1.
Good fiction is self-sustaining. It’s an illusion with good bones, so to say. When you’re in it, you can poke it and pull it and sniff it and kick it, and it holds up all the same.
In a well made world of fiction, you can drop in anywhere and find people who know what they’re doing and why they’re doing it. They don’t need someone telling them what to do. And the things they do make sense – at least to them.
Good fiction feels real. And when you live in good fiction, you’re living in the next closest thing to reality. Or maybe they’re not really different at all.
Bad fiction, though, is another thing. It’s tenuous. Filled with gaps in both space and logic. In a world of bad or badly made fiction, the slightest whiff of unreality can bring the whole thing down.
“Why am I here?”
“Why am I doing this?”
“Why are any of us doing this?”
It’s a tragic thing when a fiction collapses in on itself. All fiction, even bad fiction, is as real as you believe it to be. And when it’s no longer real, it no longer exists. And when something stops existing, that’s a death of a sort. Something was there and now it isn't.
There are all sorts of fictions in the universe. Stories built on adventure and mystery and fantasy. But of all the fictions, the most dangerously constructed is one built on romance.
Think about it: an entire world built around the will-they/won’t-they of two individuals. Filled with background characters who only exist to make one single romance a reality. An entire universe dedicated to the love of two characters.
It’s deranged, in a way. And deeply compromised. Because what happens after happily ever after? Especially if that happily ever after isn’t all that happy to begin with?
You may have had that one relationship that felt like life and death, like the universe would collapse if you weren’t together, but in this case, universes really do fall apart when certain relationships don’t work out. If they can’t make it work, that’s it – for them and everything else.
So if you’ve got a world that’s built on such a fragile foundation, what do you do?
You call me.
Delia’s eyes briefly cross. “I’m sorry…what?”
It’s the fifth interview of the day and frankly, they’ve all gone about the same.
“Where did I lose you?”
She blinks. “What…exactly do you do?”
“Uh…couples counseling. Just…couples counseling.”
Delia makes a face. It’s the sort of face that says, I am making an effort, you’ve got to at least give me that. “But what about the part about fiction…and fictional worlds?”
“I travel into fictional worlds. Specifically, worlds of romance fiction. And that’s where…that’s where I do the counseling. I mean I call it ‘counseling.’ Maybe ‘problem solving’ is more accurate.”
Roger was an excellent assistant. I knew replacing him was going to be difficult, but I suppose I didn’t appreciate just how good I’d had it.
Delia nods. She’s not agreeing with me, she’s clearly just trying to fill the awkward space between us with something. “And…how do you do that?”
“Oh.” That’s a bit of a breakthrough. I haven’t gotten to this question yet. “I go to the Library.”
“Right.” Delia stands up sharply. “This is a joke. This is like a prank Tik Tok…YouTube thing. Why does this keep happening to me?” She begins gathering her paperwork. “At least they didn’t get me into a hot dog suit this time…”
“No, wait!” I put my hands over her pen and resume. This really has become a desperate situation. If I have to go another day without an assistant I may throw myself in front of oncoming traffic. “I can see how that might sound like a joke. But I’m being very serious.”
She pauses, I suppose considering whether or not the pen is really worth all the effort. Luckily for me it’s a nice pen.
“I’ll show you,” I say. “It’s called the Library, but it’s not quite the kind of library you’re thinking of. I think if you see it you’ll have a better idea what I’m saying.”
Now Delia looks into my eyes with great scrutiny. A generous reading of her expression is that she’s trying to determine if I have a trustworthy face. A less generous reading is that she’s trying to determine exactly how easy I am to defeat in single combat.
“Alright, but I’m on the clock.”
I blink. This is the closest I’ve been to having an employee since Roger left and Roger was more my boss than I was his. I really can’t mess this up.
“Alright, but you’ll have to pay me if you don’t take the job.”
Delia shakes her head. “How’s that supposed to work?”
“Well, you’ll be handling payroll, so…I’m not really sure.”
Delia nods, picking up her very nice pen. “The desperation is starting to make sense. Let’s go.”
We take Delia’s car because I don’t know how to drive. “I’m billing you for this, too,” she says, but doesn’t complain otherwise.
