Her name is a pen name. No one has ever met her, and she’s never done an interview. But she does have an email.

I sit staring at my laptop. So far all I’ve done is hit “Compose” and paste in the email I found through some elaborate Google searching. For all I know, it’s not even her real email. But I have to try.

What can I even say? “Hey, has your book ever caused any strange dreams? Do you remember writing about a character named Rose who goes on a strange meta adventure in the middle of your fantasy romance novel? Are you a witch?” All of these are bad places to start. But I don’t want to just say, “I’m a huge fan,” because that’s one sure way to get lost in the shuffle.

“Yo, customer,” Jenna says, nodding to the door as a group of girls come in.

Shit. No time for this. I close my laptop and go to the register to take their orders. As I’m plugging in an assortment of cold brews, fruity teas, and ice waters—why the hell are you ordering water from us when you can get it for free?—my mind travels back to Leon. I hadn’t considered the fact that The Tales of Alvione is a slow burn. Of course he would hesitate at my blatant flirting. He wasn’t written to be the kind of guy who’d jump at that kind of opportunity. Peter, on the other hand . . .

“Um, can I put in my card yet, or no?”

I glance up at one of the girls standing in front of me. She’s giving me a weird look. “Yes, sorry,” I manage to say, my brain still conjuring up images of Leon like some kind of sickness. I run her card and offer her the receipt, but she’s already walking away with her friends to get a table.

There are also a few other things I haven’t tested yet. I have no idea if leaving the book open to a certain page is how I get put into the story each night or if there’s another factor at play. Is it how far I’ve read in this reread? If I were to read a few pages ahead, but leave the book open to the previous page I’d been on, what would happen? Could I leave the book open at an earlier page and redo what I’d already done? I should be smart. Do a small test of one of these factors. Don’t flip too far ahead and don’t read too far ahead. But if I can redo things . . . I would definitely redo my conversation with Leon. Slow burn or not, I could at least have a better shot at things with him if I’d started out our relationship on a better foot.

“Earth to Rose,” I hear Jenna say. I turn and look at her. She’s squinting, not at me, but at someone behind me, her braids falling into her face to cover one judgmental eye. “I think someone’s here to see you.” Even Daisuke is staring, looking over her shoulder with wide-eyed curiosity.

“Huh?” I spin around and am immediately bombarded with a swarm of conflicting emotions.

Adam. In the flesh. He seems uncomfortable by their stares but even more uncomfortable by the look on my face.

And he looks the same as when I’d last seen him. Hell, he might even be wearing the same shirt, the one I bought him three years ago. Seeing it fills me with a surge of satisfaction and anger. His beard’s a bit more grown in, his sandy blond hair a bit floppier than before. Has it been that long?

“Rosie,” he says softly. “I—”

“I’m at work.” My voice comes out flat, somehow failing to convey the feelings that plague me. Good. I don’t want him to know how he makes me feel right now. “I don’t have time for this.”

His blue eyes widen slightly. As if he expected me to drop everything for him right now to talk. Asshole. “Right,” he says. “Sorry. But can we . . . talk tonight, maybe?”

“Try never,” Jenna calls out from behind me. A bitter laugh escapes me. She’s right. And I’m relieved she has my back, as annoying as I can be to her sometimes.

Adam looks injured by her words, but he keeps his eyes on me, clearly hopeful that I’ll contradict her.

“Stop calling me” is all I say. A part of me hopes he does keep calling. That he keeps apologizing. That he’s endlessly hung up on what he ruined. That he never forgets how badly he fucked everything up.

He nods, but his eyes look a little bit shinier, like he might cry. Cry then, I think meanly. Boohoo. Imagine how much I cried. “Can I at least . . .” His voice cracks, and I hear Daisuke let out an intrigued little gasp behind me. “Can I at least send you pictures of Snowy? She misses you.”

Snowy. His cat, who became my cat too, at least for a few years. But this isn’t about Snowy missing me. This is about keeping the lines of communication open. Still about trying to get me back, to start over, to . . . whatever.

