The Memory Theater

1

Dora and Thistle spent the party hiding under a side table. The lords and ladies twirled between the marble statues on the dance floor, heels clattering on the cracked cobblestones to a rhythm that slid back and forth in uneven and hypnotic syncopation. One-two-three-four-five, one-two-three-four-five-six. Satin skirts brushed against brocade coats; playful eyes glittered in powdered faces. Lady Mnemosyne, resplendent in her laurel wreath and leafy dress, watched from her throne. It was like any other feast in this place, in eternal twilight, under a summer sky. At the edge of the dance floor, servants waited by buffet tables laden with cornucopias and drink.

Thistle sighed. “You’ve got grass all over your front.”

Dora blinked and peered down at her pinafore. It did have grass on it. The dress itself smelled sour and sat too tight over her chest and upper back, and the edges of the veil around her shoulders were frayed. She was not at all as clean and neat as Thistle, who sat with the coattails of his celadon livery neatly folded in his lap. His lips and cheeks were rouged, his hazel eyes rimmed with black, his cropped auburn curls slicked against his skull.

Dora reached out and rubbed the collar of Thistle’s coat between her fingers. The velvet felt like mouse fur. Thistle gently pried her hand off.

“You need to be more careful,” he said.

A loud crash made them jump, and Dora lifted the tablecloth to peek outside. One of the ladies had upended a buffet table and sprawled in the ruins of a cornucopia. She laughed and smeared fruit over her skirts. Thistle took Dora’s free hand and began to clean her nails with a small rosewood stick.

“Servants!”

Heels clicked over the stones. A hoarse voice called out: “Servants! Servants!”

It was Lady Augusta, Thistle’s mistress. Dora dropped the tablecloth. Thistle quickly veiled Dora’s face and crawled away to find his lady. A shock of lily of the valley perfume stung Dora’s nose, and she tried to stifle a sneeze. There was a rustle and Thistle returned and settled down next to her. He folded the veil back again.

“It’s nothing. Nothing you have to worry about. Here, dry your nose.”

Thistle smiled at Dora and gave her a handkerchief. His face was pale under the rouge. He continued Dora’s manicure, and she gnawed on the cuticles of her other hand. Somewhere above them, Lady Mnemosyne’s voice boomed in the air: “Drink to eternal beauty, my friends! Revel in our glory. Now dance and kiss and be joyful!”

Dora let the noise of applause and shouts wash over her and relaxed into the good little pain of Thistle digging for dirt under her nails.

When she opened her eyes again, it was quiet.

“They’ve gone to sleep,” Thistle said. “We can go.”

They crawled out from under the table and picked their way across cobblestones littered with cups and crystal shards.

Thistle led Dora in an arc around the debris to where the dance floor ended and the path through the birch grove began. The black soil swallowed the sound of their footsteps, and Thistle let out a long breath. Dora took his hand as they walked between the trees in silence.

In the middle of the grove, Porla was asleep in her pool. She floated just under the surface, blond hair waving in the water like seaweed. Her greenish face looked innocent: you’d never know that her teeth were sharp and she kept the body of a dead servant under the roots of a tree that grew next to the water. She had been a lady; then she dived into the water and never left. She had tried to lure Dora and Thistle in for “tea” more than once. They gave the pool a wide berth.

A breeze wafted into the grove, thick with the smell of apples. Dora and Thistle stepped out from between the birch trees and into the orchard under the big ultramarine bowl of sky. The air bit into Dora’s lungs.

The orchard’s gnarled apple trees were planted in neat rows. You could stand in any spot and stretch out your arms and pretend that the trees streamed from your fingertips. The branches hung heavy with fruit: every other tree carried big red apples, and the rest juicy-looking green ones. Dora had compared most of the trees. They all looked the same, down to the smallest twig and fruit. The apples tasted the same, too: hard and tongue-shriveling sour for the green, mealy and sweet for the red. Dora sniffed an apple on the nearest tree, then bit into it. It smelled better than it tasted. Her feet made a swishing noise in the damp grass. Next to her, Thistle was quiet. She glanced at him. His steps were so light; he moved like a wading bird, like the lords and ladies. He looked so frail next to her, little stolen boy. Dora should be minding him instead of the other way around. She didn’t say this out loud, just stopped and held him close.

“What are you doing?” Thistle mumbled against her shoulder.

He had stopped speaking in the boy voice now that they were alone. Male servants with low voices were doomed. The lords and ladies hadn’t noticed because Thistle was short and good at shaving.

“You’re so small.”

He chuckled. “I can’t breathe.”

Dora let go again. Thistle looked up at her and smiled. The paint around his eyes was smudged.

“Come on, sister.” He took her hand.

