:

Her bangles were gone.

The loss of an arm and an entire arm's worth of bangles (the latter, of course, being the greater loss) was too much to digest, especially like this. Like this: her head aching from the hit, her legs cramping from the run; still climbing to her feet and
stumbling to stay upright, still moving, now panting, two short legs trying not to trip; her two feet pounding the earth, hard hits like heartbeats against the cracked dirt beneath them. She was off balance, unsteady with only one arm but she wouldn't stop, she wouldn't think, she refused to acknowledge any of this, not even for a moment, not until the dirt turned back into grass and the sun fell over sideways and night climbed over day and she was back where she started, forever moving forward just to move backward in time.

Finally, Alice fell to the ground.

She rolled over in the grass, adrenaline keeping her from collapsing into panic, and took a moment to marvel at the twilight she'd returned to. Just above her head was Tim's big red door, and just in front of her was wide-open nowhere with a pond nearby. The crickets sang to scratch an itch and the frogs croaked along because it was a catchy tune; the tall grass danced with a sultry breeze and the moon sat atop an unwashed cloud, shining over everything. Somehow, even in this moment of perfect terribleness, the Still night was still lovely, fragrant, and awfully enchanting, and Oliver Newbanks stood before her, looking like he'd been spun from glass.

Oliver Newbanks, who appeared to be catching his breath. Oliver Newbanks, who was looking at Alice, eyes wide, chest heaving, sweat beading at his brow, and he said once, softly, “Alice?”

So she whispered once, softly, “Oliver?”

“Alice,” he said, urgently now, eyes tight and shining, “are you alright?” His voice was pitched low, like he was afraid it might crack.

And Alice shook her head.
No
. No, she wasn't okay.

The moon was quickly rising, and with it, a veil of darkness that partially obscured Alice from view. So Oliver drew closer, and only then did he see what had happened to her. He jerked back, clapped a hand to his mouth, and cried, “Oh
goodness
, Alice!”

She didn't know what to say.

Oliver reached out to touch the place where her arm might've been, and she saw his hand shake.

“Are you in pain?” he whispered, his voice trembling.

Alice shook her head again.
No
. In fact, she felt nothing at all. She hadn't yet processed the shock of losing her arm, so she wasn't sure how to react. Should she be scared? Should she be strong?

“Will it grow back?” she asked.

Oliver's eyes went so wide Alice could see the white rims around his irises. “No,” he said softly. “The effects of Furthermore, when they can't be fixed, are always final.”

That's when Alice began to feel.

His words stabbed at a corner of her brain; it was a twisty,
piercing pain that exploded behind her eyes and took her breath away. For no reason at all she was suddenly desperate and aching,
aching
, where her arm used to be, and suddenly there was nothing in the world she wanted more than to have two arms. Suddenly all she could think about was having two arms. Suddenly there were a million hundred trillion thousand things she wanted to do with her arms and suddenly she couldn't,
suddenly she couldn't
, and it was all too much. The stabbing pain caught fire and dropped a flame down her throat and this shocked her heart into a terrible, tripping beat, and in less than a moment she was so thoroughly and absolutely shattered she couldn't calm down long enough to make herself scream.

She looked at Oliver.

“. . . have to find a painter,” he was saying.

“What?” The word was more of a rasp than a word. Alice had already lost a father, the length of her right arm, and an entire set of bangles, so it made sense that her voice would follow suit.

“Yes,” Oliver was saying. “It's the only way.” He was on his feet now, arms crossed, pacing the length of the same five-foot stretch. “The problem is, I don't quite know how to find one. I'd only ever heard rumors, you know?” He looked up at her. “And the trip will take us off course, of course, and cost us a
great deal of time.” He looked away again, mumbling. “Though obviously the expense would be worth it.” He seemed to be speaking entirely to himself.

“Wait,” she rasped again. “What do you mean?”

Oliver stopped pacing, looked up in surprise. “We have to get your arm fixed,” he said.

“But I thought you said—”

He shook his head, hard. “No, no, it won't grow back. But we could get someone to paint you a new one.”

Alice was about to ask more questions, but a sudden hope had taken up too much room inside of her and she couldn't think around it. She made the strangest noises. Startled, squeaky sounds that made it too obvious she was trying not to cry.

