My work day is uneventful. I spend most of it thinking about the email I received. If I can’t talk to the author, I’m really on my own here. The only person I can talk to about this whole situation seems to be a fictional character, and I’m starting to get worried about how I’ve been changing the story with each appearance.
The Wiki. I have to rely on the Wiki. I may not be able to read ahead, but surely I can glean some information on how things are going in the story by summaries online.
I’m eating boxed mac and cheese, perched on my kitchen counter, phone in hand. I scroll to Safari and pull up Google. “Tales of Alvione fandom,” I mutter aloud as I type with my thumb, a scoop of mac and cheese teetering on the spoon in my other hand. I scroll until I see the plot summary and pull it up.
The mac and cheese slips off the spoon and falls onto my pajama pants. He does what?! I slam my phone down on the counter and eat my mac and cheese as fast as I can. I need to go back to sleep. This ridiculous, frustrating little . . .
When I’m done, I place my dishes in the sink on the tip-top of an unceremonious pile and stomp off to my room. I’ll brush my teeth in the morning. I have business to take care of. I pick up the book and then, after a pause, set it back down. I don’t need to risk reading past where I was. I already tested for this. The dream will come. I lie down in bed and leave the book on my bedside table. That’ll be my new test. If I need to have contact with the book for it to work.
“When I catch you, Martin . . .” I murmur furiously to myself. Then I close my eyes.
One long hour of tossing and turning later, I wake with Martin’s hands still on my shoulders, his worried expression fading into a relieved one as he sees me returning to him.
“Thank the heavens,” he murmurs with a sigh. “I thought you might be doomed to a fainting spell.”
“Fuck you!” I snap back. He withdraws his hands, his eyes wide.
“I . . . I’m sorry. I should not have . . .” He trails off, clearly confused about what he did wrong.
“I read a summary online,” I begin, glaring at him accusingly.
“Online?”
I brush off his confusion. “If I don’t come back to this world, you lead it to ruin.”
His surprise quickly transforms into annoyance. “I would never do such a thing.”
“Oh, not deliberately. That’s for sure! The summary said that you lose interest in assisting Eliana and spend the rest of your days searching for me. Eliana fails to marry Peter without your support, and the kingdom of Ward burns the castle to the ground. Meanwhile, you prance off to god knows where, growing old in some cabin, looking through spells that could bring me back. Why? Are you obsessed with me or something?”
Martin jumps up from the loveseat, seething with contempt. “You are a most hateful little creature. I would never obsess over someone so vapid.” But then he touches his chin softly, his dark green eyes glimmering with curiosity. “I can imagine, though, that I likely learn a lot about interdimensional travel in my years of solitude. It’s a magic I’ve studied very little. Teleportation across space and negligible time is not uncommon, but to travel to another world would most likely require a portal of some sort.” He turns to me, and I’m surprised to see the corners of his mouth turning up in a half smile. “Was there anything in this ‘summary’ you read about me locating Alistria Okuta?”
I blink up at him. This guy . . . is a fucking dork. “I have never heard that name in my entire life.”
His small smile doesn’t fade, only wavers. “She was said to be one of the greatest sorcerers of all time. That she traveled to the land of the fey, even after they sealed all doorways to our world. But she is famously secretive, and few are sure that she ever even returned from their domain.”
“So . . . what are you saying?”
He grips me by the shoulders, startling me. He’s grinning at me, almost maniacally, and I’m overcome with the feeling that he is going to be one nightmare of an ally. “It means she may have answers to how you are here at all. And she may be able to fix this . . . alternative timeline you claim that we are now on.”
“Fix it?” I don’t know whether to be excited or disappointed. Because I’m starting to have fun. And thinking about this world as being just as real as my own fills me with a sense of dread. Because it means that it falling to ruin could end up hurting innocent, real people. And elves. And other magical beings.
“I will begin searching. The spy network may be of use in these affairs, though their reach is limited, considering we have to keep tabs on the kingdom of Ward and their accursed orc allies.” He begins his classic pacing about the room, his black robes trailing after him as if desperately trying to keep up with his frantic movements. “We can withdraw the spies from Viridia.” He turns to me. “Pursue Leon for now. He has a loose tongue with those he admires. If you can get him to enjoy your company, he should keep you informed of Viridia’s comings and goings and warn you of any disruptions in our alliance.”
My eyebrows shoot up. I have a real reason to go after Leon? Now we’re talking. “That I can do.”
He regards me for a moment, as if remembering I’m there. “Do not be reckless. He’s most proper, a true royal. You must behave . . . well. Unlike yourself.”
I roll my eyes. “Wow, thanks.”
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He’s already moved on to another thought, disregarding me once more. “And we must identify more about how these dreams of yours work. What laws they follow.”
“Oh yeah. So yesterday, we spoke for maybe thirty minutes, and in my world, about seven hours passed.”
“Yesterday?” He tilts his head at me, his long hair swaying to the side with him. I can’t help a small smile. He looks almost like a puppy.
“Yes, when you thought I fainted, I actually woke up and a whole day passed before I went to sleep again. And now, here I am again.”
It’s his turn to roll his eyes. He scoffs haughtily. Not that puppy-like, I think to myself dryly. “We spoke for nearly two hours. Your internal clock is notably bad.”
Two hours? “How do you know?”
He sighs. “I am a mage, am I not? Does your little book not detail the complexities of magic?”
“I thought you were a wizard.”
He sighs again, more heavily this time. “My title is Court Wizard, and I am a mage, a human magic-user. Your species is not ‘queen,’ now is it?”