I’ve never been more happy to see new customers. A man and his teenage daughter come in and line up behind Adam. I hear Jenna and Daisuke busying themselves behind me to make the girls’ drinks from earlier so we don’t get bogged down. I ignore Adam’s question and ask, “Are you going to order something? Because, if not, I need to get back to work.”

He steps aside after a moment’s pause and breaks eye contact finally. I begin taking the father and daughter’s orders, watching out of the corner of my eye as he waits for a moment and then decides to leave, trying to not look like he’d just been rejected. When I finish charging their card, I notice the girls who’d ordered a few minutes ago looking over at me and whispering. This is all your fault, Adam, I think, feeling peeved.

I have more important things to worry about now. Things he doesn’t get to know about. Fun things. Like Leon.

If there’s one thing I’ve never been more sure about it’s that fictional men are so much better than real ones.

When I get home that evening, I finally manage to put together an email to the author. It reads as follows:

Hi Alys,

I have a question about The Tales of Alvione that may be a bit unusual. I’m wondering how you came up with the character of Rose, as I swear that I can remember a version of the book that didn’t have her in it. Was there a previous version of the book that was released earlier that I might have read? I’m certain I would have remembered her character, as my name is Rose.

I was also wondering if you’ve ever had any dreams about your book. Was the book inspired by a dream by any chance? I’ve had several dreams about the characters in your book, and I can’t help but wonder if you experienced something similar.

Thank you so much for writing this amazing series,

Rose

Listen. I didn’t want to sound totally nuts. I had to frame it in a way that might trigger her to realize that I know something is up with this damn book—assuming she also knows something is up with this damn book. But if she has never experienced anything weird with The Tales of Alvione, then my email won’t stand out too much or come off as noticeably strange. I don’t want to scare her off. I need a response.

I immediately get an email back, but it’s just an automated response saying “Thank you for contacting me.” At least I know it went through. The automated reply seems pretty legit, so I let myself be hopeful for now.

Now it’s time for me to test the limits of these dreams. I decided at work that I’d read a bit ahead and then leave the book open a few pages back to see where my dream picks up in the story. I close my laptop and take the book off the windowsill where the pages had finished drying after last night’s disaster. I flip to the page I was on. It’s easy to find where to start reading, because I fucking lived it.

I was plagued by my meeting with Leon. His beauty was unmatched, but so was his intelligence. His warning to me, of the threat of my incompetence, hovered over me like the sword of Damocles. I wondered when it would finally fall—and if my head would be severed from my neck when it did.

I pause, my fingers on the page quivering and pulling the paper taut. This is different. Eliana is changing. My meeting with Leon is seemingly recognized by her and has altered how she views herself and him. I realize I can’t remember exactly how this part was supposed to go, but I’m pretty sure she and Leon have a perfectly proper meeting in the original book. But now . . . is this the butterfly effect at work? More like the bull-in-a-china-shop effect. I resist the urge to flip further into the book to see what else might have changed. But now I’m worried. If things change too much, then that means I don’t know what will happen next with the same certainty I’d had before. And Eliana . . . what happens to her when I’m in the dream? Clearly the book addresses and recognizes the presence of Rose, of me, but Eliana seems to be none the wiser. She seems to accept everything I do as though I am a part of her. As if she has no idea I’m a completely separate person. She is me and I am her, in her eyes at least.

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

I feel a pang of guilt. Am I ruining her life? Taking her agency from her? She’s a fictional character. Who cares? But I find myself caring anyway. I’m not just changing my own life here. I’m controlling hers. And yet, when I’m not in the dream, it seems like she still exists. I decide to keep reading. I have to get further before I fall asleep, or the test won’t work.

I received little time to ponder his words. As I returned to my chambers, cloaked by the darkness of a moonless night that even the candlelit halls could not disperse, I found Court Wizard Martin waiting for me before my door.

“Martin,” I exclaimed curiously. “Were you waiting for me long? I apologize. I hadn’t known we would be meeting tonight.”