“Alice,” Oliver said quietly. “Will you tell me what happened?” He offered her a handkerchief and she took it. “Where did you go? Who did this to you? How did you get back?”

So Alice told him the story. She told him about trusting the fox she shouldn't have trusted, about the paper world she saw, about the fox ripping off her arm as she tried to escape.

Oliver was devastated.

Alice was ashamed.

They were each convinced of their guilt, and they were right to be; they two had torn holes in each other, and the wounds, unhealed, had only led to more pain. The simple truth was
that they were both to blame for what had happened. Oliver for his reluctance to trust Alice and for his failure to make her feel like a true partner; and Alice for making decisions motivated by anger and hurt and recklessness.

But young hearts are more resilient than most. They would both recover.

“Shall we?” said Oliver tentatively. “Time is such a tricky thing. We can never take too much.” His eyes were nervous, asking all the questions he couldn't bring himself to say aloud. He was worried, Alice knew, that she would abandon him again.

So when Alice nodded, Oliver smiled, relief sagging his shoulders.

“Where will we go?” Alice asked. “To fix my arm? How will we get there?”

Oliver looked stricken as he stared at her, and Alice thought it was because he felt sorry for her; but that wasn't it at all. Oliver felt much more than sorry for Alice. His heart had grown ten sizes since he'd met her, and the hours he'd lost her had nearly broken him. She was injured and he knew it to be his fault—to be a result of his selfishness and stupidity—and he wasn't sure he could forgive himself.

“I don't honestly know,” Oliver said softly. He looked out into the distance. “But not-knowing is only temporary when we've got the minds to figure it out. We'll find a way.”

Alice nodded.

She had no fewer than a thousand questions and concerns, but she managed to swallow them down. Right now, she would make do with this reconciliation, and the rest, she hoped, would come.

Oliver knelt in front of her and smiled. A single tear had escaped down the side of his face, and the breeze touched his tunic, folding it gently between its fingers. Oliver closed his eyes.

“I'm so sorry, Alice,” he whispered. “Please forgive me.”

And because she was a girl made of more heart than hurt, she forgave him on the condition that he, too, forgive her.

Easily done.

Oliver took her only hand and held it right up against his chest, and then they sank, he and she, together, the two of them, right into the ground.

When Alice opened her eyes again,
she felt the blazing heat of a familiar sun beating down her back. Alice's whole body stiffened, and Oliver, who was now paying close attention, misunderstood her fear.

“Sorry about that,” he said. “These emergency exits can be a bit uncomfortable.”

“Emergency exits?” said Alice, distracted.

Oliver nodded. “If you want to get to the next closest village as quickly as possible, you always exit downward. But the transitions can be a bit rough.” He laughed. “One time I down-exited directly into a mass of dead sheep and I couldn't get the wool out of my mouth for days after. I was coughing up hairballs for hours—”

“Oliver, we should leave. Now.” The ground beneath them was blisteringly hot, and Alice was beginning to see spots. “This is where the fox took me. This is near the entrance of that paper village. I'm sure of it.”

Oliver froze, words still caught in his mouth; luckily, his shock lasted only a moment. He took Alice's hand and began to run, but just as they picked up speed Oliver was knocked sideways, hitting the ground hard as he fell. Alice cried out, panicked, and tried to help him up, but she was abruptly yanked backward, tossed face-first into the dirt, and dragged off by the hem of her skirts. She kicked and screamed and managed to break free twice before being pinned down again, but fear had finally paralyzed her.

The paper fox had returned, and this time, he'd brought his friends.

Four paper foxes had cornered them. Three of the four were built of a rather normal (read: dull) shade of brown paper, and these three had Oliver cowed on the ground. The only fox built of a vibrant copper color was the one standing directly over Alice's body. This was her fox. The very same one from before.

“Alice!” Oliver shouted. She could hear him struggling. “Alice, are you—” But his voice was quickly muffled. Alice chanced a glance his way only to find that one of the foxes had wrapped its tail around Oliver's mouth.

Alice felt her pulse racing. The heat was sweltering; sweat was beading at her brow. The fox had locked eyes with her and she was doing all she could to stay calm. Alice knew she
should say something, but she wasn't sure where or how to begin. This was a paper fox, after all, and as far as Alice was concerned, there was no such thing as magic that could make animals talk.