At the edge of the orchard, the conservatory’s great cupola loomed against the wall of forest that surrounded the Gardens. It was the biggest structure in the realm, a complicated wooden lattice inlaid with glass panes that reflected the hues in the evening sky. In the conservatory, little orange trees stood in a circle around three divans, lit by flickering wax candles. Here rested the enormous Aunts, attended by their Nieces. The Aunts ate and ate until they could grow no bigger. Then they died, and their Nieces cut them open to reveal a new little Aunt nestled around the old Aunt’s heart. The old body was taken away to make food for the new little Aunt, who grew and grew, until she was done and the cycle repeated itself.

The lords and ladies didn’t come here. Neither did the other servants, who said that the Aunts were too strange. Whenever their masters slept, as they did between parties, this was a good place for Dora and Thistle to sit in peace. One of the apple trees grew close to the dome’s side, and that was where Dora had made a secret place: a little nest made of discarded pillows and blankets in the hollow between the tree and the wall.

Thistle sat down and leaned back against the tree trunk. Dora lay down next to him and rested her head in his lap. She took one of his hands and slid her fingers up inside his sleeve where the skin was warm. The ornate scars on his skin felt silky under her fingertips. Thistle flinched a little, then relaxed again.

“I saw something,” he said. “When Lady Augusta called for me.”

“Oh.” After a moment, Dora realized she should probably ask, “What did you see?”

Thistle shook his head. “I’m not sure.”

Dora waited. Thistle took so long that when he spoke again, she had stopped listening and had to ask him to repeat himself.

“My mistress looked at me and said, ‘How are you alive?’ ” Thistle said.

His hand gripped Dora’s hair so hard it hurt.

“Ow,” Dora said.

Thistle didn’t seem to notice.

“She’s going to do something to me,” he said. “Or she thinks she’s done something. She might try it again.”

The lords and ladies didn’t move through time like others did. They lived through the same evening, over and over again. They rose from their beds, threw a party or organized a game, and reveled through the twilight until they fell asleep. Then they awoke from their stupor, and the party began anew. Their minds worked in loops; they would forget what they had done and remember things they hadn’t done yet.

Their servants, however, were children who had wandered into the surrounding forest from the outside, lured in by fairy lights and the noise of revels. The lords and ladies stole the children’s names, marking and binding each child to its new master, taking all but the faintest memories of their former lives away. But the children weren’t touched by the same ageless magic that surrounded their masters. They grew up, and the patterns that were carved into them became complete. When that happened, they were killed for sport and eaten.

“If I just had my true name back,” Thistle said, “I would be free from Augusta. We could run away from here before anything happens. And with my name I would remember where I came from and find a way back to my parents. You could live with us.”

“You’ve looked for your name everywhere,” Dora said. “You said it’s not written down, it’s not caught in a jar, it isn’t embroidered on a handkerchief.”

Thistle hung his head.

Dora pried Thistle’s fingers loose from where they were stroking her hair. “I won’t let her hurt you. Now tell my story.”

Thistle let out a shaky laugh. “How many times do you need to hear it?”

Dora smiled. “I like hearing it.”

“All right,” Thistle said. “Once upon a time there was a lonely lord called Walpurgis. He was rich and beautiful and comfortable, but he wanted a child. In this land, however, no one had children, for they had become timeless and forgotten how to make them.

“ ‘Oh, how I wish I had a child of my own,’ Lord Walpurgis would say, and put his head in his hands. ‘Someone who was part of me.’

“So it came to pass that a visitor arrived, a traveler who called herself Ghorbi, and she came from far away.

“Walpurgis sought her out, and said, ‘My good woman, will you help me? For I would like a child of my own.’

“ ‘I will help you,’ Ghorbi replied, ‘but you must know this: if you mistreat her, she will not be yours.’

“Still, Walpurgis insisted, and he paid Ghorbi in precious stones. She took a bottle of his seed and went away. Then she returned, and she wasn’t alone.

“ ‘Walpurgis, I have your daughter,’ Ghorbi said. ‘This is Dora.’

“She stepped aside, and lo! There was a girl. She was as tall as Walpurgis, her shoulders broad and strong, her eyes dark as the earth, and her hair like white feathers.

“ ‘Father,’ said the girl, and her voice was like the blackbird’s song.

“ ‘She was grown from your seed in the earth,’ Ghorbi said. ‘She is half of the mountain, and half of you.’

“But Walpurgis hesitated. ‘I thank you for this gift,’ he said. ‘But this creature is too precious. I am not worthy.’

“ ‘A bargain’s a bargain,’ Ghorbi replied. ‘I have delivered what you asked for.’

“And then she was gone.

“Walpurgis had a good heart, but even though he tried, he couldn’t take care of Dora. He was simply not very good at being a parent, since he couldn’t recall ever being a child. The court was angry with him and demoted him to chamberlain, for they had all sworn not to bear children of their own.

“Walpurgis found a friend for Dora, a boy called Thistle, who was a page to the lady Augusta.

“The lords and ladies said, ‘You can take care of her better than we. Let her be veiled, lest we are reminded of our failure.’

“Thistle was happy to care for Dora. They loved each other like brother and sister.”

Dora closed her eyes. Her favorite part was coming.

