Extraordinary

  Phoebe felt Gina Michaud’s arms close around her, as if they could make her safe. “Come on,” Gina said. “We told your dad we’d get you up to Boston as quickly as possible.”

  But Phoebe twisted around in her arms. “Mallory,” she said. “Where’s Mallory? Did she come here with Ryland? Is she back at the cottage?”

  “Your friend?” asked Gina. “I don’t know. Maybe she went with your father? No, wait, nobody else went with him on the helicopter. Don’t worry about her, Phoebe, we’ll find her. But now we’ve got to get you to your parents. We’ll take care of everything.”

  “Ryland,” Phoebe said. “He can get Mallory.” She turned and craned her neck, but now Ryland wasn’t in sight.

  “What? Who?” said Justin Michaud.

  “Mallory’s brother, Ryland,” said Phoebe. “He’s with you, isn’t he? I just saw him.” Doubt suddenly filled her as she remembered the previous night, on the stoop. She turned back to the Michauds. “I thought I just saw him,” she said. “But now I think I imagined it.”

  “No wonder,” said Gina compassionately. “You’re in shock.” She put her arm around Phoebe’s shoulders.

  Phoebe twisted around one final time to search for Ryland. Then she allowed Gina to draw her compassionately away.

  CONVERSATION WITH THE FAERIE QUEEN, 13

  “Child, you have disobeyed your brother. And you have betrayed us. You attempted to warn the girl.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “And now you stand before me with no protest or defense?”

  “I don’t have an excuse. You already know why I did what I did.”

  “Love for humans is dangerous. You were in their world too long. You became vulnerable.”

  “I became—torn. I know you can’t excuse it.”

  “I cannot. You put the girl’s welfare before that of your own people.”

  “Only for a moment, Your Majesty. It’s over now. And I—I deserve whatever punishment you wish. But please, Your Majesty, I have to ask a favor. Just one. It’s not for me. Please. Please!”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s for the woman who thinks she’s my mother. She still needs my care. May I stay in the human realm and continue to help her?”

  “Why? Once your brother has secured the girl and brought her to us so that we may be renewed, the woman will be on her own. This you know.”

  “It’s just that I’d like her to have me for what time is left, however little. I’ll stay with her. I’ll keep away from Phoebe. I won’t even go to school.”

  “The girl will have nothing to do with you now anyway. She is firmly in your brother’s keeping. Without her parents, she depends upon him utterly.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty. It’s actually a relief to me that my brother’s in charge now. I know he can be trusted to put our people first.”

  “Where you cannot.”

  “No, I—I can’t be. It hasn’t been ... pleasant for me to feel this way. Please, Your Majesty. May I do this one small thing for the woman? As you just said, it wouldn’t be for long.”

  “I have rarely said no to you, child. But this time, I must. You have lost track of who you are. You say it yourself: You have become torn. Damaged. It is the hazard of all changelings, and a great sorrow to me; for once you were so strong. But now you blindly ask for freedom to make the same mistake a second time. I say to you, no.”

  “Not blindly! With open eyes. I beg you, Your Majesty. It’s for the woman, not me. In her way, she has given us so much. For us all, I want to give back. It’s balance.”

  “Do not speak to me of balance! Your mission is finished. Now you must retake your real name and place. Mallory Tolliver was always an illusion. Leave her and her so-called responsibilities behind. They were never yours.”

  “But this one last favor, Your Majesty. I ask.”

  “Your insistence both tires and angers me.”

  “I’m sorry. And yet, I still ask. No, I beg. On my knees, I beg you. Your Majesty, I beg you—”

  “Stop! How dare you keep asking? How dare you—it is to me—to us—that you owe love and care—not that woman—we are dying—you have become mad—wild, untrustworthy—your logic is twisted—you think you see balance but you cannot—once you were so loyal and now—”

  “Your Majesty! I didn’t mean—I will get help. I’m so sorry. Forgive me.”

  chapter 25

  In the weeks that followed, Phoebe’s world narrowed into a tight noose of home, school, Ryland, and the hospital in Boston, where Catherine was in Critical Care and where Drew was also now practically living. Phoebe joined her father there as often as she was allowed.

