Jane is also screaming, but she makes no noise. Lying on the divan in the library, Winnie-the-Pooh open on her lap, her back is arched and her mouth forms a perfect silent scream. Jane is struggling with Octavian, who’s puttered in wearing his robe and found Jane there, flailing around like a person being skinned. Jane doesn’t look like a person being skinned, but she feels it, and Octavian understands.
“She’s taking you,” Octavian says. “Why is she taking you instead of me?”
Jane knows why, because Charlotte knows why, and there’s no boundary between them anymore.
Charlotte is taking Jane because Jane got here first, to this room, on this night when Charlotte is more powerful than she has been before. Charlotte’s more powerful because not just Octavian, but Jane, Lucy, Phoebe, and Kiran have been giving her power, by talking about her, saying her name, dwelling in her library. Jane got here first because Octavian was still asleep. She got here first because she closed Jasper in the closet. She got here first because Phoebe is elsewhere, trying to hold it together in her job, Kiran is elsewhere, trying to hold it together at the party, and Jane is the one who fed Lucy to Charlotte.
The moment Jane first entered the library, she gave Charlotte so many openings. An orphaned part, looking for where she belonged. Jane’s wounds were openings.
Jane entered the library because Kiran and Lucy described it in a way that made it sound like Aunt Magnolia’s underwater world. Kiran and Lucy described the library because they were talking about Charlotte, because, at the moment when Jane could have followed Mrs. Vanders, or the child, or Ravi, or Jasper the dog, Jane chose to go with Kiran.
None of this, incidentally, has helped Kiran. As it happens, Kiran is about to have the worst night of her life. Not because of what’s happening to Jane—though this would hurt her too—but because of a scene playing out elsewhere on the island. Kiran doesn’t know about it yet, but Jane does. At the moment, Kiran is shuffling around the ballroom, trying to keep the guests amused, while Ravi takes the two FBI special agents outside for a walk. A walk to a hidden bay, where they’ve stumbled upon a strange scene with Ivy, Patrick, Cook, and the missing Panzavecchia children. Remember the famous missing Panzavecchia children? FBI special agents are, by definition, armed, and so are Patrick, Ivy, and Cook. And it’s dark outside, and bad things happen when armed people get confused. And Patrick is the type to jump in the line of fire in order to protect children, when shots are being fired.
If things had gone differently, Jane, or Kiran, or both, might have been there to prevent it. Instead, Kiran will get some terrible news, and Ivy is on her knees, shaking over her brother, who’s bleeding into the sand of the island’s secret bay. It’s the worst night of Ivy’s life too.
* * *
But, back in the library.
Earlier, Jane wondered what it would look like when Lucy fell into the umbrella.
She knows now. Not just what it looks like, but what it feels like.
Yes?
It looks like—almost nothing, really. It looks like Jane: bright, living, fighting, fabulous Jane, writhing, in solitary, silent pain that no one but Charlotte has the power to ease, on a divan, while Octavian tries to hold on to her. And then, instantly, she’s not there. She’s gone. Octavian is left with empty hands and a lingering chord, a note that vibrates his throat and his teeth and makes him look up at the ceiling, where he knows to seek out the image of Christopher Robin, Pooh, and the other creatures of the forest, walking together alongside a stream. He sees that a tall figure has joined the end of the line.
* * *
What does it feel like?
The acid snow is skinning Jane alive. The snow isn’t just warm, it’s burning; freezing to death feels like burning. Where’s the numbness Jane was promised? Where’s the sleepiness, and the lack of pain? Jane understands now how scared Aunt Magnolia must have been.
Aunt Magnolia?
Aunt Magnolia can’t hear Jane. And Jane isn’t going where Aunt Magnolia went.
Jane’s final scream is the discordant strum that Octavian hears in some part of his being, causing him to look up at the ceiling.