Following my directions, we head down Blanton Ave, stopping two blocks south of the onramp to the 280. There’s a sandwich shop, an ice cream parlor, a small furniture store, and a kiosk that sells earrings and piercings, all clustered together with old apartments on the second and third floor. Between the ice cream shop and the furniture store there’s a door that says 1001. The number doesn’t really correspond with anything else, but it’s the sort of small door you likely walk by everyday without ever noticing, so the number was pretty arbitrary.
The small door has a small set of number keys above the doorknob where you can input a security code. I hover a moment at the door.
“Did you forget the code?” asks Delia.
“No.” I check my watch. “You can only enter the Library at the 11, 22, 33, 44, and 55 minute mark of any hour.”
Delia sighs. “Well, good thing I’m on the clock.”
At precisely 2:33pm, I enter the code and we walk through the door.
There is no preamble to the Library. Once you walk through the door, you’re there. So Delia’s reaction was immediate.
“What the…holy…”
It’s a big space, bigger than logic and zoning permits would suggest it could be. And while it looks at first like a library, it seems more like an old VHS and DVD rental business. The books – and there are quite a few of them – are predominantly lined up face out, so the covers are exposed. It seems less a cataloging of works and more of a literary meat market, with all the best cuts out on display.
“The covers are moving,” says Delia.
“Well, yes,” I say. “You remember earlier when I said that fiction is a sort of reality…at least to those inside it?”
Delia doesn’t respond. She continues staring at the covers where scenes are playing out like smudgy amateur animation.
“When a fictional world is created, it…comes here. Or at least, a window into that world opens in this Library. This is how we provide our services.”
Delia wanders through the hedge of books, hands hovering, but never touching those moving covers. “And you’ve got every story here?”
“No. Not every story is alive. And some stories start alive, but don’t quite make it.”
“Why would a story die?”
“That’s sort of what we exist to address.”
Delia looks up. There’s a twinkle in her eye, I think. Or maybe it’s the glare off her glasses. Either way, it’s beginning to feel like I’ve got my new Roger.
“Take me into one.”
I can’t hesitate. Not now. And I certainly can’t give her the chance to rethink things.
“I’ve got a dire case,” I tell her, taking her hand and pulling her up the stairs to the second floor. “We’ll need to get changed first.”
“Changed?”
Of course you can’t just waltz into any story dressed the way you woke up. You need to blend in. And while fictional characters will, by their nature, attempt to rationalize your appearance, accent, and ignorance within the context of their understanding, you don’t want to push these things too far. That’s why it’s so important that you look the part.
“Well, this is hideous.” Delia flicks at the tan wool dress. “How come I can’t pick my own costume?”
“I’m a little more practiced at this,” I reply. “You’ll be my servant in this world, and this is how…”
“Excuse me?”
“Well, obviously not really,” I say quickly, flustered. “You’re playing a part. And that part needs to make sense to those who are already in the story. The more seamless you fit, the less questions we’ll have to answer and the easier our work will be.”
“Why can’t you be the servant?”
“Well, it’s…I’ll be doing the…in my mind, it makes the most sense if…”
Roger never complained about his costumes.
“Much better!” Delia admires her new gown, red velvet and adorned with a star field of tiny jewels. “This works for a world like this, wouldn’t you say? I’ll be the visiting heiress, you’ll be my loyal footman.”
“Perhaps.” I don’t think the scenario requires me to be a “loyal footman”, but again, there’s no sense poisoning the well. Not when I’m so close to hooking my next assistant.
“So…” Delia points at the book. “How do we get in there?”
“Ah, it’s pretty clever, actually.” There is a writing desk on the north side of the Library. It’s wooden and wobbly, and the little drawer where you can store your pens is very sticky, but it came with the Library, so I don’t think I can just order a replacement from IKEA. I take a small slip of paper and an unremarkable ink pen and write a few short sentences.
I take the slip and place it between the last page of the book and the back cover. “I’ve just added us to the story.”
“What did you write?”
“Err, just…just that we were riding in a carriage to the royal city.”
Delia squints. “Any details? Did you describe the carriage? Describe the road? Say if any of the townsfolk were impressed by my dress?”
“You don’t really need any of that,” I stutter. “Best to keep it simple and let the story itself shape you into something that matches the world.”
“Sounds like you aren’t much of a writer.”
I ignore the perfectly valid criticism. “Last part’s the easiest – just put your hand on the cover and close your eyes.”
Delia does not hesitate. Her curiosity is certainly powerful. That can be a good thing in this line of work…in the right proportions.
As soon as Delia’s hand hits the book, she disappears. I put out my hand and follow her.
