Jodi Picoult - Between the lines

I know I should be freaking out, but I’m too busy looking around at this world I’ve dreamed of for so long. Above me, where there should be sky, are distant, dangling bits of letters. Beyond them, I can barely make out colors and shapes, as if I’m looking at the sun from the bottom of a pool.

“Oh my gosh.” I gasp. “Is that the royal castle?”

“No, it’s a loaf of bread,” Rapscullio mutters. “Oliver told me you were a felon, but he didn’t mention that you’re feebleminded…”

If this is the castle, then I’m about to see Oliver.

Really see him, for the first time.

I dig in my heels, stopping Rapscullio. With my bound hands, I try to smooth my hair and adjust my shirt in a way that doesn’t show the rip from the letter J. “Do I look all right?” I ask my captor.

“I suppose, if you’re into that starving-androgynous-plebeian look.” He tugs me forward, and as if by magic, the metal portcullis rises and four heralds trumpet my arrival. Rapscullio unties my wrists and shoves me forward, so that I land on my hands and knees in the middle of a circle of nobles and ladies-in-waiting.

“What do we have here, Rapscullio?”

I look up to find Queen Maureen staring at me. Her crown glistens with diamonds and sapphires and rubies, blinding me. There are braided gold threads in the fabric of her gown. Soft ermine fur lines the inside of her majestic purple cape. The details I can see here, up close, are nothing like the illustrations in a book. This looks so real… because it is .

It’s like a dream. Haven’t you ever had one of those, where you are utterly and thoroughly convinced that you are awake and alive? That everything surrounding you is so detailed you could draw it from memory? That what’s happening is real?

Queen Maureen gasps. “Get the poor girl a blanket. She’s practically in her undergarments!”

A nobleman throws a horse blanket at me, and I wrap it around myself, although I’m fully dressed in a T-shirt and shorts. Thinking fast, I wonder what explanation I can possibly make for myself. The book is clearly closed, as nothing like this happens in the story. Which means everything that Oliver told me was true: there is a completely different world that happens between the lines.

“Your Majesty, I bring to you a despicable, detestable, reprehensible thief!” Rapscullio says, smiling sheepishly at the queen. “I’ve been using that thesaurus you bought me for Christmas.”

I stand up, hands on my hips. “For your information, I’m not a thief. And I’m not despicable, detestable, or reprehensible. In fact, some people would call me astute, intuitive, and perspicacious.” I lift my chin a notch. “English. Straight As.”

“Astute-Intuitive-and-Perspicacious,” Queen Maureen repeats. “That’s quite a mouthful, dear. Have you got a nickname?”

“No-my name is Delilah-”

“Then why didn’t you say so?” the queen asks.

“Because”-I jab a finger in Rapscullio’s direction-“ he was too busy accusing me of being a thief.”

“I have it on direct authority from His Royal Highness Prince Oliver that this girl is a criminal.” Rapscullio sniffs.

Queen Maureen stares down at me. “She hardly looks like a felon. More like a vagrant.”

“I’m neither,” I say. “Go ask Oliver. He’ll explain everything.”

“You know the prince?” Queen Maureen asks. She looks me over from head to toe, in utter disbelief.

“Your Majesty?” a familiar voice says. “Did I hear you calling for me?”

And then, suddenly, I am only three feet away from Oliver. My heart starts hammering beneath my ribs. He is taller than I thought he’d be, and his eyes-well, they’re not the color of the ocean at all. They’re more like the sky at twilight. But his voice, it’s exactly how I’ve heard it. And the way his smile tips up on one side, that’s how I know it’s really him.

“Oliver!” I cry, and I lunge forward with my arms outstretched-

Smack .

I find myself flat on the ground, with three guards sitting on me.

“That’s quite enough,” Oliver says, pushing the guards out of the way and rolling me over. “Are you all right?” he asks, reaching to pull me up.

But I can’t say anything. And not because those guards knocked the wind out of me either.

Because for the first time, we are touching. Holding hands.

I think Oliver realizes this at the same moment, because we wind up staring at each other, transfixed.

A line from the fairy tale pops into my head:

This was why there was music, he realized. There were some feelings that just didn’t have words big enough to describe them.

“I’m afraid there’s been a misunderstanding,” Oliver manages, getting to his feet. “Delilah here is an old friend.”

“Then why did you need me to sketch a Wanted poster for-”

“I thought she was lost!” Oliver says, and then he grins widely. “And look at how well it worked, Rapscullio, since here she is! You deserve a reward. Queen Maureen, didn’t we get a rare Japanese water caterpillar as a state gift last month?”

“Oh, yes.” She claps her hands, and one of her footmen runs off to fetch it. “Funny,” she says, scrutinizing me. “I make it my business to know all the characters in the book, and yet I don’t think we’ve ever met. How could that be?”

“This is Delilah,” Oliver says, quickly glossing over her question. “Delilah, Queen Maureen.”

I stick out a hand, only to have Oliver elbow me in the side. “Curtsy,” he coughs.

Right. I sink into my best curtsy, which isn’t very good, given that I’m wearing a horse blanket.

“Where do you hail from, Delilah?”

“Oh, I live in New Hampsh-”

“Page twenty-two,” Oliver interrupts. “Delilah works in the butchery.”

“Butchery?” I whisper under my breath. “Really? That’s the best you could do?”

“How… intriguing,” Queen Maureen says. “You must come see our cattle sometime.”

“That would be… great,” I reply.

“Well, we’d better get going,” Oliver interjects. “Delilah was planning to show me how to trim out a roast.”

Queen Maureen shudders delicately. “I didn’t know you were interested in the trades, dear,” she says. “Have a lovely afternoon.”

Oliver grabs my hand (again!) and pulls me through the courtyard. We pass gardens filled with lady slippers and bluebonnets, a small sitting area with stone benches, and the royal croquet court. Finally, we come to the entrance of a maze. Oliver leads me into the center, where the boughs of trees form a tangled roof over our heads.

“It’s you,” he says. “It’s really you!” He pulls me into his arms and hugs me tight.

I thought I knew Oliver from reading this book over and over, but here are the things I didn’t know: that there is a spot near the hollow of his collarbone where I seem to fit perfectly. That he smells of freshly cut hay. That when we are touching, I can’t seem to hold a single thought in my head.

“I don’t know what happened,” I tell him. “I was reaching up in my closet one minute, and the next, I was falling through the pages.” I pinch my own arm. “Am I dreaming this?”