This seems pointless to Jane. Surely the actual view must be spectacular. “Come down into the house,” UD17 first Mrs. Thrash continues, “to the command center. We have some real windows, and I’ll show you a model of the defenses we have in place for the ship.”
Walking through UD17’s Tu Reviens is like an off-kilter dream version of walking through Jane’s usual Tu Reviens. She recognizes rooms and staircases; the atrium; even the art, in some cases—with differences that give Jane the chills. The polar bear rug, for example, is not a polar bear rug. It’s a gruesome, grimacing, Abominable Snowman rug. Presumably made of synthetic materials, since there’s no snow here and monsters aren’t real. Are they?
The lighting is harsh, the oval-shaped doorways raised a few inches from the ground. Oddly dressed people pass Jane occasionally. Some of them wear small wheels on their shoes. One is dressed like the guards at Buckingham Palace, complete with a beefeater on her head. Another wears butterfly wings. A third carries a bucket and is dressed like a milkmaid. Are there cows in the house? There’s no milk in the bucket. The bucket seems to be full of . . . kittens? Jane wonders if when these people lost their planet, they lost their history too, and are trying to pull it back somehow, with the way they dress. Trying to recapture lost things. She touches the ruffles on her own sea-dragon shirt.
“This ship is constructed from the cannibalized parts of other ships,” UD17 first Mrs. Thrash tells Jane as Jane follows her toward the stairs. “Octavian Thrash the First had an eye for a bargain, and was a pushy bastard too. He lifted our atrium from an Italian pleasure cruiser.”
The atrium is eerily similar to the Venetian courtyard Jane knows, with marble floors, terraced gardens, tinkling fountains, even hanging flowers. Except that it’s shinier, more perfect. Of course: It’s fake. The marble is fake, the flowers are fake. It’s an imitation of something that no longer exists in this world. It’s soulless, like the atrium you might find in a Roman Empire–themed casino in Vegas.
“Is that real sunlight?” Jane asks, pointing at the light flowing through the ceiling.
“Dear child,” UD17 first Mrs. Thrash says. “We’re at the farthest reaches of the solar system. New Earth has no access to that kind of sunlight.”
Aunt Magnolia, Jane thinks, if you could see this. It’s frightening, somehow, to contemplate Aunt Magnolia while in this other universe. Jane’s been trying not to think about her too directly. “Do you know if there’s a version of me in UD17?” she asks UD17 first Mrs. Thrash, even though the question makes her breathless.
“Not that I know of,” says UD17 first Mrs. Thrash. “Come.”
She leads Jane to the east staircase—companionway?—which clanks hollowly under Jane’s boots as she descends. Instead of a tall painting of a room with an umbrella on the second-story landing, Jane finds herself looking through a doorway into an actual room, which contains . . . what looks like a crumpled spacesuit made for a horse, lying on the floor. People are walking in and out of the doorway. Crew of the ship? Guests of the family? “Is there a gala going on?” she asks.
“No,” says UD17 first Mrs. Thrash. “Why?”
“So many people.”
“Most houseships of New Earth house hundreds, if not thousands of people, my dear. It’s not like we have a planet to spread out across.”
Most of these people are strangers, but Jane could swear that a little girl who bolts into the room, glancing over her shoulder, is Grace Panzavecchia. She’s so fast, it’s impossible to be sure. Moments later, a version of Mr. Vanders hurries up the stairs and crosses in after her. He’s wearing chartreuse sequin suspenders and looks a bit fed up.
It’s the strangest thing, though: Once people pass through the doorway, they change. Jane notices it when the Panzavecchia kid glances back. She looks, weirdly, like some other little girl. As someone else steps out of the room onto the landing, Jane cries out in surprise, because she recognizes the person.
“Lucy St. George!” she says, amazed, really, that she can tell it’s Lucy. It must be something about the way Lucy’s carrying herself, because her face is made up as a sad clown, complete with a red clown nose and dripping black tears, and she’s wearing baggy pants and suspenders, floppy shoes, a white tank top, an oversized bow tie, and pigtails.