2.
As I had previously noted, I didn’t need to describe the carriage. This story knows what kind of carriages it does and does not have. It also knows that carriages in this world are not meant to be especially noticeable. This is not a story about a carriage maker or a carriage racer, after all. Unless a carriage is actively turning into a pumpkin, the story more or less lets you fill in the blanks.
“It’s interesting,” says Delia. “It’s not a bad carriage. Seems quite nice, actually. But once we’re not inside it anymore, I’m not sure I’ll be able to say a single thing about what it looked like.”
“There’s going to be quite a lot of that, I’m afraid.” I point out the window at a man pushing a wheelbarrow down the road. “What’s in the wheelbarrow?”
Delia stares hard. “I can’t tell.”
“You’ll never be able to tell. There’s something in the wheelbarrow, but this story doesn’t know or care what. It’s not important. The people who live in this story don’t notice. They don’t think about those sorts of things at all. Does the man with the wheelbarrow full of nothing ever arrive at his destination? We could get out of the carriage and follow him and I don’t believe he would ever get anywhere.”
“That seems cruel somehow.”
“Why?”
“Well, I’d certainly prefer to actually get somewhere.”
“He is, though.” I tap the glass. “Or at least he thinks he is. He’s not going nowhere. It’s just that the somewhere he’s going hasn’t been considered by the author. He knows. We don’t. Those sorts of gaps in a story are only a problem for the people thinking about them. He’s not thinking about it, so it’s not a problem.”
Delia frowns. “You wouldn’t think make believe would be so complicated.”
“Everything is complicated if you think about it too much.”
The carriage stops outside the bronze gates of a large, gothic estate. There is no one available to open the gate for us or to prevent us from opening the gate ourselves, so that’s exactly what we do. The path leading from the gate to the front door is lined with marble fountains and untidy flower beds. The grass is all a bit too tall and wild for this sort of estate.
“Seems to be going to seed,” remarks Delia. “I thought she was a princess?”
“Sister of the Crown Prince,” I say. “Formerly a princess. Gave it up for her husband.”
“A commoner?”
“Worse. Her butler.”
Delia pulls an especially dubious face. “I’m imagining an old, white-haired English gentleman and feeling slightly traumatized.”
“Oh no, nothing like that. Same age, give or take a grade.” I knock on the door. The room beyond is quiet and the knocking echoes back into the courtyard. “She was bequeathed to the son of a duke. Fell in love with her childhood friend, the butler’s son. Gave up her claim to the throne and her title for love. Some other minor barriers along the way, of course, but love triumphs in the end.”
The door remains closed. I knock once more.
“Except not really,” says Delia. “Otherwise, we wouldn’t be here.”
She’s perceptive. Or perhaps I’m grading on a curve because I’m so desperate for an assistant. Either way, it bodes well that she’s following along.
At last, the door swings open. The woman standing on the other side is short and grim and openly dismayed about having to talk to us.
“What?” she says. “What d’ya want?”
“Is the lady of the house in?” asks Delia. “I am a visiting heiress.” She says this with great flourish.
“Huh?” The woman is unimpressed and unmoved. Delia freezes. It’s becoming quite clear that she hasn’t really fleshed out her character beyond her opening proclamation.
“This is the Lady Chelying, from Canter-on-the-Bay,” I add quickly. “The King’s brother’s wife’s second cousin. Come for a long overdue visit.”
The woman’s face remains impassive. “We’re not really seeing guests at the moment.”
“Wedding presents!” says Delia suddenly. “How silly. We’ve come bearing some lovely presents for the bride and groom.”
“Money?” says the woman at the door, face brightening noticeably. “Should’ve started with that. Alright come in. Come in. Just…keep your expectations in check.”
The house is grand…or at least it clearly once was grand. At the moment it’s fallen into disarray and disrepair. A grand, cavernous castle unattended and possibly infested with bears. There is dust and debris in every corner. Broken furniture rests atop unbroken furniture. It is a slow decay of increasing disinterest.
“The Lady’s out, but the man’s around if that’ll tide you over.” The maid isn’t asking a question, so she doesn’t wait for a response. “Harry?” she bellows. “Harry, we’ve got guests.”
There are cautious footsteps from the stairs. “I’m gonna have a lie down,” declares the maid before taking her leave.
The man descending the steps is handsome and tidy in a way that does not fit the household as it currently stands. He seems openly shameful of his home, but musters up a visible burst of confidence before reaching the end of the stairs.