“Finally, after being a terrible father, Walpurgis began to understand,” Thistle continued. “He finally understood what love was, and that he must take care of Dora. And so he took her back, and he saw how well Thistle had cared for her. And he promised to love her and asked her forgiveness for his neglect.”

“Really?” Dora asked.

Thistle stroked her hair. “Really.”

Far away, someone blew a whistle. Thistle carefully lifted Dora’s head and stood up.

“There’s a croquet game,” he said. “I have to go.”

Dora watched him walk out into the orchard, then followed at a distance.

2

Hidden behind an oak at the edge of the game lawn, Dora watched them play. She kept her veil drawn over her face. The pale lords and ladies loitered on the grass, leaning on croquet clubs and each other. Lady Mnemosyne watched from her seat on the podium, eyes shadowed under her wreath, her skirts spread out like a willow tree. Walpurgis lay on the grass at her feet, propped up on his elbow. The left half of his white coat was spattered with something sticky-looking. Next to him, the twins Cymbeline and Virgilia embraced on their divan. Cymbeline’s crinoline was covered in chestnut leaves; Virgilia’s dress was woven out of peacock feathers. At the edge of the lawn, Augusta’s sister Euterpe was already drunk, rolling around in the grass dressed only in a thin shift. Hyssop, Virgilia’s page boy, stood at attention nearby, holding a tray of drinks and sweetmeats. Like the other servants, he was good at not moving. Moving drew attention.

In the center of the lawn, surrounded by little arches stuck into the ground, the lady Augusta stared at a striped ball by her feet. She looked formidable in her brilliant blue coat and knee pants; her mahogany hair was freshly curled, her face a work of art. Thistle stood at her elbow, hands clasped behind his back, eyes wandering over the lawn. He looked into the trees and briefly met Dora’s gaze. His eyes widened a fraction, and he shook his head almost imperceptibly.

Augusta swung her club. The ball flew in a high arc and hit Hyssop. He dropped his tray and clutched his arm with a groan. The crowd on the lawn burst into cheers and applause. Mnemosyne smiled and nodded from her podium. When Hyssop straightened, Virgilia got up from the divan and slapped him. She pointed at the mess. Hyssop immediately kneeled to pick it up, his left arm shaking.

Dora watched as the game progressed. She had never understood the rules, but everyone broke into applause when the players hit the servants.

Augusta swung her club with flair; Thistle had to duck several times to avoid getting smacked. He fetched drinks when asked to and mopped the sweat from Augusta’s brow with a small handkerchief.

Dora almost ran out across the lawn when Lord Tempestis landed his ball in the face of Euterpe’s little page, Calla, but she knew she mustn’t. It would make things worse. Calla bled all over her doublet and spat something into her hand.

At cake break, they punished Hyssop for dropping the tray. Virgilia took his jacket and shirt off. Two flower stems reached up along Hyssop’s shoulder blades, and more of them meandered down his arms. Each servant had their special art, carved into them with teeth and nails: hyssop, calla, vetch, foxglove, others. And thistle.

Walpurgis and Cymbeline took each of Hyssop’s arms. Virgilia sank one of her long fingernails into her page’s right shoulder. Dora forced herself to watch. Hyssop deserved her bearing witness, at least. She had barged in, once, to defend a page. The lords and ladies had reacted quickly. They wouldn’t strike her like they would a servant; instead, they had immobilized her with their words, but not before Dora had knocked Cymbeline to the ground and made her cry. And for Dora’s rebellion, they had hurt Thistle.

Eventually, Virgilia stepped back and licked at her bloodied hand. Dora lost sight of Hyssop as the other nobles crowded in to inspect Virgilia’s work and mumble their appreciation.

“His pattern is done,” Walpurgis announced over the murmur.

“A hunt!” Virgilia shouted. “I call for a hunt!”

“Excellent,” Mnemosyne said from her throne. “We shall have a hunt when this game is complete. Come here, little Hyssop, and sit at my feet.”

Hyssop shambled over to the dais and sank down on his knees. Dora could see his face now, twisted and tearful. He knew what awaited him. So did Dora. And there was nothing she could do. Hyssop was all grown up, and his flower was finished, and so he must die.

Walpurgis waved off all the servants except Thistle, who was ordered to move the hoops around. Then Walpurgis clapped his hands, and the game resumed.

Cymbeline and Virgilia gripped their club together and swung it. Their ball hit Augusta’s so hard that it rolled into the woods. The others jeered. They continued the game as Augusta walked in among the trees. She walked past the spot where Dora was hiding and deeper into the woods. She was gone for a long moment.

When Augusta came back, she was carrying a small locket in one hand and her ball in the other. She paused at the edge of the trees and peered at the people on the lawn. From where Dora was crouching, she could see the sweat that scored a pink trail down Augusta’s temple. Augusta flipped the locket open. She froze, staring at whatever it was she saw, and frowned.

“I know what this is,” she muttered. “What is it?”