Still, she had to try.

“What do you want from me?” she said.

The fox stared at her for just a beat longer before pawing aggressively at her skirt pockets.

“What is it?” Alice pulled herself up to a seated position, and the fox retreated a few steps. She patted her pockets with her single hand and unearthed their contents: four visitor pamphlets, her black card, and her blond ruler. Alice held them out to the fox. “What do you want?” she asked. “Which one?”

The fox nodded through her wares, took one of the pamphlets into his mouth, and made a strange whine, indicating with his head that she should retrieve the pamphlet from him. Alice wasn't sure what was happening, exactly, but she was relieved to know that at least her life was no longer in immediate danger. She tugged the pamphlet out from between the fox's paper jaws and glanced at the title.

— FURTHERMORE PHRASEBOOK —

How to Understand the Languages You Don't Speak

Alice inhaled sharply. She looked from the fox to the pamphlet and felt her heart pound quickly in her chest—but this
time, Alice wasn't afraid. She was excited. She flipped open the pamphlet with an eagerness that dispelled any lingering fears she might've had, but Alice's eagerness quickly turned to dismay.

Every inch of the inside pages was blank.

Heartbroken, she hung her head. Perhaps the fox (or maybe Ted?) had made a mistake. (Or, you know, there'd been a printing error.) Whatever the reason for her misfortune, Alice was disappointed. She'd already begun refolding the pamphlet when a gentle, handsome voice said,

“Leave it open.”

Alice froze.

“Ms. Queensmeadow, please. Look at me.”

In that moment Alice was certain she'd misplaced the whole of her mind; but let me reassure you, dear reader, that she was in full possession of her faculties. The fox was most definitely speaking to her, and—

Can I just say? I don't know that I understand the extent of her shock. The fox, like most animals (paper or no), is fully capable of speech. That we make few concerted efforts to understand the fox language is a fault entirely our own.

Now, where were we?

“Ms. Queensmeadow, please,” said the fox. “Look at me.”

Alice looked up, astounded.

“You are in danger, Ms. Queensmeadow. You must leave here at once.”

“Of course I'm in danger,” said Alice. “You've tried to kill me twice already!”

The fox shook his head. “I was not trying to kill you. I was trying to
hide
you. I do sincerely apologize for what happened to your arm—”

Alice harrumphed.

“—but I thought you'd be safer in my world. You should go, Ms. Queensmeadow. Go back to where you came from.”

“And why should I? Why do you care what happens to me?”

“I know why you're here. We all do. And we know you've lost no fruit tree in the town of Slender.”

Alice gasped.

“Your journey to find your father is a noble one,” said the fox. “But he had no right to meddle in our affairs, and neither do you.”

“What do you mean?” said Alice. “What did Father do to meddle in your affairs?”

The fox tilted his head at her. “Our lands agreed long ago not to go poking in each other's magical matters. And your father—who is publicly known for consorting closely with Ferenwood Town Elders—was found here in Furthermore asking too many questions about our magic and how we use it.”

“But he was arrested for wasting
time
—”

“Yes,” said the fox. “He was indeed arrested for time thievery. But he was also charged with suspected espionage.”

“What?” Alice felt the blood drain from her face.

“Tread carefully,” said the fox. “Furthermore knows you're here to find him, and this land will not give up a spy so easily.”

“But he's not—he can't be—”

“Go home, Ms. Queensmeadow. Unless you, too, would like to be held accountable for his actions.”

“But—if you think my father's a spy—” Alice faltered. “Why are you trying to help me?”

“You are an innocent.” The fox tossed back his head. “And I don't agree that you should be harmed for seeking out a lost loved one. Besides,” he added, “I don't approve of eating children. It's uncivilized.”

Alice didn't know what to say.

“You don't have much time, Ms. Queensmeadow.” The fox was growing anxious; he'd begun circling around her. “Everyone here is waiting for you. Go home. Now. Before you're found.”

“Who?” said Alice. “Who's waiting for me—?”

There was a sudden rustle in the distance and the fox's eyes darted around. He looked back at Alice with a wild nervousness. “Snap in three in case of emergency.”

“What . . . ?”

“Trust a friend who looks like one.”

“What are you—”

“We know,” said the fox. “We all know.”