“Harry Reardon,” he says, holding out a hand, first to Delia, then to myself. “I really must apologize for the state of things. It’s just…” He shakes his head. There is no satisfactory explanation.
Harry Reardon is handsome. That is not in dispute. And although he was the son of the head butler and famously wore unfashionable glasses as a boy, he was quite obviously handsome back then, too.
Harry was and is the sort of man you’d have a hard time not falling in love with. Which is why the princess did, and why readers were thrilled with that outcome. But even now, the story having moved on, and time (imaginary as it is) having moved forward, Harry still maintains a boyish grace and unimpeachable sort of charm. He is tired, yes, quite obviously, and ashamed of his circumstances, yes, quite openly, and shabby now I’ve gotten a good look at him, but he is every bit the commoner turned prince. The prize at the end of the fairy tale. Even if he isn’t actually a prince and his wife is no longer a princess.
“What’s wrong with your marriage?” says Delia. I would choke if I had anything in my mouth to choke on.
“Beg pardon?” says Harry, smiling, earnest but confused.
“Well this…” Delia gestures around the living area. “This can’t be what you both had in mind when you got married, is it?”
Harry chuckles. “Truthfully, I’m not sure what I had in mind. It was all…well it happened very fast. Even when I confessed my love to dearest Ella, I didn’t really expect my feelings to be returned. And certainly not for her to reject her claim to the throne in order to marry me. And then we got married so quickly…”
“Really was a bit of a rushed ending, wasn’t it?” I mutter, briefly forgetting myself.
“But we’re happy,” says Harry. “And that’s all that matters.”
“Are you?” says Delia. I make a mental note to discuss the concept of “tact” with her later.
“Y..yes?”
“And where’s your bride?” asks Delia. “Where’s Ella?”
“Out,” says Harry limply. “She likes to get a bit of air from time to time.”
“We’d been hoping to spend a little time with the pair of you,” I say, bravely interjecting myself back into the conversation. “When will she be back?”
Harry’s smile is rubbery and heavy, like most of the muscles in his face were sore from forced labor. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t say.”
“Well, why not?” says Delia, clearly annoyed. “She’s your wife, isn’t she? She gave up everything else for you, didn’t she?”
That sad, heavy smile. “Yes,” says Harry. “Unfortunately, she has.”
“We’ll be back.” I grab Delia by the arm, perhaps more firmly than a footman ought to grab the King’s brother’s wife’s second cousin. But Delia doesn’t fight me and we escape out of the sad, dirty manor.
“Well, there’s the problem,” says Delia, pointing back to the house. “No backbone. No wonder they’re on shaky ground.”
“These things tend to be a bit more complex than that,” I explain.
“You’re going to blame the wife, aren’t you?”
I flush, though I’m unclear what emotion is the cause. “I don’t blame anyone. We don’t blame anyone. Relationships never fall apart or come together because of only one participant. It’s a push and pull. A give and take. Typically these things go sideways because the balance is off. Pulled too far. Too much taken, too little given.”
Delia squints at me. “Exactly how many relationships have you been in?”
“That has nothing to do with anything.”
“It feels like it has a little to do with this.”
“You don’t need to be a dinosaur to be an archeologist.”
“...what?”
I take Delia by the arm. “The point is that we need to find Ella. Half of the story is basically none of the story.”
Delia follows, still pointing back to the manor. “We didn’t even get his half of the story, though!”
3.
How do you find a character in a world of fiction?
You might think that simply reading the story itself would tell you everything you need to know, but that’s rarely the case. Stories are a collection of important turning points. Pins in a map that stretches across physical space and invisible time. If you’re looking for someone at one of those junctions, it’s easy enough.
But what about all the points in-between? And what about the blank pages at the back of the book, where nothing is written? Because the characters are still in there, even when the book can’t tell you exactly where they are or what they’ve gotten up to (usually because the author didn’t think you needed, or wanted, to know).
If you think the answer is in the Library, you’re wrong. I had the same thought, too, once. Just write yourself into the story by creating a scene and you can come face-to-face with whoever you like. But I learned very quickly that this is not a good way to make an entrance. It is, in the world of the story, a very conspicuous entrance. There’s no way around it. You write yourself entering a scene and you immediately become the focal point of that scene. Which is not helpful in my profession. You become memorable. You become a potential source of conflict. If the story is a western, someone will almost certainly draw a gun on you.