  Sometimes, even frequently, she was glad to be at the hospital. It was better than being alone and worrying. And in a strange way, it could be comforting to sit by her mother’s bed and hold her hand and speak to her the way she’d been told she ought to, conversationally, talking about her day, pretending everything was more or less okay and that they were just waiting confidently for Catherine to wake up and rejoin them.

  But sometimes it was not comforting at all. Sometimes Phoebe felt like she was barely managing to cling to a vertical rock ledge.

  Phoebe had originally offered to be the contact person for relatives and friends. About this too her feelings gyrated. At first it felt good to hear from so many people—the cousins scattered around Europe and the U.S. had all rallied round. It was good to know that they cared, even though there was little anybody could do to help right now.

  But after a short time all the caring calls and emails and text messages became unbearable. Phoebe would see a relative’s name on her phone and not answer. She waited longer and longer before responding. And then one day she called her mother’s assistant, who was handling everything at Catherine’s office, and begged her to take over, hugely relieved when the assistant promptly and efficiently set up a private website to post updates and exchange information.

  After a week Phoebe understood that she simply could not know from one half hour to the next how she was going to feel. In fact, if not for Ryland, who was entirely kind and tender and loving and available to her through it all, Phoebe had no idea how she would have managed to stay sane.

  Only when she was with Ryland did Phoebe feel like her world made some kind of sense. It was as if Ryland’s apartment, and his arms and body—even his calm voice on the phone when she snatched an opportunity to call—made an island away from the fear and uncertainty that otherwise threatened to swamp her. Her very pulse seemed to slow when she was with him, and her worries would recede almost magically. In his presence, she could sleep deeply for a while, before he would awaken her. And although even with him she could not really stand to eat much, she was still grateful that he tried to make her. He never said another word about her needing to lose weight. Once he even made her a big goopy grilled cheese, but she could only pick at it.

  She was also grateful for the opportunity to talk things out with him. Ryland was so interesting to talk to, so smart and insightful. He always made such sense, and came at things from such a unique angle. Phoebe could rely on his sense, his wisdom. She could trust him, she knew.

  Just like she used to trust Mallory.

  But she didn’t want to think about Mallory. Thinking about Mallory and how it used to be with her—and how much Phoebe secretly wished for her, even now, even though she had Ryland instead—hurt almost as much as thinking about Catherine. The best way to navigate the present was to stay in the present. To simply put one foot in front of the other and do whatever needed doing, while waiting for the next time with Ryland when she could put the burden down for a little while.

  Or most of the burden. Not quite all. Never all.

  Catherine’s condition, a coma caused by an unclassifiable brain injury, had the doctors poring over test results and frowning in puzzlement. Nobody understood what had happened. Catherine had been discovered unconscious on the floor of the kitchen that morning. Had she had a stroke?
Had she fallen and hit her head? Examinations and tests had been done and they were weirdly contradictory and finally inconclusive.

  “It could be,” said the lead neurologist, “that Ms. Rothschild will simply wake up tomorrow. Her brain is swollen; she’s sustained some sort of brain injury, but we don’t know what or why. Unfortunately, we don’t know everything we would like to about the brain. A sudden onset like the one Ms. Rothschild has sustained is odd, but it’s not entirely unprecedented. The human body can be baffling. And people do recover from all sorts of things. Sometimes a recovery is even more mysterious than the condition itself. We can hope. There’s always hope.”

  Everyone at the hospital, from the department directors down to the nurses and interns, was careful to refer to Catherine formally, as Ms. Rothschild. At first they had tried to call her Mrs. Rothschild, or Mrs. Vale, or even Catherine, but Drew had corrected them sharply. Phoebe wondered if it reassured her father to hear the powerful, individual name. Maybe it made him feel that his wife was not entirely helpless. That, even as she lay unconscious in a hospital bed in the center of a maze of machines, she was still Catherine Rothschild. The Catherine Rothschild.

