Before long, the room swells with music and laughter and the air is thick with perfume and the fizz of champagne. I continue to navigate the thirsty masses by their reflections in the marble floor, clutching a tray of glasses and ordering my arms not to tremble.
A deep, sonorous voice cuts through the chatter and the violins. It must be Jeremy Harper. I risk a quick look, aware that all other eyes will be trained on him. He looks like Willow, but with none of the warmth, none of the softness. He doesn’t look much older than thirty, but the skin around his eyes looks a little too tight, a little too shiny, and I suspect a surgical knife has slowed down the aging process. Even genetic enhancement can’t prevent aging completely. ‘Thank you for joining us for our son’s Gallows Ball. For eighteen wonderful years, we have watched him mature into the man he is today. And next week he will attend his first Gallows Dance, and now . . .’ He leaves a dramatic pause, just like he did in canon, and a drum roll builds, reminiscent of the countdown to death at the Gallows Dance. I shudder in spite of the heating. ‘. . . the time has come for him to dance his very own Gallows Dance. So let’s get this party in full swing.’ He mimes pulling a rope around his neck, sticking out his tongue and crossing his eyes. The crowd laughs. This pissed me off when I read the book and watched the film, but now I feel this hot fury, this sense of injustice filling my chest like a noxious gas. I notice the flutes on my tray quivering slightly. I glance at the other Imps, but they conceal the dark, twisting shapes which must fill their heads as their misery is openly mocked. Years of practise, I guess.
The music builds and Willow appears at the top of the staircase. He looks stunning – hair swept to one side, skin even warmer beneath the bright light of the chandeliers – and he wears a navy suit which really contrasts with the copper of his eyes. I try to let some of the anger go, anticipating his gaze meeting mine, that shy, boyish smile. But something is very wrong. My heart jams in my chest. Not only is he missing my rose stem from his lapel, but an equally stunning Gem girl stands beside him. Oh God, in canon he attended the ball alone. I feel the tray tip and some champagne spills from the flutes. I try to steady it, try to focus through the fog of my own panic.
Who is this mystery Gem girl?
She wears a flowing dress, the colour of trees after too much rain, and a simple tiara, matching the gold of her hair. Her honey-glazed skin is exactly the same shade as Willow’s, making it difficult to tell where his hand finishes and hers begins. For a brief moment, I almost laugh, just the thought that he might want me. Of course he wants this beautiful, honey-coloured doll – every Ken needs a Barbie. They walk down the staircase in perfect sync, and she smiles like a bride approaching the altar.
Their feet touch the floor at precisely the same moment and he sweeps her into the centre of the room beneath the grand chandelier. The crowd breathes a collective sigh as the couple begin to waltz. I can feel sweat beading between my inferior breasts, the air growing clotted and dense. How am I meant to compete with her?
The Gems begin to waltz in their pairs, closing around Willow and his mystery partner, obscuring my view. I stand completely still, just trying not to drop my tray. The not-staring rule completely evades me now, but nobody seems to notice. Through glimpses of fabric and flawless skin, I see Willow laughing.
The waltz finishes and Barbie walks in my general direction. I stare at her reflection in the marble and shamelessly wish I were her. She moves closer, and I continue to avert my eyes, not yet daring to steal a proper look. I decide to wait until she passes – that way she’s less likely to notice the slave studying her face. But she seems to walk straight towards me. I lift my tray slightly, my heart trembling beneath my shirt. Her hand connects with a champagne flute, her nails smooth and long and perfectly formed, and I snatch a quick glance at her face. To my surprise, she smiles at me.
Only when she speaks do I finally recognize her. ‘You’ve got to try some of this, Vi. It’s so much nicer than Lambrini.’ She takes a massive slurp and coughs a little.
‘Alice!’ I feel this huge surge of relief, just knowing she’s OK. ‘Alice, what are you doing here?’
‘Shhh, I can’t be seen talking to the riff-raff.’ She winks a long, fluttery lash, and as she glances towards the exit, I notice how the curls piled on her head look slightly paler, slightly waxier, than her natural hair. ‘Meet me outside in half an hour and I’ll explain.’
The minute hand on the grandfather clock seems to crawl forwards, the air seems to grow even thicker and more resistant, my tray heavier in spite of the diminishing load. In canon, Willow watched Rose all night, his eyes darting feverishly to her mouth as he recalled the texture of her lips. But he doesn’t even look my way. He’s transfixed by Alice. I get this feeling in the pit of my stomach like I’m back at Comic-Con watching Anime Alice with Russell Tosspot-Jones. Well you really are in Wonderland now. I know I should feel angry, scared even, Alice messing up canon like this, but I just feel jealous. And can’t quite unpick my matted thoughts. How did Alice infiltrate the ball? Was this the special job Thorn mentioned back at headquarters?
Finally, Alice kisses his cheek and dashes out of the door. I almost expect her to lose a glass slipper on the way. I tell Moustache I need to pee and slip out of the room, using the staff door at the back.
The cool evening air catches in my nostrils, and the stretch of lawn – the stillness of twilight – calms me for a moment. I close my eyes and listen to the lilting melody floating on the air. Something beautiful I can’t quite reach.
I tread lightly, moving across the gravel, heading towards the side of the manor where I expect her to be.
‘Violet!’ Her golden head bobs around the side of the building. She beckons to me.
I reach her and she pushes me back so a privet hedge shields us from view.
‘It’s so good to see you,’ she says.
We embrace and the jealousy grows blunt at the edges, the familiar scent of cherry blossom and lemon-grass filling my head. The whaleboning of her dress digs into my ribs, but I continue to hold her, allowing myself to acknowledge just how much I’ve missed her.
She holds me out at arm’s length and looks me up and down. ‘You make a good Rose.’
‘Thanks, you make a good Gem.’
‘Aw, thanks.’
I fail to return her smile. ‘Alice, what’s going on?’
She smooths down the fabric of her dress, avoiding eye contact. ‘So Thorn asked me to pose as a Gem.’
‘Yeah, I kind of guessed . . . But why?’
‘He wants me as a back-up plan, in case you fail. There’s more than one way to skin a cat and get those Gem secrets. He doesn’t believe the alternate universe thing, can’t blame him really – he thinks Baba may have lost the plot, excuse the pun.’