Luckily there’s a very easy way to find the main character if you ever find yourself inside a piece of fiction and all it takes is a marble or some similarly smooth, heavy ball.
The ground in a fictional world is always even and level unless it’s purposefully written not to be. If two characters are walking down a road and it’s not specified that they’re walking up an incline, or down a decline, you can safely assume that the ground is perfectly flat.
That’s where the marble comes in. Drop it and see which way it rolls.
How does it roll if the ground is perfectly flat? Easy. It’s because a main character carries more weight than any other character. It’s true! It’s probably not noticeable to any of the other characters, but it’s absolutely true. And as a result, their fictional world is always tilted slightly in their direction.
Pretty neat, right?
I don’t explain any of this to Delia.
“What’s with the marble?” she asks.
“Nothing,” I say, scooping up my prized turquoise and yellow swirled Big Mauler. “She’s this way.”
The town is small and short on details, which makes it easy to find the bride and former princess. She’s sitting outside a cafe. There are two empty glasses at the table along with a third glass that is in the process of becoming empty.
“Ella, I presume,” says Delia, taking a seat at the small table with no hesitation or invitation.
Ella Reardon has a naturally suspicious look about her. She isn’t paranoid, but distrustful and quick to anger. She is the sort of heroine you love as a reader, but would likely balk at actually marrying. She is pretty, though, a symmetrical brunette with a clothing style that doesn’t quite match the setting.
She’s also drunk.
“What’d’ya want? Money? Go talk to Harry.”
“Is money a problem?” asks Delia. “Husband won’t work? Too lazy, I bet.”
“What?” Ella blinks. “No. Wait. Who are you?”
“I’m the Lady Helling,” says Delia.
“Chelying,” I whisper.
“Right, Lady Chelying. Canter-on-the-Bay. I’m a relative. I came to visit.” Delia leans in. “If your husband is abusive, blink three times and I’ll take care of the rest.”
Ella shakes her head. “Never heard of you.”
“We apologize,” I say quickly. “We meant to visit much earlier and congratulate you on your wedding. We don’t mean to take up too much of your time.”
Ella looks us over once more. Though drunk, there is still a slyness to her that suggests she is able to see more than most people. “Fine. Yes. Of course. Thank you for visiting. I apologize for the cold welcome. Have you been by the house?”
She says this last line with caution. It seems fairly clear what she wants the answer to be.
“We have,” says Delia, blasting past any and all subtle social clues. “Quite a wreck. And I thought your husband used to be a butler? Did he forget how to dust when you said, ‘I do’?”
“No, not at all.” There is a flash there. Protectiveness? Anger at speaking ill of her husband? “Harry is the man of the house. He’s not a butler. It’s not right for him to do that kind of work.”
“Though that is the work he is most suited to do?” I ask. Ella glares at me.
“Who are you?”
“My footman,” says Delia. “Terribly sorry. He’s got a mouth on him.”
I glance from Delia to Ella and realize that I may have inadvertently increased the difficulty of this particular job.
“My apologies,” I mumble. “I simply have empathy for anyone in the service industry.”
“Which my husband is not,” snaps Ella. “He is not a butler. He is my husband.”
“And what are you, exactly?” says Delia, who seems to be trying to ascertain whether or not getting punched by a fictional character hurts as much as the real thing. I could have told her that yes, yes it does, and saved us all a lot of haranguing.
“You don’t have any claim to the throne,” presses Delia. “A house, but no real title. No power. Not much money from the looks of things. Just a husband, who you seem to be avoiding.”
I am reminded again what a great assistant Roger was. He let me do nearly all of the talking. Not at all confrontational. Often blended into the background when he wasn’t needed. Very good with Excel spreadsheets.
Ella pushes back from the table. “How dare you speak to me like this! I may not be a princess anymore, but I have my dignity. Stay away from me and my husband.”
Somewhat predictably, Ella storms off into the fictional town. There’s no point in following her. She’s written to be stubborn and we don’t have enough time to get her to change her mind.
“Hit a nerve, didn’t I?” says Delia proudly. “She got what she wanted and now she’s having a hard time with what that really means. Classic stuff. Is this what happens after every love story ends?”
“Every? Oh, no. Certainly not.” I stare in the direction where Ella disappeared. The longer I look, the fewer details I can see, as if that section of the street where only temporary and now, no longer needed, was forgetting itself. “This is just the sort where two characters make choices that look good on paper but are quite a bit harder to manage in reality.”