  One evening, nearly three weeks after Catherine’s accident, Phoebe was lying on the futon sofa at Ryland’s apartment, curled up on her side with her head on his lap. He was stroking her hair. His fingers were a little too cool on her brow, but she loved the feeling of being close to him and it was worth paying for it with some discomfort. Especially today.

  It had been tough at the hospital this afternoon, harder even than usual. She had come upon her father crying, and he had not even tried to stop or to turn away when he saw Phoebe. In fact, he had hardly seemed to recognize her.

  That was new, and frightening. It had been such a relief to come to Ryland and be held. Being held was unspeakably wonderful, incredibly healing, even if—well.

  Even if she was an utter failure at sex. Even if, when they had tried—because Ryland had said it would help her feel better, help her feel more connected and loved—it had just not worked.

  The awful truth was that Phoebe had felt positively repulsed. She’d concealed this, of course; she’d said she just couldn’t right now, she wasn’t ready.

  But she knew. Inside, she knew. And she wondered what was wrong with her.

  Ryland had smiled kindly, though. He had told her not to worry about it. He’d said he understood and that they’d try again when she felt better. He’d been wonderful.

  But secretly, she didn’t actually want to try again. Not anytime soon.

  Phoebe knew this was her own fault; it had to be. It might be her inexperience. Or it might be that she was just not able to turn her mind off; was unable right now truly to focus on Ryland and on what they were doing. The worst part was that this meant she had a secret from Ryland too, since she needed to pretend she wasn’t anxious about him . . . about sex . . . and about the bitter truth that she’d lose him too if she couldn’t fix herself in this area. If she couldn’t force herself to be grown up.

  It was rather horrible to realize—as she did, in small flashes that she then repressed as well—that she was good at pretending. She was good at tucking what she really felt deep, deep down in her mind.

  She needed to be loved; she needed Ryland; that was what was most important. It even made sense, that she would not feel sexual right now. And if she wondered once or twice why Ryland would not understand that, would not hold back for her—well, that also was a thought to be pushed down. She needed Ryland, on whatever terms. She needed human contact, and comfort.

  She was so afraid. A world without Catherine—and maybe also without Drew—it was as if the floor had dropped away from beneath her feet. Even talking to Benjamin on the phone couldn’t begin to fill the hole. Phoebe knew because she had tried. Maybe if Benjamin had been physically present. But he wasn’t.

  Except for Ryland, she was alone.

  “I was thinking,” Phoebe said to Ryland suddenly, diffidently. “I’d like to tell my father about us. I know that we agreed to keep things secret from my parents. But now, because of my mother, it’s all changed.” This thought had just popped into her mind. All at once it felt urgent.

  “How have things changed?” Ryland’s voice was calm, interested.

  To Phoebe it seemed obvious. She groped for words. “Well, I want there to be honesty between us. Me and my dad, I mean. My dad trusts me. For example, he thinks I’m at home right now. I haven’t actually lied to him in so many words, but it’s still lying. When I hugged him today, after I found him crying, I realized—it’s almost like I’m using my mother’s situation to conceal what I’m doing with you. I never meant to do that, but that’s what’s happened. Do you see?”

  “Yes. But here’s a question. It’s the only relevant question, in my view, although of course you are free to differ. And we know you’re confused right now. So, what’s best for your father in this situation? Not best for you.”

  “He’d want things right between him and me,” Phoebe said. “No matter what, he’d want that. My dad would feel I was lying to him by keeping this secret. So would my mother. So—so do I.”

  Ryland tapped Phoebe’s nose briefly. “I understand. But take yourself and your feelings out of the picture for a minute. Think about your father only. Think like an adult.”

  Phoebe felt herself go very still. Then she sat up. “I’m already trying,” she said, “to be an adult. I—I wish you hadn’t said that.”