Martin regarded me with a scowl that was most unmatched. I found myself struck by his hateful gaze, lost in what I had done to so upset him. “So, you are acting normal again, I see?” he said to me in a dry manner.

“Normal?” I felt cornered, confused. I had barely spoken to him in my brief time at the castle, with the exception of our meeting in the midst of my coronation. He had pulled me aside most inappropriately and berated me for an imperfect presentation, but I had not thought he would still be upset about something I’d seen as rather minor.

“Don’t play games with me,” Martin snapped. He paced before my door for a moment, then motioned for me to enter. “It is better we speak in private. Maybe then you will remember your behavior from before.”

The truth was that I had no memory of what he was referring to. In the quiet of my dark bedchamber, I told him such. “Here is what I remember, dear Martin. I was in the midst of my coronation when you insisted that I was unwell, despite my perfect health. In private, you berated me with considerable frustration over your doubts that I would be a suitable queen. I can’t remember your exact words, but I recall your concern that I might be insane. Even now, I’m not sure what you were referring to.”

The look on Martin’s face was nothing short of furious in response to my words, but he behaved with propriety and simply huffed, crossing his arms. “So we are playing games,” he said, frustration etched across his features. His eyes glinted with magic, with wickedness, and for a moment, I felt afraid that perhaps he was not the ally he had once seemed to be. “You said your name was Rose,” he murmured. “Do you deny this now?”

“Rose?” I looked upon him with great puzzlement. “I have never said such a thing.” Of that, I was most certain.

He watched me for a moment longer, his eyes calculating and filled with obvious doubt. But I had not lied. Rose? I have never heard of such a woman. Why would I lie? I am Eliana. And I have always been Eliana.

I can’t keep reading this. I have to get in here. Stop Martin. I don’t know what will happen if Eliana learns that I’m controlling her body like she’s some kind of puppet. Will she try to act against me? The worst thing she could do is . . . I don’t know, drink poison or something. What if she thinks she has some kind of deranged alternate personality? Who knows how medieval fantasy people think! There’s no modern medicine, no mental healthcare. What if she gets us both locked up, and my dreams become filled with medieval torture methods?

I do feel some relief to know that she seems to be totally blind to the meta element of my involvement in the book, though clearly the other characters are able to remember me acting weird. This can work in my favor.

I flip the book back a few pages to where I was before, then leave it draped across my chest as I lie back in bed. I flip off my light. Dream time. Let’s do this.

It takes an absurdly long time for me to fall asleep, but when I do, I wake once more in the world of Alvione. I’m not where I flipped to in the book. I’m in Eliana’s bedroom with Martin, and he’s looking at me like I’m the most suspicious person on earth.

“Okay,” I say aloud, taking in the room. Eliana described her room later in the books, but it’s one thing to read a description and another to see this kind of opulence firsthand. It’s the king’s bedchamber, filled with ornate finery that borders on Rococo ridiculousness. Golden chests, bronze vases, a lush, huge bed, framed by chiffon curtains. I could get used to this. My apartment is a total Ikea shithole in comparison. My eyes find their way back to Martin, whose narrowed eyes suggest that he can tell something about me has changed. “It’s me again. Rose,” I say, giving him what I hope is a reassuring smile.

Martin throws his hands up and scowls. “Where have you been? Why are you pretending like you’re not who you are?”

I laugh awkwardly. “What, miss me?”

He glowers, giving me a disapproving frown. “Of course I didn’t miss you. Though I’m glad to know I am not the one who is totally insane here.” He looks me over. “Eliana has a condition, then? One in which you seemingly inhabit her body on a random whim? This will be a deeply difficult situation for me going forward—you do realize that, don’t you?”

“Hey,” I pout, “I didn’t ask to be here. And no, Eliana does not ‘have a condition.’ This is clearly some kind of weird magic thing. So be a good court wizard and figure it out for me.”

“Ha!” Martin throws his hands up and wanders the room. This man has a serious pacing problem. “My queen believes she is a woman from the future, from some other world, only sometimes, and you, whoever you are, demand that I fix it? It seems if anyone should know how to fix this situation, it is you, future woman.”