“Reality?”
“You know what I mean.”
Delia nods. “So basically, once the author lets go of the reins, the characters have to contend with all of their decisions and actions.”
“Not unlike you and me,” I add. “But we’ve got autonomy from the start. We make decisions with our best interests in mind. Self-preservation and such. Good authors can take that into account. A well written character makes choices not because the story says they should, but because it’s the choice they always would have made.”
“Where does that leave the princess and the butler?”
“In the real world? Divorce, probably. He’s too wrapped up in what she wants and supporting her decisions. He exists solely to love her and be self-sacrificing in any way she demands. She’s too proud and stubborn to admit that she regrets giving up her position and she resents him for letting her do that. She’ll probably never ask for a divorce because she’s too embarrassed. He’ll only ask for a divorce when he realizes how miserable she is. Prognosis: not great.”
Delia looks genuinely concerned in a way I didn’t think was possible. “And then what about this?” She points to the cafe, to another nearby patron, to a pair of children running down the street and laughing. “What happens to this?”
I shrug. “If things didn’t change? If they did eventually realize that the marriage was a mistake? Collapse. This would all fall apart and disappear.”
Delia gasps slightly, although I feel strongly that I’ve explained this to her before. Perhaps it’s more real once you’re inside one of these fictional worlds.
“This world exists for Ella and Harry,” I explain. “Its only purpose is to support their story. Their love. If that doesn’t exist then there’s no reason for this world to exist. It all goes away.”
Delia looks at me, making a pointed amount of eye contact. “But that won’t happen, right? Because you’re here. This is what you do, right?”
I allow myself a small smile. It’s nice being recognized as a professional in your craft.
“Exactly,” I say. “We won’t let it collapse.” I say “we” with a lot of intentionality, because despite Delia’s aggressive peculiarities, I really do need an assistant willing to start immediately.
“So what’s the plan?”
4.
An author is an architect. They design and build fictional worlds. So it should be easy enough for someone with a little skill and know how to grab a pencil and create a few renovations in that world, right?
No. Not right. Wrong actually.
Because a story isn’t a house. You can’t just hire someone to come in and add a deck. You can’t DIY a new sink and slap together a tile backsplash. You can’t pull out the shrubs and put in new flower boxes.
The story won’t let you.
Write your own, with whatever kind of backsplash you like.
Because a story isn’t a house. It’s a program and you have read-only access. No changing the code. You have to live with it the way it’s been built. But if you understand the code, if you understand how the story works, you can make the story do what you want, go where you want it to go.
It’s never really about changing anything. Just altering the flow.
Delia and I go to the Westington Imperial Academy of Service. It’s where Harry trained to be a butler. I know where it is because there’s a whole passage in the book where a young Ella runs away to the Academy to visit Harry during his formal training. To arrive we simply had to recreate Ella’s steps in the book, which involved stowing away in a cart full of hay and caged chickens, crossing a river on a plank of wood, and catching a ride with the Headmaster’s personal chef whose carriage is apparently always temporarily broken down two miles outside of the Academy should you ever need a lift.
“Lady Chelying, Canter-on-the-Bay,” says Delia, offering a hand to the old, roly-poly Dean. He is confused by our presence, but quick to take Delia’s offered hand.
“A pleasure,” says the Dean, who has a brass and oak nameplate on his desk that simply reads, DEAN.
“I won’t take much of your time,” says Delia. “I have a proposal that I think would do a lot for all parties involved.”
“I…” The unnamed Dean sputters. How does he react in these types of situations? He doesn’t know. It’s never come up before. Should he be rude? Aloof? Sexist and comically horny? He doesn’t know. He’s never had to be much more than a prop. A bit of scenery.
“I’m in the trade myself,” I say. “Footman by title, but an unusually connected sort of footman, if you catch my meaning.”
“Ear to the ground,” says Delia, pointing to her ear. “Knows which way the wind is blowing.”
“Truly?” says the Dean, still unsure how to react to anything that we’re giving him.
“The demand for butlers is about to explode,” I say. “Here it’s a luxury reserved only for members of the royal family and their extended patrons, but abroad…”
“It’s all the rage,” says Delia with a flourish of her kerchief. “Russia. Far Asia. The States. More and more, the wealthy elite across the globe have begun to crave the tasteful refinement of the English butler.”