Jane is stuck in the ceiling, at the end of a procession, in a cherry-blossom blizzard of acid snow. Jane’s physical vision is limited. With part of one eye, she can see some distant edges of the library. But she knows everything Charlotte knows. It’s dark, but she’s not numb. It’s silent, but she still feels pain. Jane is on fire. She understands that she is the house now. Except, not really: Charlotte is the house, and Jane is a smothered part of her structure. Charlotte is the jail and Jane is her prisoner.
Charlotte is trying to use Jane like glue.
It will not be painless, and it will not work. It won’t satiate Charlotte’s bottomless need to feel whole. What will happen then? It will depend on whether Kiran and Octavian and Phoebe and so on keep talking about her, keep saying her name, sitting in her library, giving her power. If they do, Charlotte will pick them off, one by one.
* * *
How much time has gone by? Days? Weeks?
The gala is still happening.
Jane thinks, Octavian will tell people what he saw, and someone will rescue me. Or will Octavian keep his mouth shut, and wait his turn?
Or Ivy will find my book open on the divan. But will Ivy know to look up? If she does, could she ever understand what she saw, and is her magic, her power, strong enough? Would she even care, now that her brother is dead? Deceased, departed, perished, quenched. Eight letters, with a q.
Charlotte worries sometimes about Ivy. Ivy might get in the way. She worries about Jasper too, and Ravi, and Ravi’s mother, and Mr. Vanders. These are Charlotte’s least favorite people. She’s less worried about Jasper now, though, because he’s giving himself a massive brain injury trying to break out of the closet.
Charlotte worries, but not too much. She knows she’s doing well so far. She’s only just begun.
A bell rings somewhere in the depths of the house,
sweet and clear, like a wind chime.
Mrs. Vanders, the little girl, Kiran, Ravi, or Jasper?
Aunt Magnolia? Jane thinks. Where should I go?
Jane, Unlimited
Jane decides.
“Oh, hell,” she says.
“What is it?” says Kiran.
The thing that worries Jane most about choosing Ravi is that it feels . . . a little too tempting. And distracting, from other things in the house that are certainly more important. But, “There’s something I need to check on,” she tells Kiran. “I’ll join up with you later, okay?”
Kiran shrugs, disappointed. “Okay. I’ll be in the winter garden.” She wanders off.
As Jane steps onto the landing, Jasper blocks her path, clambering around her feet as if he thinks they’re a portal to his home planet.
“Fuzzball!” she says. “Desist!”
She rushes past him up the stairs but he’s utterly determined to follow her. It’s too pathetic. She slows down to let him catch up. “Jasper,” she says. “You’re breaking my heart.”
When she gets to the third-floor east wing, Ravi is standing right there, a little way down the corridor, his back to her. He’s bent over his phone, balancing his fruit and toast in one hand. Jane stops and waits, unseen.
Ravi pockets his phone, redistributes his food, and starts moving. Then, inexplicably, Jasper sneaks past Ravi, runs farther down the corridor, and begins frolicking and larking about in a manner that seems designed to distract Ravi, dancing and hopping in a way Jane wouldn’t have thought possible.
“Dog of little brain,” Ravi tells him fondly.
The runner muffles Jane’s footsteps as she follows them. When Ravi reaches the door with the doormat that says WELCOME TO MY WORLDS, he unlocks the door with a key from his pocket.
Jane hotfoots it forward, sticks her foot in the door b
efore it closes, and applies her eye to the crack. Jasper joins her. She catches a glimpse of Ravi’s torso, legs, feet before he disappears up a squeaky spiral staircase.
A woman with a deep voice says something cheerful-sounding in a language Jane doesn’t understand. Ravi responds in kind. The woman says something else, at length.
“Thanks,” Ravi responds in English. “Here, I brought you some fruit, courtesy of Patrick.”
“Oh, thank you, darling,” the woman says, with a British accent that perhaps contains a hint of the Indian subcontinent. “I’d expected to eat in UD17, but my counterpart there is in no state for hospitality.”
“You sound worried,” says Ravi. “Did something go wrong?”