A wry smile finds its way onto my face. “You’re pretty funny when you’re exasperated.”

Martin just gapes at me, then covers his face with one hand. “I do despise you, Rose. You are quite exasperating indeed.”

I can’t help it. The grinning. This is so much better than last night’s dream. At least I don’t have to pretend to be Eliana with Martin. And maybe he can be an ally in this. “Actually . . . I have been trying to figure out what’s going on. In my world.” I explain the situation to him. How his world is a fictional book in mine, how the narrative seems to change with each dream, how I reappear wherever I stop reading. He listens intently. As my explanation gets longer, he settles into a loveseat in one corner of the room and rests his head in his hands, nodding occasionally so I know that he’s still paying attention. His dark hair falls in his face. It’s not tied up today, and I can see that it’s about shoulder length and a bit greasy, unkempt. I wonder if me stressing him out has led him to look so much more . . . disheveled. Or if he always looks like that. After all, The Tales of Alvione barely focuses on him at all.

When I finish, he says, “I see,” and then falls silent. After an uncomfortable, long moment, I decide to sit beside him and rest my hand on his shoulder.

“You okay, buddy?”

He doesn’t move, his face still hidden by his hands. “You say many strange things.”

“About what? Time-traveling, world-jumping dream worlds?”

“‘Duh’ and ‘buddy.’”

I laugh. “Well, yeah. I guess you have a point.”

He finally looks up at me. The frustration that had etched his face earlier is long gone. Instead, it’s been replaced with a look of concern. “How will I know if I’m speaking to you or Eliana? How will I be able to contact you, if you read ahead?”

Hm. It’s a fair question. “Maybe we should have a codeword. Something weird, but not too weird. Like pineapple.”

“What is ‘pineapple’?”

“Okay, maybe something less weird. You can choose a word. Something you wouldn’t say by accident but that wouldn’t alert Eliana to anything strange. It seems she doesn’t remember our conversations exactly right anyway.”

He sighs. “Pineapple is fine. It is strangely memorable for a nonsense word.”

I find myself smiling at him again. He doesn’t return my smile and regards me warily.

“You are unnerving.”

“What? Why?” I frown. “Do I seem that different from Eliana?”

He nods slightly. “Unrecognizable.”

I feel myself fading. I hadn’t noticed it before, but I can tell now that I must be waking up in the real world, because he’s getting further away, surrounded by blackness like I’m having some kind of tunnel vision. He seems to notice it as well—maybe it’s the look on my face.

“Are you waking?” he asks worriedly. “Don’t read ahead. Please! We have more to discuss!” I can feel his hands on my shoulders, steadying me, and the last thing I see before I wake is a frightened look on his face.

I sit up with a start in my bed. It’s morning already. My bird noises alarm is going off, getting louder and louder. I shut it off and slide the book down off my chest. I scramble for a bookmark and mark the page. I don’t want to read ahead by accident. Better to be a few pages behind and read through what has already happened.

Clearly the dreams do not move at the same pace as reality. What feels like a fifteen or twenty minute conversation in the dream seems to actually take up several hours of sleeping in the real world. Should I try timing it? No, that would be too hard. I don’t think they have pocket watches in Alvione, so I’d have to just stand in front of a bell tower. And that seems like a waste of time.

I won’t read ahead before tonight. I feel obligated not to for Martin’s sake. But I will have to do some reading ahead if I can only progress half an hour every night. This dream thing will go on for longer than I’m alive at that rate.

I sigh and unlock my phone, settling down against the pillows for a moment. My thumb freezes in its mindless swiping through social media as I see a popup notification for an email. From Alys Stone. Author of The Tales of Alvione. I tap it and stare at the screen as the email loads.

Hi Rose,

It’s great to virtually meet you. Unfortunately, Alys passed this last year, and I am unable to answer your question. I’m glad to hear you enjoyed her books.

Thank you for your message!

Martha Brown, Literary Agent

Representative of the Alys Stone Estate

My phone drops into my lap. I close my eyes.

“Fuck.”

What now?