Then she closed the locket again and slipped it into a pocket on her waistcoat. She glanced briefly over her shoulder, shrugged, and returned to the lawn.

Dora walked back the way Augusta had come. It wasn’t far to the dog-rose bush where a dead man lay on the ground, faceup. He looked different: his face was lined and his hair salt-and-pepper. He was old. His clothes looked strange, the black coat oddly cut. Dora had never seen anything like this before. Children had wandered into the Gardens. Never a full-grown man. How had he gotten here? Had someone let him in? Dora left the dead man as he was.

Dora had sat down by the conservatory again when Thistle came wandering between the trees.

“There you are,” he said.

He sank to the ground next to her. His kohl was running.

“Hyssop is gone,” he said. “They chased him into the woods and killed him.”

“I know,” Dora said.

“The servants are not real people to them. Just playthings.”

“Maybe you could run away again,” Dora said.

Thistle looked at her. “You know what happens. We walk into the forest, and walk and walk, and then we end up in the orchard again.”

It was true. Dora and Thistle had tried, many times, when everyone else was asleep. It was always the same: a long walk through the woods, in a seemingly straight line, and then in not too long the conservatory rising beyond the trees. As if the path turned back on itself. As long as Thistle was still in Lady Augusta’s service, as long as she kept his true name hidden from him, he could never find his way home. And because Dora was Walpurgis’s child, she was stuck, too. She wasn’t a servant, yet also not a lady. Just a reminder of failure and grief, free to exist but not to be a part of anything. Walpurgis renounced her every time he saw her. But perhaps not next time. Perhaps he loved her a little. Or so she hoped.

“Thistle,” Dora said. “I found something.”

Thistle cleared his throat. “What did you find?”

“When they knocked the lady Augusta’s ball into the forest. I saw that. And Lady Augusta walked after it, and then…”

Someone clapped their hands: once, twice. Calla was standing a little distance from the apple tree. Her mouth was still swollen from the ball that Lord Tempestis had shot into her face. She didn’t speak; she had no tongue. It had been cut out. Her mistress liked her page mute.

Calla held her hand out to Thistle.

“Please tell me later, Dora,” he said. “I have to go.”

Dora followed a few steps behind Calla and Thistle. As they arrived at Augusta’s pavilion, Dora snuck around to the back, where she could peek between the lavender lengths of silk. A smell of musk and lily of the valley wafted out from the interior. Augusta sat by her desk, the shiny locket in her hand. Her curls were piled high on her head, strands of them tumbling down the sides of her face. Her eyes were such a light gray that they were almost translucent. She turned around when Thistle rang the little bell above the opening.

“Boy,” she said in her hoarse voice, and stood up.

Thistle looked her in the eyes; his jaw was clenched. Augusta slapped him. Thistle lowered his eyes and walked over to the bed, preparing to remove his coat. He must have been expecting her to carve him. Dora had seen it before. Thistle never complained, never asked Dora to intervene. Dora wondered how much Augusta would scream if Dora did the same to her.

“No, not now,” Augusta said.

Thistle turned around. Augusta tossed the locket at him. He caught it with both hands.

“You will tell me what this is,” Augusta said.

Thistle frowned at the locket and opened the lid.

“It’s a watch,” he said. “I have seen one, maybe before…”

“And what is a watch?” Augusta interrupted.

“Mistress doesn’t know?”

Augusta slapped him again. “Insolence.”

Her nails bit into his jaw. Thistle’s eyes watered. His eyes met Dora’s. Dora stood up. Thistle shook his head faintly, and Dora sat down again.

“You will tell me what a watch is,” Augusta repeated.

Thistle sniffled. “It measures time.”

“Show me,” Augusta said.

She pulled Thistle down on the bed next to her, and put her arm around him as if she were his protector, not someone who might stick her thumbs into his eyes because he looked at her in the wrong way.

Thistle pointed at the clockface. “This hand moves forward, and then the shorter one, and then the shortest. That knob winds it up to make it run.”

As he spoke, Augusta shuddered and made a noise at the back of her throat.

“I know it. Somehow, I know what this is,” Augusta said. “Does it measure time?” Augusta said. “Or does it just move forward and call that time?”

Thistle blinked. “Time is time,” he said. “If it goes, it goes forward, from moment to moment.”

Dora remembered time. She recalled crawling out of the earth into a rosy dawn. The sun, traveling across the sky to set. Shifting light and darkness. Heat and cold. But here it was always an azure summer night, an eternal sunset tinting the western sky green and gold.

Augusta twisted the little knob on the side of the locket. A ticking sound filled the air, faint and deafening all at once. The air trembled.

“Very well,” Augusta said. “That is all.” Her voice echoed.

Augusta let go of Thistle’s shoulders. Thistle stood up. When he was almost at the door, Augusta spoke.

“This will be our little secret. Kneel.”

Thistle did as he was told. Augusta picked up a long knife that lay on her vanity. She grabbed Thistle’s jaw and, with her other hand, held the knife against his throat. Dora stood up, prepared to leap through the curtains.