“The UD17 house is in danger of being boarded by pirates.”
“Pirates!” says Ravi. “What kind of pirates? Are they after the art?”
“Oh, Ravi, you always think everything’s about the art. No. They’re UD17 pirates, looking for the portal in the tower. Everyone’s very stressed out about it.”
“Oh,” Ravi says. “How do they know about the portal?”
“Unclear. The existence of the multiverse is common knowledge in UD17, but we’ve kept this particular portal hidden. They have it in their pea-sized brains that they’ll be able to use it to travel to alternate dimensions, locate alternate versions of themselves, then bring them back through, into UD17, to bulk up their numbers.”
At the foot of the steps, Jane is incredulous. “What on earth is UD17?” she whispers to Jasper. “And how can a house be boarded by pirates?” And how can pirates have alternate-dimension versions of themselves? And, seriously, just, what the hell?
“Why is that a pea-sized idea?” asks Ravi. “Wouldn’t that work?”
“Of course it would work!” the voice exclaims. “That’s why I’m so worried! Here, have your stupid UD17 Monet and stop pestering me with questions!”
“Oh, come on, Mum,” says Ravi. “Don’t take it out on me. It’s your own fault; you opened those portals. You and all the alternate versions of you.”
“I’ve never told anyone outside the family about the portals. You can’t blame me if alternate-dimension versions of me are indiscreet within their own dimensions. I am not they!”
“And yet I have an idea of what most of them are like,” says Ravi wearily.
“Be respectful,” says the first Mrs. Thrash. “We’re your mother.” There is a pause. “Well?” she says, rather aggressively. “How are you?”
“I’m fine, Mum,” says Ravi, an edge to his voice. “Worried about Kiran. She still seems low.”
“Still blaming me for that, are you?”
“Ma,” says Ravi sharply, while Jane wonders if maybe Kiran’s depressed because her mother is delusional.
“What Kiran needs is a job,” says the first Mrs. Thrash. “Such a brilliant child, and she’s wasting it, mooning about with no direction. I’ve noticed quite a motivational range across the spectrum of Kirans I’ve met, have I told you? I never know what Kiran to expect. Some of them are dynamos. The Kiran in Unlimited Dimension 17 is now—”
“Oh my god!” Ravi says. “I don’t want to know! Haven’t we done enough damage with that already?”
“Oh, don’t be silly. How’s Ivy? You could bring Ivy to visit me, you know. I could hide my little pets upstairs.”
“Ivy knows all about your pets. Kiran told Patrick everything; you know that. Patrick told the Vanders family and Ivy.”
“And you criticize me for being indiscreet.”
“It won’t go any further if Vanny has anything to say about it,” says Ravi. “Anyway, she’s decided it’s a fairy tale. You know how Vanny is.”
“She doesn’t understand it, therefore she thinks it’s magic, eh?”
“Precisely.”
“What do you tell Vanny when you bring her the paintings from UD17?”
“She makes a point of not asking,” Ravi says.
“Just like you make a point of not asking Vanny why she knows so many out-of-the-way collectors who want to buy your weird art for their personal collections.”
“It’s her field. Of course she has contacts.”
“I think there’s something fishy going on there. She’s mixed up in the art black market or something.”
“Oh, Mum,” says Ravi, sighing. “Mrs. Vanders is the world’s most respectable person. She helps me out of kindness. First she convinces herself that the pictures are normal, then she passes them on to collectors she met in grad school. It’s that simple. Are you going to show me what you brought me?”
There’s another pause. Then the first Mrs. Thrash says, “Well? Is it the sort of picture you hoped for?”
“Better than,” says Ravi. “You’ve done well. Buckley’s going to love the animatronic frogs on the lily pads.”
“There’s a Limited Dimension I’ve visited,” says Mrs. Thrash. “LD387. Their Monet didn’t paint frogs on his lily pads at all. In fact, I don’t think a single art movement in that world has ever focused on frogs, with the possible exception of their Muppets. Which makes me wonder, where did the Kermit of their world come from?”