“They all must have one,” I add. “As grand as this school is, the supply is not currently strong enough to meet the demand.”
“That demand equals paying students,” says Delia. “It’s going to become a very competitive field. You don’t have the capacity to handle what’s coming.”
The Dean is clearly certain of one thing: it is better to have more students than less. That’s one of the few traits universal to all fictional deans, no matter how underwritten. So he leans into the only thing that feels uncomplicated.
“More staff, you think?”
Delia and I both nod. “But not just any staff,” I say. “Exceptional staff. You may be the only game in town for now Mr….Dean, but it won’t be that way forever. Where there’s money, there’s competition.”
“You have the advantage now,” says Delia. “You can’t afford to waste it.”
“You need the very best,” I say, and now I pause a moment, gathering every bit of gravitas available to me. “You need…Harry Reardon.”
“Harry Reardon, you say?” The Dean’s face opens up a bit. That’s the first thing he’s heard that he’s been explicitly programmed to understand. “Harry was a wonderful student.”
“The very best,” I say. The Dean nods. That’s an indisputable fact of this world. Harry Reardon was the best student in the history of the Westington Imperial Academy of Service.
“What of Harry?” says the Dean. “He married the princess, didn’t he? Gave up the job.”
“The job of a butler, perhaps,” I say. “But not the passion of a butler. Not the knowledge. Not the skill.”
“He’s retired,” says Delia. “Not dead.”
The Dean strokes his chin. “I see, I see. But what of it?”
Delia leans forward. “What if I told you that Harry Reardon was receptive to the possibility of taking a job here at the Academy?”
“Harry would?” sputters the Dean. “Truly?”
“It would have to be a very good offer,” I say. “But this is the premier Academy of Service in the country. And business is about to be very, very good. I’m sure you could make him a very competitive offer.”
“Of course,” says the Dean. “He’s married to the princess. He wouldn’t come work for a pittance. That’s sensible.”
I stand up. Our work here is done. “The truth is, I consider Harry a friend, but I am also an admirer of his work. I would hate for his incredible craft to go to waste. And I can think of no better use of that talent than to pass it on to the next generation of butlers. Don’t you agree?”
The Dean’s pink face is bright and sweaty and beaming. If he knew nothing else, he knew that Harry Reardon was special. To have Harry work as an instructor at his Academy? It was almost as if the Westington Imperial Academy of Service was about to become the center of the world.
There is nothing else to say, or do. The story is moving forward, over though it is.
5.
By the time we make it back to the manor, Harry and Ella and their maid have begun to pack the place up. Just like in the real world, life presses forward, whether anyone is there to see it happen.
“I hope this isn’t a bad time?” says Delia as we stand at the front door. But Ella and Harry are all smiles.
“The Lady Chelying!” says Ella, rushing forward to take Delia’s hand.
“And her loyal footman,” adds Harry quickly with a little nod of respect.
“I apologize for our first meeting,” says Ella. “Things were…I wasn’t at my best.”
“Things seem quite well now,” says Delia. “Moving out?”
“Yes.” Ella grabs Harry in a big hug. “Harry has been hired as the new headmaster at Westington Academy. New students are flocking to the Academy from all across the country.”
“The world,” says Harry.
“All across the world,” says Ella. “They’ve built us a lovely mansion up on the grounds of the Academy, bigger even than this one. And his salary package is more than generous.”
“I’m genuinely not sure how they can afford it,” says Harry with an embarrassed smile.
“It’s all…it’s all quite wonderful,” says Ella.
“A bit more like you imagined things would be?” I say, briefly forgetting my station.
“I’m not sure we did imagine how things would be,” says Harry. “I suppose that may have created preventable problems.”
“You’re young,” says Delia. “Youth is mostly about running headfirst into preventable problems.”
Ella pulls on Delia’s arm. “Come, come. The house is a mess, but I’d love to talk a bit. I never knew I had relations in Canter-on-the-Bay.”
Delia steps into the room, then catches my eye. “I’m sorry. We were just passing through. Bit of a rush. We…I just wanted to check in on you one last time before we headed home.”
“Really?” Ella’s disappointment is genuine.
We say our goodbyes and take our leave.
“And they’ll be fine like that?” she asks.
I nod. “It’s a bit more self-sustaining this way, don’t you think? Not perfect. Ideally you’d like for them to understand each other a little better. Change how they approach life and their relationship. But sometimes it’s enough to just change the circumstances. He’s happy. She’s proud of her husband and no longer worries that she made the wrong decisions. It’ll hold.”