Thistle spoke between Augusta’s fingers: “Wait!”

Augusta blinked and released Thistle’s jaw. “You dare?”

“My pattern isn’t done,” Thistle said. “You’re not allowed to kill me until it is.”

“I can finish it now, if you like,” Augusta replied in a sweet voice. “Undress.”

“You have to call a hunt, too,” Thistle said. “It’s the way of the lords and ladies.”

“Then I shall do so, dear,” Augusta said.

“But you just had one.” Thistle’s voice broke. “You’re not finished dining on Hyssop. The lady Mnemosyne will be angry.”

“Mouthy little shit. I regret taking you at all.”

“You could give me my name back,” Thistle said quickly, “and I would go away and be gone from here. I would never trouble you again.”

“Give it back? Go away?” Augusta smiled. “There’s no leaving this place, boy.”

Thistle looked at the ground.

“Take that jacket off now,” Augusta said. “And your shirt.”

Thistle did as he was told, folding his clothing beside him. The flower stems Augusta had carved up his arms and over his chest were raised welts against his skin. Augusta bent down and trailed the sharp nails of her right hand across his chest. Thistle froze as she pressed her index finger against his left clavicle. He gasped as her nail bit into his skin.

“Almost done,” Augusta whispered. “Nearly there.”

She dropped her hand and straightened. “Leave me.”

Thistle stood up, blood running down his chest. He rushed to gather his things and stepped outside. Dora watched as he left, then backed away before she could be noticed. If anyone caught her, Thistle’s pattern would be finished for sure.

Dora began to head to the conservatory. She passed the dining tables, where some of the servants were busy cleaning up. The food heaped on the tables was returning to its original state: moss, bark, toads. It happened at the end of a party, when the lords and ladies had left to sink back into their stupor. All but the bones sitting in the middle of the center table. They would be buried.

Walpurgis sat in a corner of the dance floor, overseeing the cleaning procedure, wine bottle in hand. He looked up at Dora as she went past. Her heart beat stronger for a second. Perhaps this would be the day the story came true and he took her back.

“Hey!” he shouted. “Your face, cretin.”

Dora quickly pulled the veil over her face. She had forgotten.

Something hit her leg: the wine bottle. It didn’t break but spilled its contents over Dora’s feet.

“Your fault,” Walpurgis mumbled. “It’s all your fault.”

Every time he happened to see Dora, he said the same thing, over and over again. Your fault.

“Father,” Dora whispered.

“Not your father!” Walpurgis shouted. “No. Not your father. I don’t care what Mnemosyne says. You’re not mine.”

He said that each time as if it were the first. Dora raised her veil slightly and looked at him where he sat. He was weeping.

“Then where do I go?” she said.

“I don’t care,” Walpurgis replied. “Don’t show your face here.”

Dora found Thistle under their tree. He was curled up, seemingly asleep, a blotch of blood on his shirt. Dora wrapped herself around him. He mumbled and shifted a little against her chest.

“He still says he’s not my father,” Dora whispered to Thistle’s sleeping form. “But I will always be his daughter.”

As they lay there, the lady Augusta came walking through the orchard, the pocket watch swinging from her hand. Dora stiffened, ready to defend Thistle if needed. But Augusta didn’t seem to notice them at all. She walked up to the conservatory, rubbed a sleeve over one of the panes, and looked inside. Staring at the watch in her hand, she twisted the little knob on the side. There was that ticking noise again, and a sense of something shifting, a twitch in the air.

“Look at that,” Augusta murmured.

3

Dora ruffled Thistle’s hair and stood up. Thistle was dreaming now, eyes moving behind his eyelids. She looked down at him. He should be allowed to sleep for as long as he could. She walked back through the orchard, after Augusta. Augusta would finish Thistle’s pattern soon. What if Dora could find his name? Maybe there was somewhere Thistle hadn’t looked.

As Dora passed through the apple trees, they smelled different, sweeter somehow. Dora touched a red apple hanging from the nearest tree branch. It fell to the ground with a thud. She picked it up. It was bruised, and a worm crawled out of a hole it had made. Dora dropped the apple and continued out of the orchard. The swish of grass against her skirts was loud in the still air.

Dora snuck in behind Augusta’s bower and waited, watching through a crack in the curtains. Inside, the lady sat on the edge of her bed. She hummed a song to herself and drummed an uneven rhythm on the bed frame. Her eyelids were heavy. Eventually, she lay down on the bed without undressing, then crawled in under a rose-colored duvet and closed her eyes. When her breaths had lengthened, Dora went around to the entrance and stepped inside.