“Is he any different?”
“Well, he’s not blue. He’s pea green.”
“Pea green!”
“And he’s in love with Miss Piggy.”
“Oh, just stop it,” Ravi says.
“Would you like a frogless lily pad Monet in your inventory? I’ll see what I can do next time I’m there. It’s trickier in a Limited Dimension because—well—we’re dealing with smaller-minded versions of ourselves, of course. Less imaginative. They may not want to sell.”
“I thought our own dimension was a Limited Dimension.”
“Well, yes, we’ve categorized it as one, for the moment. But the categorization is an ongoing process, and the more we learn about what’s commonplace across dimensions and what isn’t, the more our categorizations change. I won’t be at all surprised if our dimension is recategorized as Unlimited someday. There could be transnormal phenomena here we haven’t discovered yet.”
“Ha. You just don’t like to imagine yourself as limited,” says Ravi dryly.
“Oh, pah,” she says. “I’m a scientist. Transnormal phenomena are simply phenomena that we do not yet understand. Even now the scientific community in our dimension is dissatisfied with our explanations for, oh, I don’t know, why humans need sleep, or why it rains frogs. But everything everywhere has a scientific explanation, whether or not we know what it is. We’ll have to come up with better labels than ‘Limited’ and ‘Unlimited’ eventually. But—there’s Limited and there’s limited, my dear. When I appeared through the portal belonging to LD387’s me, where they have these frogless Monets, she actually fainted. She’d left her portal open, so she had to have known one of us might show up, but even she, it turns out, doesn’t entirely believe in the multiverse, or in transdimensional travel. Even now that I’ve met her! I gather her family considers her some sort of madwoman in the attic, to the extent that she almost believes it herself. She’s not certain I wasn’t a hallucination. They’ve got her taking medication.”
“Hm,” says Ravi. “Well. Is the frogless art any good?”
“It’s simple, but sublime. I think it’s lovely.”
“Then yes, if you can. Get me anything. I like making Buckley’s head spin.”
“I don’t see why you have to lie to him about where all these paintings come from,” the first Mrs. Thrash says. “You who can be so snotty about the provenance of the art in your own house. It’s not like they’re stolen, or pillaged in a war. You’re spending a fortune of your own money to import them and it’s only going to mislead the art historians of the future. Not to mention the dimensional archaeologists. Someday there will be dimensional archaeologists, you know.”
“First of all, I’m ke
eping records,” says Ravi in a scoffing tone. “Secondly, how can you suggest I reveal the secret just moments after you criticized others for revealing the secret? It could cause a lot of trouble if I told Buckley. What if he was indiscreet? We’ve got plenty of people in this dimension who’d take advantage.”
“Well, I don’t understand what you get out of it, Ravi.”
“It’s a game,” Ravi says, “and I’m winning. I get to plant transdimensional art all over the world and no one knows its provenance, except for you and me. And Kiran’s friend, who’s listening at the bottom of the steps.”
Oh hell.
“Ravi!” says the first Mrs. Thrash. “Is that why the door never slammed?”
“My best guess, anyway,” says Ravi.
“And presumably why you switched me to English. You wanted this person to overhear. Honestly, Ravi. Is this one male or female? I assume this is another of your conquests?”
“Oh, don’t be so haughty,” says Ravi. “You know it’s not like that.”
“You could be doing more with your time and your talents,” says the first Mrs. Thrash. “When’s the last time you picked up a paintbrush? You were so talented.”
“Mum,” says Ravi impatiently, like the word is a small explosion. Then he finds his pleasant voice again. “You’d like her. What do you say? Want to meet a new friend who probably thinks we’re both delusional?”
“Or,” says the first Mrs. Thrash, “that I’m the delusional one and you just come up here to keep me company and humor my delusions.”
These are exactly the two possible conclusions Jane has come to. Transdimensional art-dealing. Alternate versions of house-boarding pirates. Kermit in love with Miss Piggy?