Delia looks thoughtful. “They all felt very real. How long…how long could someone like us stay here?”
“Someone real?” Delia doesn’t respond. “I don’t know. I’ve never been tempted to stay any longer than is entirely necessary.”
We reach the road where our carriage is waiting.
“How do we get home?” asks Delia as we step aboard the carriage.
“It’s nothing exciting, I’m afraid,” I say, taking my seat. “We just ride.”
“Just ride?”
“Aimlessly and endlessly, until we fall asleep.”
Delia looks skeptical. “We just need to fall asleep?”
I nod. “We’ll wake up in the Library.” I settle in and close my eyes. I prefer to fall asleep sooner than later. But Delia stays awake. Every so often I peek through the slits of my eyelids and she’s looking out the window. Looking at what? A fictional landscape, half-considered, instantly forgettable? But she soaks it up, not quite wanting to let it go.
She does eventually, of course. We wake up in the Library. Well, I wake up. Delia’s already awake.
She’s looking at me. It’s a bit more intense than I find comfortable.
“And we would keep doing that?” she says. “In other stories?”
I sit up. “That’s the idea.”
She pauses a moment, gathering her thoughts. “What did you say before? About main characters having more weight?”
“They’re the center of the story,” I say. “These sorts of stories, anyway. Everything revolves around them. They have a special gravity, I guess you could say.”
Delia’s eyes flash. “And what about us?”
“What do you mean?”
“We changed their story, didn’t we? We were stronger than their gravity. Do we have our own gravity?”
“No. Well.” I don’t know. I’m not good at theoretical conversations when I first wake up. “We’re different, though. We’re real people invading an unreal space.”
“It didn’t feel unreal, though.”
“It was. It is.”
“I couldn’t really tell the difference.”
Panic. Anxiety. My fingers start to flicker with no pattern or reason. I forget about this. I forget how easy it is to lose yourself in fiction.
“The man with the wheelbarrow, remember? Going nowhere. Carrying nothing.”
Delia shakes her head. “I don’t know that. I didn’t talk to him. And how is that any different than the hundreds of cars that drive past me on the freeway every day. Who are they? Where are they going? How do I know they ever actually get somewhere?”
I reach out and take Delia’s hands. “Please don’t. Don’t. Don’t let yourself think that way. That’s…that’s not a thing you can do safely. You are real. I am real. This is real. I know that was all very lifelike. Even bad stories can be transporting, can make you forget where you are. But this is the only real place.”
Delia darts forward, closing the gap between us, kissing me on the lips. It’s not a sensual kiss, although I’m far from an expert on the subject. It feels more desperate. Afraid.
“What if we’re the main characters?” she whispers, face hovering inches from my own. “What if this is a love story?”
“It’s not.”
“What if this is a romance?”
“It’s not.”
“If we don’t end up together…”
I grab Delia by the shoulders. “It’s not a story. The world won’t end if we don’t end up together.”
“How do you know that?”
I don’t. How could I ever prove something like that? “I just do.”
Delia stands up, crosses to the small, wobbly desk and grabs a pen. I know where this is going but I can’t stop it.
Delia drops the pen. It’s a smooth, round pen. It bounces twice, up and down, and begins to roll, slowly, and only so slightly, in my direction.
“The foundation is uneven,” I shout. Delia shakes her head.
“I think I get it.”
“I don’t think you do.”
“No, I think I’ve got it.” She walks to the door. “This is only the beginning of the story. Chapter one. It’s okay for us to not be together now. We just have to be together when the story ends.”
“It’s not a story.”
“Everything is a story.”
Delia leaves. She’s not my assistant, but I’m sure that I’ll see her again, even though it would be best if I didn’t.
I glance at the book on the stand. At least Ella and Harry will be okay.
“No.”
Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe bad fiction isn’t meant to be saved. Maybe I’d be better off letting those worlds disintegrate naturally.
But I know I can’t help myself.
I know I’ll back tomorrow. Back in another unreal world. Back looking for a new assistant.
I regard the pen on the floor. If only it had rolled in any other direction. I pick it up, move across the floor, and pause. A part of me wants to drop it again. To see what happens.
But that’s silly. That’s the sort of thing that ruins people like Delia.
I put the pen back on the desk and leave the Library.
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