I cross my arms and turn away. Sarcastic little . . . “Sorry I’m not a fucking expert in magic. My world doesn’t have magic. And my ‘little book,’ AKA your whole world, mostly focuses on Eliana’s relationships with Leon and Peter, not how you, some random mage, functions.”
He pauses in his pacing and approaches the loveseat. He crouches down in front of me, his eyes level with mine. His dark eyes sweep over my face, and I can’t help but feel a bit exposed under his probing stare. “A few things. One: This book that describes my world seems like a load of drivel. It cannot cover everything about this place, but the fact that you describe it as following romantic relationships primarily suggests to me that we have much more work to do in the realm of politics and magic. I expect you to be a prompt and eager student.” He reaches out and holds my chin steady as my eyes flick away, uncomfortable with the firm eye contact. My eyes return to his hesitantly. His hold on me isn’t forceful, but it isn’t gentle either. He looks at me very seriously. “Two: If we are to have a productive working relationship and if you intend to be a successful queen, you must stop treating this world as though it is a place for you to vacation and then abandon at will. I need you to be attentive, dedicated, and present in all affairs in Alvione. You may be a stranger from a strange land, but you are also in control of the body of our queen every night. You seem to care about the outcome of our world, the success of this kingdom, and the lives of the people. That is good. And you have chosen to return to us when you could, instead, simply read to the end of the book and let us perish as the story might then unfold. I did think that Eliana would be a difficult charge. I had little faith in her ability to succeed, and it sounds like her marriage to Peter Ward was the only thing she truly provided us politically—at least, that is what I believe from what you have told me thus far. But you have something she does not. Foresight. You can see into our future, and you might know even more about our nation than Eliana does right now. I want to see Alvione survive. I want to believe that you can handle the responsibilities we will give you. But first, I need you to believe and treat us as though we are real and accept that your hand in our world is just as influential as any other’s. You say I ruin the timeline as it currently stands by searching for you. So please, do not make me search. Return to me each night, and let us find answers about this world.”
His grip on me loosens, and he drops his hand. He’s pleading with me. I see that now. He needs me to stay. To come back and help him protect Alvione. To be a real queen. “But . . . I’m just a barista,” I choke out weakly.
“I do not know what that is.”
“Never mind,” I sigh. “I’ll do it. I promise. I’ll charm Leon while you search for this Alexa person—”
“—Alistria,” he corrects, frowning slightly.
“Right, right. And I’ll keep an eye on the summaries I find so I can anticipate what we need to worry about next. If I’m remembering correctly, the first conflict Eliana has to deal with is the slaughter of an elven caravan within the castle walls. She never learns who committed the act, and it’s considered her first failure as queen.”
Martin’s brow furrows, and he rubs his stubbly chin. “The elves are quite hated by most. Their only allies were the fey, who returned to their world and left them behind. But the killing of a caravan is an undeniably hateful act, as they are meant to be protected as a show of our goodwill.” His eyes widen slightly. “There is a caravan arriving tomorrow. Might it be them?”
“I’m not sure,” I admit quietly. “But we’ll have to worry about that as well. Maybe find a way to prevent it, or at least catch the people who do it. If we can strengthen our alliance with the elves, Ward and his orcs may be less inclined to strike. Even though their numbers are low, elves are supposed to be great fighters, right?”
“And skilled magic users,” Martin says with a nod. He smiles up at him, and I realize this is the first genuine smile I’ve seen from him. It’s a relief I didn’t realize I was waiting for. He pats my cheek affectionately. “Very good, Rose. We have some short-term goals now, and you have proven yourself quite clever.”
“Gee, thanks,” I murmur. The praise has me feeling a bit shy but also insulted. How stupid did this guy think I was?
“We should also discuss the matter of—”
A loud knock on my door makes us both jump. Martin’s eyes shoot over to me, and he regards me suspiciously.
“Who would be visiting you at such a late hour? You know it’s highly inappropriate for a queen to be in private with men,” he whispers to me, an accusing look on his face. Well, so much for us getting along and trusting each other.
“What, like you?” I shoot back, returning his glare with one just as ferocious. Acting like I’m some kind of sex-crazed harlot . . . As if he would even know. “And how do you know it’s a man, anyway? It could be one of the maids.”
“I am a mage, remember?”
“I don’t know what you can do, remember?” I snap back sarcastically.
“Just answer the door. I will be in your wardrobe.”
“What?!”
With that, he climbs into one of the oversized cabinets on the far end of the room. Jesus fucking Christ. I walk over to the door and, after a brief pause, open it slowly. “Yes?”
The word falls out of my mouth as my jaw drops slightly.
“Eliana, right?” The man says, his lopsided grin shining wickedly in the candlelight. He’s exactly as I expected. His cropped black hair, straight, shiny, and rain-soaked, falls down in his face, covering dark, quirked brows. His deep brown eyes look black in the low light, glittering with charm, with long dark lashes that cast shadows down the gentle slope of his cheekbones. He’s wearing the signature blue cloak of his kingdom—a rich navy blue that’s dark enough to hide bloodstains—and heavy boots splattered with mud that he’s trailed all down the hall. And of course, on his clean shaven face are his two legendary, criss-crossed, pale white scars, dangerously painting an X through one brow and over and across his purposefully spared eye. He leans over me with that famous predatory grin, and I can smell the earthy stench of rain and grass wafting off of him.
Not Jesus Christ. Peter fucking Ward.