“All I have to do is take your hand?”

  My words, back at the Mimic, a mirror to a mirror to a mirror.

  “Yes. Yes, oh please do.” The Mimic nodded, biting her sweet little lip again — my lip, in my face, overseen by my eyes, tightly coquettish in a way I could never have managed. The fingers trembled on her outstretched hand, leaves on a branch.

  “Of my own free will?” I asked. “Willingly and freed? Free and willed?”

  “Of course, yes, of your own free will. Of course, of—”

  “I wasn’t born yesterday,” I said.

  Flirtatious anxiety froze on the Mimic’s face.

  She hadn’t expected that. Too much of my sister still occupied her imagination, whatever she said out loud; two-point-five million words of Heather is one hell of a binge, too much to purge without damage. You didn’t expect it either, did you? Or so I would wager, if I was the betting sort of girl. Which I’m not, because chance is fickle, and I don’t have any money.

  The Mimic blinked several times, big dark lashes batting against flustered cheeks. The fingers of her proffered hand curled away, like petals from a flame; my hand in reflection, all soft and small and delicate. Did I really chew my fingernails like that? She bit her lip again, struck dumb; my lip, a narrow curl of pale rose, like blushing bone. Was that how I looked, when Raine shot me her trademark grin? I hoped not. It was a pretty gormless look. Despite the tangled knot of my heart, I do pride myself on a considerable reserve of gorm. Buckets of gorm. Secondary and tertiary gorm reserves. No real flesh, no tits, arse as flat as Norfolk — but gorm for days, that’s me.

  No, I decided, I did not look like that; the Mimic’s mask was turning shitty.

  “Uh … I-I’m sorry?” she stammered.

  “I wasn’t born yesterday,” I repeated. “I was born twenty years ago. Twenty years, eight months, ten days, and about eight hours. I can’t be bothered with the minutes right now, I’d have to get my phone out and look at the time, and I don’t want to take my eyes off you. You might steal the silverware. Not that we have any. Or maybe we do, I don’t know what’s in some of these cupboards.”

  The Mimic’s mouth hung open. “Y-yes. T-thank you for the biographical precision, but—”

  “Figure of speech,” I said. “Means I’m not a fool. My experience of life is not so limited that the wool can be pulled over my eyes by a simple trick. In other words, I am aware that you are attempting a ruse on me. Deceiving me for personal amusement. Or something else. Likely something else. Definitely something else.”

  The Mimic swallowed. The way her throat bobbed was quite cute; I wanted to poke it. Her free hand tugged awkwardly at the shawl over her shoulders, a mirror of my own, but she didn’t know how to wear a shawl.

  This was more fun than I’d expected. I almost smiled. Would she squeak if I jerked toward her? Could I force her all the way back to the kitchen wall, if I kept going? Would she cower and tremble? What would my face look like, backed into a corner and pleading? Could I make her cry? Did I want to make her cry? Cry out? Cry for help?

  She didn’t seem to know what to do with the hand she’d offered. It hung between us like a dead flower, pale flesh so white in the October sunlight pouring through the kitchen window. She held that hand as if I’d just spat into her palm, but she was too respectful to wipe off the glob of saliva. That’s VIP spit, that is. You want to hold onto that, don’t you?

  “Uh, yes,” she said. “I know what the phrase means. But … in this … uh, context, I don’t quite gather—”

  “Heather has read plenty of fairy tales—”

  “I’m not here to talk about her!” the Mimic interrupted. “I’m here to talk about you!”

  I stopped. I stared. The Mimic swallowed a second time. Cute little bob of throat.

  “Do you want me to pick up the knife again?” I asked.

  “Uh … n-no, thank you. I’m sorry for interrupting. Sorry, sorry! Please, do continue.”

  “Heather has read plenty of fairy tales, Arthurian legends, modern fantasy. Which means I have read plenty of those things too, proxified, approximated, proximal. Proxima? No.” I tutted. “Despite my lack of concrete personal experiences of personally experienced concrete, I am not insensible to what you are, or what you are doing, or perhaps what you are attempting to imitate. Which you are doing a very good job of. But.”

  The Mimic’s mouth opened and closed several times.

  “You can speak now,” I added.

  “I-I must protest!” she squeaked — which was almost enough to make me smile. Panic made her mask so thin. Did that sound anything like me? ‘I must protest’? She made me sound like a genderswapped Bertie Wooster, (now there was an idea, which I saved for later) or Heather at her most clueless. “I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about!” she went on. “What am I imitating? Except for, well, yourself? But that’s an explicit part of my promise! How else am I to show you all your potential, if you suspect me for merely holding up a mirror to your face? Miss— Miss- Miss Morell, please—”

  She took a step back — a nice big full-body flinch, from head to toes, right down her spine.