Lady Augusta didn’t look so scary in her sleep, tucked under her duvet. Her eyebrows were drawn together, as if she were considering something very hard. The bower was a mess of furniture, clothes, strange ornaments. In the center, a sloped table with some papers. Dora picked one up. It was a sketch of something with bristles and angles. There were more drawings under the first one: contraptions, buildings, something with wings, other things Dora couldn’t name. A paper was covered in curlicued writing that must mean something. Perhaps it was important, but Dora couldn’t read much except for her own name and Thistle’s. None of them were there. She put the paper in her pinafore anyway and looked around. If it wasn’t written down on paper, there must be something else here, somewhere the lady kept Thistle’s name. Could it be engraved on a jewel in a box? Could it be as a breath in a jar? It must be kept very safe. But would she recognize it if she saw it? She had to try.

Augusta shifted in her sleep. Dora gingerly opened the drawers on the vanity, looked under chairs, in the folds of the wall hangings, and even lifted a corner of the mattress on the lady’s bed. She found paint pots and little bird skulls and crystal ornaments, but nothing that looked like a name.

“Dora,” a voice whispered.

It was Thistle. He stood in the doorway and looked at her with wide eyes. He made a come-here motion with his hand. Dora picked her way through the mess and joined him. Thistle tugged at her sleeve. Behind them, Augusta stirred and mumbled something Dora couldn’t hear. Thistle broke into a run. Dora followed him.

When they entered the birch grove, out of sight from the bower, Thistle grabbed Dora’s arms and stared up at her.

“What were you doing?” he hissed.

“I was looking for your name,” Dora said. “I couldn’t find it.”

“I don’t think it’s a thing. If it was a thing, I would have stolen it while she was asleep,” Thistle said. “I think I need her to speak it.”

“Can we make her do that?” Dora asked.

“Don’t you think I’ve tried?” Thistle replied. “I’ve tried to make her say it by accident. I’ve tried to bargain. I’ve tried everything.”

“I could threaten her,” Dora said. “I’m strong. I would do it for you.”

“No, you can’t,” Thistle said. “She would use her voice. She would hurt you.”

“She’s not allowed to,” Dora replied. “They don’t hurt their own kind.”

“She’d do something to you. Please don’t give her the chance.”

Thistle’s eyes were tearing up. Dora could feel her own throat constrict.

“I don’t want you to die. I would be all alone.”

Thistle gave her a thin smile. “We’ll think of something.”

“What will you think of?” someone said.

Next to a birch tree stood a person who hadn’t been there moments before: a very tall woman wrapped in robes and a flowing headscarf that seemed made of shifting shadows. Her long face was the purple shade of storm clouds, and her eyes shone yellow. She smiled, and the smile was sharp and toothy, but not unfriendly.

“Hello, Dora,” she said, with a deep voice that crackled.

“Hello, Ghorbi,” Dora replied.

Ghorbi walked over to where Dora and Thistle were standing. She raised one of her large hands and caressed Dora’s cheek. When she spoke, her breath was hot and dry.

“I’m visiting the lady Mnemosyne on business, so I thought I’d have a look at you. You’re almost a woman now. Nearly as tall as I. Big and strong, hair like white feathers, eyes dark as the earth. Truly a daughter of the mountain.”

Her smile waned as she looked Dora over.

“You’re filthy,” she said. “Doesn’t your father take care of you?”

“Thistle takes care of me,” Dora said.

“Walpurgis doesn’t want her,” Thistle added.

Ghorbi looked down at Thistle. “Who are you, little page?”

“This is Thistle,” Dora said. “I call him my brother.”

“And why doesn’t Walpurgis want you, Dora?” Ghorbi asked.

Dora looked down at her feet.

Ghorbi frowned. “Your father made a promise,” she said. “If he didn’t keep it, the deal is off. I fetched him his daughter, against payment and his promise to care for her. If he didn’t, she would be free.”

“Free?” Dora asked.

“I can show you the way out,” Ghorbi said. “You can take care of yourself.”

“I won’t leave without Thistle,” Dora said. “Augusta has his name.”

Ghorbi tilted her head and frowned. “I can’t do much about that,” she said. “Thistle’s case is none of my business. I’m sorry.”

“Is there nothing you can do?” Thistle asked. “There must be something.”

“I’m a trader, child,” Ghorbi said. “I don’t take sides. I can’t interfere with an agreement that I’m not a part of, as much as it may sadden me. There are many terrible things in the multiverse, and it’s not in my power to save everyone and everything.”

“Have you seen what they do to us?” Thistle asked. “Have you really?”

“What do you mean?” Ghorbi said.

“They cut us,” Thistle said. “Then they kill us and eat us. And Augusta is the worst of them. I will be next.”

Ghorbi was quiet for a long moment, and the flame in her gaze intensified. Then she said, “I didn’t know it was that bad.”

“So do something,” Thistle said. “Help us.”

“I will listen and learn,” Ghorbi said. “And see what I can see.”

She patted Thistle’s shoulder. “I must go. The lady Mnemosyne will be waking up soon.”

The sharp note of a flute cut through the air: the first servant had woken up and signaled to the rest that it was time to prepare the next feast.

