She shrugs. ‘Then you and your friends can stay in our reality for ever.’
My parents’ faces appear in my mind’s eye, the grief etched into their skin, still waiting for me and Nate to return from Comic-Con. My legs go weak and I find myself slowly crumpling to the ground, only metres from Rose’s body. And the loss just keeps on growing, expanding in all directions until it loses all boundaries and edges and fills my whole brain: hot showers and TV shows and Instagram and Ben & Jerry’s and make-up and comfy beds and Google and camping and Kindles and Nando’s and parties and A levels and going to uni and getting a job . . . raising my future children in a world which values them and treats them justly . . .
I shove my hands into my scalp and feel this scream building inside.
Baba kneels before me and gently teases my fingers from my hair. ‘This may only be a story, Violet. It may be generated by your world, from a book or a film.’ She points to the crest of the wall, and I see another figure. A female – Sally King. The late author of The Gallows Dance. I recognize her from the book cover; her long, mousy hair pulled taut from her face, the heavy frame of her glasses swamping her child-like face. And I remember the news reports when she died. Up-and-coming author of bestselling dystopian novel throws herself from a tower block after long struggle with mental illness. She looks straight at me, smiles, and then steps forwards as though she’s stepping on to an escalator. Her body twists through the air and lands next to Rose.
Baba strokes my hair. ‘Our reality may be generated by a single author’s vision or an audience’s collective conscious . . . Who knows? But it is our reality. It matters to us just as your reality – your home – matters to you.’ She uses a finger to raise my chin so my gaze meets hers, but her green eyes only heighten my loss, reminding me of forests and meadows and Christmas wreaths, all things I will never see if I remain in this God-awful city. She blinks like she knows I need some kind of respite. Her words, however, offer none. ‘A story is like a life cycle, Violet. You will be released only when the story concludes. Birth to death.’
Birth to death. A burst of adrenalin travels through me. Birth to death.
Again, she turns me to face the stage, her fingers curling through my tunic like talons. ‘The place where it started, and the place where it must end.’
I look at the nine loops of rope and gain a sudden clarity. I fill my lungs with the lemony air.
‘I’m going to hang in Rose’s place,’ I whisper.
‘Yes.’
‘Next week, at the Gallows Dance?’
‘Yes. For your friends, your family, and above all else, love.’
The justice is almost poetic – we killed Rose, after all. I laugh, but it quickly morphs into a sob. ‘Exactly one week today, I will hang.’ And upon speaking these words, I finally pass out.
Exactly one week today, I will hang.
I will hang for my friends, my family, and above all else, love. A thought which offers surprisingly little comfort when I think about the noose closing around my neck, my feet searching for solid ground, my legs flailing . . . dancing in mid-air.
This morning I was clueless. This morning I was at Comic-Con, inhaling the scent of hot dogs and sweat and perfume, taking in the brightly coloured costumes, the flash of the cameras, the bass drums and the violins. And yesterday I was in school, stressing over some stupid English presentation and wishing I were in another world.
Be careful what you wish for, because sometimes the reality truly blows.
‘Violet?’ I hear Nate’s voice. ‘Violet, are you OK?’
I wake somewhere warm and soft – on my sofa back home or snuggled in bed. The fragrance of burning wood mingles with pollen, and candlelight pools on the walls. I hear low, pulsing voices and wonder if Mum and Dad are talking in the kitchen. But I quickly realize the voices belong to Baba and Thorn.
Nate leans over me. For a fleeting second, I recall my dream, but I see no chasm opening across his chest.
‘What happened?’ I whisper. It feels like I’ve been screaming, the lining of my throat cracked.
‘Baba did her weird thought-sucking-thing and then you passed out. Are you OK?’
I shake my head. The vast, empty space of the Coliseum, Rose’s body hitting the floor, the empty noose . . . Memories fill my mind until my skull feels like a sieve, incapable of containing them all.
‘Violet? What is it?’ Nate asks.
I open my mouth to explain, but Thorn raises his voice at that same moment.
‘I refuse to believe it,’ he says.
Baba – once again bent in her chair, her apple-green irises sealed firmly behind her lids – clasps his hand. ‘She’s the one, Thorn.’ The same words Baba spoke to Thorn in canon, right after her mind blend with Rose.
Nate turns to me, his face full of wonder. ‘They’re talking about you,’ he mouths.
‘She will save the Imps,’ Baba says. ‘Through self-sacrifice and love.’
Nate’s eyes widen, his face all apexes and points in the firelight. ‘You’re going to take Rose’s place?’
I nod.
The concentration nips at his face as he bites his bottom lip. ‘But if you take her place . . .’ His features twist in alarm as he follows the concept to its natural end point. It amazes me how clever he is sometimes.
‘It’s OK.’ I try to smile, though it feels more like a grimace. ‘Soon as I hang we’ll all get transported home. All of us. I won’t feel a thing.’
‘But . . .’
‘Baba promised, I won’t even know it’s happening.’ I’m not sure for whose sake I’m lying – mine or his.
‘But, Violet . . .’
‘Let’s not dwell on it, OK, bro. It is what it is.’
And I bury those terrifying, bleak words in some distant part of my brain – Exactly one week today, I will hang.
Thorn crosses the floor in three long strides and pulls me to my feet like I weigh no more than a doll. ‘Come then, Little Flower, I’ll brief you on your assignment.’
I follow him from the chamber, my arm linked through Nate’s for stability. I forget to say bye to Baba, too focused on the ache in my head and the weakness in my limbs. Only when I hear her voice following us up the corridor do I remember her. ‘You don’t need to brief her,’ she shouts. ‘She already knows what to do.’