He’s teasing me. I can hear it in his tone. But he’s serious too. Because I’m really not getting it. And he’s probably starting to change his mind about that whole cute thing. Pretty soon he’s going to be pointing at me, saying, “Slow.”
“Trust you.” That’s what I say back.
And at this, he nods. “It wouldn’t hurt.”
I shrug. “OK, monster. School me in the ways of medieval wedding dances.”
He steps in front of me, bows a little, but his eyes never leave mine, and then he extends his hand, inviting me into this magical dream with him.
I take that hand and when we walk forward, we’re walking down steps. A very grand entrance. And when I look over my shoulder, I have a little wave of panic that someone will close the door and we’ll get stuck here, lost forever in a dream-world filled with well-dressed Vikings.
“It’s not going anywhere,” Pell says. “They can’t see the door, they can’t close the door, and even if we lose sight of it, that door will never lose sight of us.”
I’m not sure what that last part means, I just know it’s more than I understand right now.
We pause at the edge of the dancers and Pell leans down to once again whisper in my ear. “Stop thinking, Pie. Just be here. That’s the only thing this place is good for. It’s just a moment and we get to crash it. There is nothing to fear here. It’s nothing more than magic. It would be a sin not to enjoy it.”
And he’s right, I think. To be in the moment and not live in it is a sin.
So I let him lead me into a dance I do not know, shoulder to shoulder with people who do not exist, and it doesn’t matter. I don’t know what’s happening to me. I don’t know how long I’ll be here, or stuck in the sanctuary, or hell, if I’m being honest, stuck in this life.
Moments count.
Especially moments like this.
I had nothing going on before Saint Mark’s.
There is nothing in that old life that can compete with this monster man and his magic room.
CHAPTER NINETEEN - PELL
We have no idea what we’re doing. But it doesn’t matter and even though Pie looked nervous as hell when I pulled us into the dance, she got over it as soon as she realized these people truly cannot see us. We are free to be foolish and just have fun with it.
I’m not used to having human feet and legs, but I’ve spent my share of time in these rooms, so it’s like riding a bike.
Pie’s face is flushed and red just a few minutes in, but we keep going, trying our best to keep up with our neighbors, which is impossible, because they just keep switching partners and twirling around in a line, then a circle, then… whatever.
Sometimes the people do see us. But you have to stay a while and really get invested in the moment for that to happen, and about an hour into this, we’re sweaty and laughing too hard from tripping all over ourselves to give any fucks at all about fitting in.
When the current dance ends, we clap, and then I take Pie’s hand and lead her over to the other side of the room where a new door has appeared.
She is confused for a moment, looking at the door we came through first, across the great hall, then the new one. “What’s this?” She’s breathing hard, but her smile is bright and her blue eyes shine in the low-level torch lighting. Subdued shadows flicker across her face as she stares up at me.
“It’s just an option,” I tell her. “That’s all.”
“But where did it come from?”
I look over at the door. It’s exactly like the one we came through to get here. Which is exactly like the one that leads to Saint Mark’s from the front. “Does it matter?”
She shrugs. “I’m just having a hard time accepting the idea that this magical world lives side by side with the normal one.”
“Says the girl with the talking bird. You know what though?”
“What?”
“I’ve never seen that bird talk.”
She narrows her eyes at me. “You don’t believe me.”
I chuckle. “Why the hell wouldn’t I believe you?”
“No one believes me.”
“How many people have you told?”
“None. Not in a long time. But trust me, the ones I did tell all thought I was crazy. My mother took me to doctors for years, desperate for a diagnosis. Pia has always been there. And when I was very little, there was no way I could know she wasn’t real. So I just talked about her like any kid would a friend. And everyone was OK with it. For a while. But then, when I went to school, I would talk to Pia during class and sometimes she would give me answers. I was a late reader. The letters just didn’t make sense. But Pia would listen to other kids as they read aloud—she couldn’t read either, still can’t—but she would dictate the story to me. Anyway, it was all very confusing for my teachers and my mother.” She pauses to let out a heavy sigh. “That’s when the doctors took over. I told them all about Pia, and they said that I had to admit she was fake. Just my imaginary friend. And I resisted, so they diagnosed me with schizophrenia when I was six.”