4

Lady Augusta straightened her coat and flipped her curled hair over her shoulders. She was standing with the others in the statuary grove where tonight’s feast had been laid out. On the marble dais at the center, Mnemosyne sat on her throne. A high-backed chair stood next to the throne, on which sat that strange purple-faced woman, Ghorbi, wrapped in her shadowy robes. She and Mnemosyne were engaged in quiet conversation, heads leaning toward each other. Every so often, Ghorbi would look at the gathered nobles and flash them a jagged smile.

Everyone else was uncharacteristically quiet. They just didn’t know what to say. Walpurgis fidgeted and drank from a bottle in his hand; Cymbeline and Virgilia were fiddling with each other’s dresses; Euterpe was nervously clearing her throat. Mnemosyne acted as if Ghorbi was a regular guest, and she did seem familiar… but at the same time profoundly alien.

Eventually, Mnemosyne drew away from Ghorbi and clapped her hands.

“My darlings!” she said. “It is time to dance. Let us show our guest how we celebrate youth and beauty.”

As one, the crowd divided into two lines. A lively beat began to play, and the dancers joined hands across the divide. The party had begun.

All through the dance and the revels, Augusta kept an eye on Ghorbi. The traveler stayed in her seat next to the throne, watching the revelers with an expression that seemed amused and contemptuous at the same time. She knew things. Augusta was sure of it. Strange things. She must know about “time.” As Mnemosyne left the dais to join the dance and the others gathered around her in a circle, Augusta walked away from the crowd and sidled up to the dais.

Ghorbi turned her face toward Augusta, and the pupils of her eyes reflected the lantern light.

“Who might you be, then?” she asked.

“I am the lady Augusta Prima,” Augusta said, and inclined her head.

Ghorbi narrowed her eyes. “Augusta Prima. Your reputation precedes you.”

Augusta smiled in satisfaction. “Of course.”

“And what is on your mind, Augusta Prima?”

“I would like to have a conversation,” Augusta said. “About things that you might know.”

“Aha,” Ghorbi replied.

Augusta looked at the dancers. “But not here. Would you come to my pavilion?”

Ghorbi nodded. “Yes.”

“Follow the servant,” Augusta said.

Some servant Augusta couldn’t name stood at the edge of the dance floor with a tray in his hand. He twitched as Augusta came close.

“You will show the traveler to my bower,” Augusta said. “Take a detour. I don’t want the others to know where you’re going. I will be waiting there for you.”

“Yes, my lady,” the servant said with his eyes fixed on the tray.

Augusta smoothed a stray lock of hair out of his face. “You look nice,” she said. “Good.”

“Thank you, my lady,” the servant said.

Augusta flipped his tray over and left the dance floor.

It wasn’t long before Ghorbi arrived. Standing up, she filled the doorway.

“What do you want to talk about?” she asked.

Augusta dug the locket out of her pocket and opened it. “This.”

“Yes?” Ghorbi said.

“This is a watch.”

“Yes.”

“I have been trying to measure time here and there. Sometimes it passes, and sometimes it does not. Or perhaps it is the watch. I don’t know.”

Ghorbi was quiet for a second. Then she said, “Ah.”

Augusta looked up at her. “I want you to tell me the truth about time and the world.”

Ghorbi’s mouth twisted into a smirk. “You might get in trouble.”

“I need to know,” Augusta said. “I cannot bear not knowing.”

“Let me ask you for some information in return,” Ghorbi said. “That is my price.”

“Ask,” Augusta replied.

“Thistle,” Ghorbi said. “And the other children. Do you torture them?”

Augusta blinked. “Torture?”

“Torture,” Ghorbi said. “Do you cut them?”

Augusta shrugged. “Of course. But it’s not torture. It’s art.”

Ghorbi pursed her lips. “Does it not bother you that they are children?”

“They’re servants,” Augusta replied. “They belong to us.”

“I see,” Ghorbi said. “Very well. I have what I need.”

“Your turn,” Augusta said.

“Indeed,” Ghorbi said, and beckoned Augusta closer. “Listen carefully.”

When Ghorbi had left, Augusta felt faint. She sat down at her desk and grabbed a sheet of paper and a pen. She was in such a rush that she dribbled ink all over the paper. She filled sheet after sheet, everything she could find. When she had obliterated the pen nib, she grabbed a stick of charcoal and drew images of what Ghorbi had told her. It was all there. It all made sense.

“Augusta,” someone said behind her. “My child.”

Augusta twisted around in her chair. Mnemosyne stood in the middle of the room. Her ivy dress fluttered around her like branches in a breeze; the laurel wreath was tangled in her honey-colored hair. Never before had the lady visited Augusta’s bower.

Augusta stood up. “My lady.”

Mnemosyne regarded her in silence. Then she said, “This is a paradise, is it not?”

“It is, my lady,” Augusta replied.

“It is,” Mnemosyne echoed. She tilted her head. “Then why are the apples going bad, Augusta?”

Augusta faltered. “I haven’t noticed, my lady.”

“I have. My mind… is not quite always there. But I see it.”

“I don’t understand, my lady.”