“Lucy!” Jane says again. “Is it Halloween?”
“Oh, it’s you,” UD17 Lucy says gloomily. “Of course it’s you. Who else would it be?”
“Me?” Jane says. “You know me?”
“Are you sure you know her, Lavender?” UD17 first Mrs. Thrash asks, surprised. “Janie’s a visitor from another dimension. Have you seen our dimension’s version of her here?”
“Oh,” says Lucy. “Then you’re not that Janie? Yes. I saw another version of her just today, in Ravi’s bed.”
“Ravi’s bed!” Jane says, but Lucy has already turned her shoulder. She tromps toward the east corridor, her big shoes requiring large, awkward steps, as if she’s walking in water. She turns back to look at Jane once. Her clown face burns itself into Jane’s soul, sad and reproachful.
“Ravi’s bed!” Jane repeats. She has no idea what to do with that information.
“Move along now, dear,” says UD17 first Mrs. Thrash.
“Why was she dressed like that?”
“Like what?” says UD17 first Mrs. Thrash, nudging Jane forward down the stairs.
“Like a sad clown,” Jane says, continuing on.
“A sad clown?” says UD17 first Mrs. Thrash. “Why on earth shouldn’t she be dressed like a sad clown?”
“But why—” Jane begins, then stops as a pirate—a pirate!—comes exploding up the stairs toward her. Instinctively, Jane adopts a blocking stance and rams herself into him, which sends him tumbling down the steps again with a high-pitched scream.
“Ow!” he yells once he’s arrived at the bottom. Lying on the floor in a heap, he presses his own head, his hip, his knee, inspects his elbows. Glares up at Jane in disbelief, and, Good god, it’s Colin Mack. Colin, with an eye patch, a skull-and-crossbones bandana over long, scraggly hair, and a tight silk vest with a puffy-sleeved shirt beneath.
“Colin!” Jane cries out.
“What did I ever do to you?” Colin calls up the steps. “You could’ve killed me!”
“Colin!” Jane says again. “You’re one of the pirates?”
“Who the flying flotsam are you?” Colin says. “Anita, where did you get this snollygoster?”
“Really,” UD17 first Mrs. Thrash says to Jane, chiding. “You need to remember, dear, that you’re in a different dimension. If you have a bone to pick with your own Colin, it’s hardly just to take it out on our Colin.”
“I didn’t knock him over because he’s Colin!” Jane says. “I didn’t know he was Colin! I knocked him over because he’s one of the pirates!”
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” says UD17 first Mrs. Thrash. “Colin is an art dealer.”
“Then why is he dressed like that?”
“Oh, and now you insult my appearance,” Colin says indignantly.
“Don’t take it personally, dear,” UD17 first Mrs. Thrash calls down to Colin, the leaves on her head swinging about. “Janie here is a visitor from a Limited Dimension. As such, she can’t help having a narrow conception of the multi-world.”
“Neanderthal! Go back where you came from,” Colin says, then picks himself up, brushes himself off, and marches away in a huff. His pants are ratty and unhemmed and he’s got a couple of pistols in holsters on either hip.
“So, he’s not a pirate?” Jane asks in confusion, then sees her Jasper, dear Jasper the dog, plodding his way up the stairs toward her. She’s never been happier to see a dog in her life. He looks like himself. He’s struggling with the climb just exactly the way Jasper does. She crouches down and holds out an eager hand.
Jasper pauses briefly, swings his nose around to her hand, gives an indifferent sniff, and continues on. He doesn’t even look her in the face.
Jane wants to sit on the steps and howl.
“Poor dear,” says UD17 first Mrs. Thrash. She leans over Jane, her hat giving her the aspect of a weeping willow. “It takes all of us that way, you know. You need to remember that even though this world is familiar, you don’t belong here. You’ll never feel like you do.”