Oh, stop it. Gretel’s expression was a soundless fireworks display, the sort you see when someone’s trying very hard not to laugh or cry.
Professor Procházka had slipped away without saying goodbye, so they left too. Back in Gretel’s bedroom they watched a TV show about a woman who had an interesting job, a nice house, a great many high-heeled shoes, and a seven-year personal memory limit. This woman absolutely couldn’t do without a proper past, so in each episode of the TV show she dived into Druhá City’s criminal underworld and stabbed hoodlums with her stiletto heels, demanding to be told things that would lead her to her lost memories. This was counterproductive; most of the hoodlums just said any old thing in order to buy the time to get away from her, and she had to beat a lot of other people and compare statements to uncover some sort of truth. Harriet and Gretel were unsure about the show for the duration of the first two episodes. Each second of screen time was designed to advance the plot, even the coded way people greeted each other or talked about the habits, diets, and personalities of their household pets, so you couldn’t relax at all or you’d get left behind. But by episode 3, they couldn’t stop watching. They were propelled by a strong premonition that when the woman finally managed to retrieve her true memories they would disappoint her, and she’d wonder why she hadn’t just kept living peacefully with her fabulous shoes and her girlfriend, who only had eyes for her. This expectation was probably one the writers of the TV show (and elements of the Druhástranian government) preferred viewers to hold, undermining the urge to clamor for systemic change as it did.
Gretel’s floor rug was a woven map of the world—its threads glinted bronze and blue and emerald-green, and the two girls bridged oceans with their bodies. Harriet asked: What about Clio, Gretel? You say there’s nothing to be done about me, but is there anything to be done about your mother? For instance, can’t you get her to actually pay us?
By the way . . . Gretel lifted up one of Harriet’s pigtails and pointed at the bruise on the left side of her neck. What’s this? Her eyes narrowed. Is it a love bite? Are there more?
Swindlers are the ones who need to be different, not the swindled, Harriet continued.
Have you been letting people bite you for . . . those bits of paper Clio gave you? That’s unexpected.
Shut up. Some girls came and . . . pinched us. Zu, Dottie, me, and all the others. It wasn’t a question of letting it happen; they just did it.
Harriet, I don’t—
I don’t really want to talk about it.
Later, both kneeling and both undressed so that it was fair, they looked at the bruises together. Harriet tried to cover the sore places on her breasts but moved her hands away.
We’re going to start carrying gingerbread shivs, Harriet said.
Gretel said she didn’t think that was a proportionate response.
You’re sounding like Zu. She said violence isn’t the answer.
No, it is the answer. The shivs aren’t enough.
Gretel looked down at her rug, muttered that the world that lay at their feet lacked detail and pulled an atlas from her desk drawer. Maps of 196 countries including Taiwan and excluding Druhástrana.
Now then, Gretel said. Let’s do this before I forget. Where shall we meet once you’ve grown up?
Anywhere but here . . . hang on. Aren’t we going to do that together?
Gretel looked up from examining Budapest street names through a magnifying glass. Hmmm? Do what together?
Grow up.
Oh no, said Gretel. All that happens when you grow up is that your ethics get completely compromised and you do extremely dodgy things you never imagined doing, apparently for the sake of others. Plus, growing up isn’t in my job description.
You’ve got a job? What is it?
Changeling.
Changeling as in nonhuman replacement for a human child?
Changeling as in changeling. We’ve had bad press.
Right. What are your duties, then?
Mainly we assist people who’ve changed their minds in a way that means their lives have to be different too.
Harriet tried to hold Gretel’s gaze, but the other girl kept looking at the pinch marks instead. Even though she now knew they were malign in nature, they still came across as evidence of jaunty affection, of having been nibbled here and there just a bit, a tiny, tiny bit . . . the pinch marks really bothered Gretel, to a degree that enabled them to play an interrogative role and startle her into disclosure she might not otherwise have made. We—er—we try to help out with practicalities, next steps, etc. No two workdays are the same . . .
Is the pay good?
There is none. Usually I need a second or third job to get by, but being Clio’s daughter this time around makes things a bit easier in some respects.
No pay? Really none at all?
I’m not saying I don’t have serious talks with myself sometimes. I’m not saying there aren’t moments when I say to myself: This is a mug’s game . . . let’s just hand in that resignation letter, you and me, let’s give two lives’ notice and leave all this behind. But. “Whát I dó is me: For that I came,” Gretel said. That’s from a poem I read once, and that’s really all there is to it.
So . . . am I a client?
No. You’re very . . . I trusted you at once, so you’re a friend. Even changelings need people they can place confidence in.
But not people to grow up with.
Like I said, that’s your job. You’ll get your real wages this time, but there’s an underlying issue here. I’m not sure how to put this . . . it’s about value systems . . .
Try putting it in terms of gingerbread.
Oh, then it’s simple. About that gingerbread of yours: What do you want in exchange for it? Look at your little face . . . had you really told yourself you intend to give the stuff away for free? If that were the case, would you really be this upset about the fake money? Right. So think. What’s the minimum you can accept in exchange for your gingerbread? And what about the maximum? Better to set honest prices if you want to make an honest profit, don’t you think . . . ?
After a pause, during which Harriet thought to herself that this was the sort of thing that would take decades to work out, Gretel said: Best get going then, hadn’t you, and Harriet jumped, then pretended she’d only been sneezing. Gretel laughed and held up her atlas.
But first: Where shall we meet once you’ve grown up? Stick three pins in so we have two backups.
They sounded out the names of foreign towns and cities. Consonants clattered and vowels unwound like parchment scrolls—every word they mispronounced sounded good to them. In the end it was the vividly tinted photographs that helped them refine their short list. Harriet flipped through the atlas backward and there they were—three photos in which the same two women recurred. One city scene, one spa-town snapshot, and the third was neither city nor countryside—two semi-smooth surfaces met and cast multilayered light. Harriet considered that light and said: Wasn’t this taken on a beach? Sand and sea? Gretel said it could be a beach, but there was a castle nearby . . . she definitely saw the type of mildewed shadow cast by a castle. At first the two women were barely distinct from the scenery, just two blurry figures holding on to each other. Gretel’s magnifying glass revealed that twice they were looking in the same direction and the third time one was looking down and the other was looking off to the side. Harriet pointed out that the one on the left was slightly in the lead. I think she’s guiding the old biddy on the right. It must be me and you.
Gretel looked up the place names and stuck three pins into her map.