Alice felt a prick of terror pinch the back of her neck. She couldn't explain how, exactly, but she felt certain that something was about to go terribly wrong.

“Please,” she whispered. “I just want to find my father. Can't you help me?”

“I'm afraid I can't. You would do better to return home.” He turned to leave.

“Wait!” Alice grabbed the fox's leg.

He stopped and stared at Alice's hand.

“Will you let my friend go?” she asked.

The fox narrowed his eyes. “You may go freely on your way, Ms. Queensmeadow, but I'm afraid the boy will have to come with us.”

“What?” said Alice, stunned. “But I thought you didn't approve of eating children—”

“I don't approve of eating
good
children. But your friend is an untrustworthy, duplicitous lout, whose long list of infractions could fill the many trunks of our trees.” The fox held his head high. “Little liars will not be rewarded in Furthermore.”

“But—he didn't mean any harm—”

“Liars have the longest tongues, Ms. Queensmeadow. A delicacy we all enjoy. And we've all been hungry for so long, you
see, that it's hard to deny ourselves a fresh meal when it's so well deserved. I'm sure you understand.”

With that, the fox took a deep bow, broke free of Alice's hand, and scampered off in Oliver's direction.

Alice sprang to her feet, shoving her belongings in her pockets as best she could with one hand. The four foxes were already busy carting Oliver off into the distance, and now that his mouth was unmuffled, Alice could hear him screaming into the sunlight.

She ran forward, horrified but determined, and snatched the ruler from her pocket, charging at the paper creatures as though it were a dagger. She swung and swatted at the foxes, kicking and yelling as they yelped and fell away. Alice hadn't managed to do much real damage to the animals (who, for paper creatures, made formidable opponents), but her own friendly fox looked so heartbroken by her betrayal that Alice was tempted to feel sorry for him. Fortunately, her guilt was quickly wicked away. She didn't care that her life had been spared—no fox would eat her friend, no matter the lies he'd told.

But the foxes would not be beat.

They threw themselves forward more quickly than Alice could shove them back. She managed to land a few hard
thwacks
with her ruler, but her single arm was quickly tiring,
and though Alice was now huddled protectively over Oliver's body, the foxes were showing no signs of letting up. Alice had underestimated the power of animal hunger; these creatures had been promised a meal and they would not leave without it. Oliver tried several times to aid in his own defense, but the foxes were thrashing about so forcefully—growling and snapping—that Alice was worried they'd bite his head clean off.

“Down-exit!” she cried, crouched low over Oliver's back. “Down-exit, please!”

But nothing was working. (Oliver, to his credit, had tried desperately to persuade the foxes to let him go, but his talent had been withered by fear; his occasional flickers of success weren't strong enough to fight all four foxes.) Alice, meanwhile, was becoming increasingly panicked. She was fumbling, losing her grip on the ruler as her arm weakened under strain, and all it took was a moment's hesitation—

Alice was flung backward.

She landed heavily on her only arm, her head slamming hard against the ground. It took her a few seconds to blink away the dizziness, but she clenched her jaw against the dull, throbbing pain and drew herself up, determined not to sway. Alice could still hear Oliver shouting and fighting, landing kicks and punches wherever he could, and she was just about to charge forward again, ruler clenched tightly in her hand,
when she felt the ground shift beneath her. One of the foxes had slammed its head into Oliver's jaw with a resounding
crack
—and Oliver had gone still.

The foxes snapped around his limp figure, fighting to see who'd get to take the first bite, and Alice felt her brain disconnect from her body.

“NO!” she cried.

She stumbled as she threw herself forward, falling hard onto her knees, her agonized screams ringing out across the barren landscape. She bent into the raging heat and blinding light of this strange town and felt the fresh pain of fear and loss pry open an iron door in her chest and all at once—everything changed.

The land, the sky, the foxes, and even Oliver: disappeared.

Alice had reduced the color of all things around her—the large, the infinitesimal, and everything in between—to a single shade of black, and she was so wholly unaware of the magnitude of what she'd done that it wasn't until she heard the confused, frenzied foxes knocking into one another that she realized she'd snuffed out the sun. Alice alone stood in stark contrast to the painted night. She examined her single arm—the white of her skin glowing neon in the dark—and for the very first time in her life, Alice Alexis Queensmeadow felt powerful.