  She heard Ryland sigh. She gnawed the inside of her cheek.

  He said, in a very gentle, very patient voice, “All right. Let me put it a different way. Ask yourself what you can do—or not do—to help get your father through this horrible time until your mother wakes up.”

  “Do you think my mother will wake up? Really?” Phoebe found that she was holding her breath, waiting for Ryland’s opinion, her gaze clinging to his face.

  Ryland’s eyes narrowed. Then he nodded. “Yes. I do.”

  Phoebe breathed. “Really?”

  “Really.” He reached out a hand and she let him pull her to him and hold her. She relaxed, again feeling loved and cared for, again feeling as if there might be a floor beneath her, even if it had gone soft and spongy for a few seconds.

  Ryland said, “Your mother is fighting a battle in there, by herself. But she doesn’t give up easily. You know that about her. I think she’ll fight into waking up in the end. She’s an unusually strong person, and she has a lot to live for, and she knows it.”

  “Yes,” said Phoebe. “That’s all true. If anybody can force herself to wake up, it would be her. Thank you. You don’t know how much it helps me to hear you believe that.”

  Ryland’s breath tickled her ear; it was warmer than his skin. “I just don’t see your mother agreeing to die,” said Ryland, which almost made Phoebe smile.

  “No,” she said. “Absolutely not.”

  “I wonder what sort of person would agree to die,” said Ryland. “Someone for whom life was very bad, obviously. Who else? What other reasons might make that happen, do you think? What would make you give up that way, Phoebe?”

  “I don’t know,” said Phoebe. She could feel that Ryland’s body had gone still against hers; he felt like that sometimes, hard, alien. After a while she realized he was truly waiting for a reply from her. “If life was bad,” she said feebly, repeating what he’d said, not wanting to think about it. “Hopeless.”

  “Have you ever felt that way?” asked Ryland. “Hopeless?”

  Phoebe buried her face in Ryland’s shoulder, fighting a sudden sense of vertigo, which it made no sense she should feel. But she did. Now, she thought. Right now. Don’t you know that?

  “You just told me to hope,” she managed to say.

  “Yes, I did, didn’t I?” said Ryland thoughtfully. “Even when it’s not reasonable, one should hope.”

  “Are you—not reasonable—but don’t you think—before, you said—”

  Ryland i
nterrupted smoothly. “But before we got sidetracked, we were talking about your father. And it was an important conversation, so I want to go back to it, sweetheart. Okay? We can talk later about how hopeless you’re feeling. Your father—he’s just barely hanging on, isn’t that right? Didn’t you say that? That he hardly recognized you today?”

  Phoebe nodded against Ryland’s chest. “Yes.” She winced, remembering. Drew’s face was as lined now as if he had aged ten years.

  “So, and this is just a question, Phoebe. You wanted to tell him about us, but would it help him in any way to cope with life right now, if he knew about you and me?”

  “I don’t know,” Phoebe said. “Maybe. Maybe he’d feel better able to cope if he knew that you were taking such good care of me?” But even she could hear the uncertainty in her voice.

  Ryland smiled. “Well. If he knew me, and trusted me. Maybe. But since he doesn’t, I honestly think it would add to his worries. Remember all the things we talked about originally? My age? Your youth?”

  Phoebe felt so tired, and yet, at the same time, so knotted up. She leaned into Ryland. “Oh. Right. You’re so smart. All right, then. I won’t tell him. I don’t—I don’t even remember why I thought it was a good idea.” And she didn’t, although it had been something about honesty. Something about feeling the floor beneath her—but wait, Ryland was her floor. And honesty didn’t matter; there were things that mattered more. Being held and having someone. Even just one person could hold you up—keep you from falling—one person was all you needed. Just the one right person.

  Ryland nodded. “Good.” He held Phoebe even closer. “It’s so interesting,” he said thoughtfully, after another moment. “The more time I spend with you, the more I think about what Mallory said about you. And how true it is.”