“Ghorbi told me, you see,” Mnemosyne said. “She came to me and told me. What you have been doing. She said you wanted to know about the world outside. And time. Why do you want to know about those things, Augusta?”

“I…” Augusta gestured at the pile of paper behind her. “I was curious.”

Mnemosyne took a step forward. Augusta saw now that her round face was streaked with tears.

“You helped me build this place. That fact will never leave my mind. So it is like tearing my own heart out, Augusta,” she said. “But you must go.”

She laid a hand on Augusta’s forehead.

“I will not let anything threaten this realm. Farewell.”

5

Dora walked back through the orchard. The trees closest to the conservatory sagged with rotting fruit. Maggots fed on the fallen apples around their trunks. This had never happened before, not that Dora had ever seen.

The conservatory’s thick glass had cracked in places; branches and vines had burst out to climb the broken surface. For the first time, the dome’s little door was ajar. The rich smell of cooking wafted out. Dora crouched down and crawled inside.

The Aunts looked strange where they lay on their couches. They looked lumpy, sunken in on themselves. As Dora crept closer, it became clear that these were not the Aunts. It was just their skin, neatly peeled off their bodies and laid out. Swaddled in the skins lay the three Nieces, fast asleep. On the floor next to each couch sat a human-shaped cake on a small porcelain plate. They looked like the little figures the Nieces otherwise would scoop out from the Aunts’ chests, but they weren’t moving.

Dora picked up a cake. It smelled of meat pie, and she was reminded that she hadn’t eaten in a long time. Dora bent over the nearest Niece to listen for her breath and heard none. She would not need this cake. Dora ate it. It tasted of lard and salt. She ate the second one, too, and the third, then sat down. The cakes made her sleepy. The conservatory was very quiet, so quiet that her ears buzzed. Dora made her mind empty.

Someone knocked on the glass. It was Thistle. Dora opened the door, and Thistle wrinkled his nose and waved a hand in front of his face as she stepped outside.

“What are you doing in here?” he asked.

“The Aunts aren’t growing back,” Dora said.

Thistle frowned. “They always grow back.”

“Augusta was here when you were sleeping,” Dora said. “She had that locket. I think she did something to them.”

“She did indeed.” Ghorbi stood a few steps away, gazing past Dora into the conservatory.

“What’s going on?” Thistle asked.

Ghorbi looked amused more than anything.

“Change,” Ghorbi said. She walked up to the dome and ran a hand down the glass. “Augusta called on me while I was meeting with Lady Mnemosyne. It seems she has been experimenting, with interesting results. Time has begun to pass again.”

“What happens now?” Thistle asked.

“Augusta damaged this world,” Ghorbi said. “She and her little contraption have been cast out so that the place can heal.”

Thistle looked stricken. “She’s gone?”

Ghorbi nodded.

“She can’t be,” Thistle said.

“I thought you’d be pleased,” Ghorbi said. “She can’t hurt you now. She is not here, so you are no longer under her sway. You can go anywhere you wish.”

“But she still has my name,” Thistle said. “I can’t find my way back home until I have my name. I have to go after her.”

Ghorbi frowned. “And get it from her… how exactly? She’s a dangerous woman and even out of here has powerful magic.”

“I don’t know!” Thistle shouted. “There has to be a way.”

Ghorbi looked over Dora’s shoulder and raised her eyebrows at what she saw.

“Ah,” she said.

They came walking through the apple trees: Cymbeline, Virgilia, Walpurgis, Tempestis, and Euterpe. Their powdered faces were almost luminescent in the gloom, their rich silks and satins rustling like the wind in the trees.

“Thistle,” Walpurgis said, and his voice was oily. “Your mistress is gone, and we are hungry.”

Next to him, Cymbeline raised a curved knife. “We can’t have stray servants running about.”

Dora stepped in front of Thistle. “You can’t have him.”

Walpurgis laughed. “Oh, but we can. Get out of the way, monster.”

Dora felt herself moving aside against her will.

“Enough,” Ghorbi said.

Virgilia fixed her eyes on Ghorbi. “Don’t meddle in our affairs, outsider. You don’t belong here.”

Ghorbi grabbed Dora and Thistle by the hand. “With me.”

Behind them, a shrill cry went up, followed by a chorus of baying voices. Ghorbi ran with impossibly long steps, so fast that Dora had to push herself to keep up. As they ran, Ghorbi opened her mouth. A long, low note grew in her chest and emerged from her lips. It reverberated in the air and somehow harmonized with itself, then became a word, two syllables repeated over and over again. The note climbed higher, and the air trembled. A breeze stirred.

As they reached the pine trees that guarded the edge of the orchard, the wind intensified, nearly drowning out the sound of Ghorbi’s voice. The cold air raked at Dora’s face like needles. It occurred to her that it wasn’t just wind but sand, and it obscured the trees from view. A whirling inferno of sand enveloped them. Then the wind died down, and Ghorbi’s song faded, and with a thud, they landed on something solid.

They were elsewhere.