  I had been leaning forward, getting all up in her face, breathing hard.

  “You are treating me like a child,” I said. “Or worse.”

  “What’s worse than treating you like a child?”

  “A mark.”

  “A mark?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t—”

  I picked up the knife. Solid handle, for solid handling. “Stop denying it.”

  “Okay, okay! Okay!” the Mimic spluttered.

  “You couldn’t make this more obvious if you tried. ‘Take my hand, but you have to do it willingly’? What’s next? ‘May I have your name?’ ‘Eat a slice of this cake, or these pomegranate seeds, or this piece of meat which takes oddly like pork’?”

  The Mimic shook her head and let out a nervous little titter. Did I ‘titter’? I suddenly wasn’t sure what my own laugh sounded like. I looked down at the knife instead. The old blade reflected half my face, a dull steel mirror blurring my features into a muddy brown waterfall around a splotch of pale flesh.

  “I’m … I’m sorry, Miss Morell,” the Mimic was saying. “I’m not arguing with you, not with that knife in your hand. I merely wish to clarify what I’m being accused of. You think I’m a fairy tale trickster, here to spirit you away, or thief your metaphysical qualities from you?”

  I looked up from the formless reflection in the knife, to the perfect yet empty Reflection in front of me.

  “Yes.”

  The Mimic smiled in a way I would never — embarrassed and blushing, head dipped to give her eyes an upturned look, a naughty girl caught in risqué clothes by a secret crush. “You’re half right. But only half.”

  “Which half?”

  “A touch of spiriting away.” She winced. “But only a little bit. I promise!”

  “You promise.”

  She swallowed. “Q-quite. Really!”

  The Mimic had still not fully withdrawn her offer; sunlight from the kitchen window played across the pale, pasty, needy skin of her hand, her wrist and palm and gently coiled fingers. I stood in shadow, holding the knife.

  “So,” she said eventually. “You’re not going to take my hand? Is this a rejection of my offer? You’re staring awfully hard, for somebody who just said no.”

  She had adopted a vaguely hurt, tilted-headed look. Cute, cute, cute. Was that me? Cute enough to eat.

  “No,” I said. “I’m not going to take your hand. Willingly or otherwise. Unwilling willingness willed into willpower.” I tutted. “No.”

  The Mimic knew I was lying.

  I wanted to grab that hand and grip it hard enough to grind her fingers against each other, break all those delicate bones, sprain her wrist, and dislocate her shoulder. I wanted to yank her forward, off her feet, and crush her against my chest. I wanted to kiss her on the mouth with tongue and teeth and maybe bite her lips a little bit too. Did I care that she was a trickster spirit here to mess with me? Of course I did — because she was here for me, not for Heather, not because of Heather, not because I was a side-effect of somebody else’s presence in memories I couldn’t make my own.

  She had arrived here because of Heather’s story, fine, that’s true. Same as you. No, don’t bother with a denial, we both know it’s the truth, admitting it won’t admit any additional pain into my maiden’s heart (mostly because I lack that particular muscle; did you know I don’t even have a pulse, unless I pretend?)

  The Mimic had arrived because of Heather. But now she was with me. Alone together.

  She was also very pretty — or rather, I was very pretty, the Morell twins were very pretty, and that helped a lot. She was pretty because she was wearing my face and pulled sweet little pouts and nervous flutters that I could never see in my reflection in a mirror. Heather never saw that kind of thing in herself, either; another curse in common, though I’m not quite so self-absorbed as all that. Unlike my sister I do not completely misread the curves of my own beauty.

  Yes, I know I’m a little stunner, even when I’m staring at myself with bad intentions. I was also twenty years old and chock full of hormones. (Well, not literally, there’s no chemicals here, but you get the idea.)

  I didn’t actually want to kiss the Mimic, let alone fuck her. What gripped me was a surrogate for attraction. I wanted this — not her. She could have been anybody, wearing any mask she liked, dressed like anything, and I would have wanted this all the same.

  Though, not if she’d looked like Raine.

  The Mimic wet her lips. She straightened the fingers of the hand which held the offer. “Maisie,” she purred. “You want this.”

  “Want what I shouldn’t. Shouldn’t what I want.”

  She blinked. “Pardon?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “And how do you know that? Are you reading my mind? Reading these words?”

  “I-I’m sorry? But, uh, no, I’m not a mind reader, just a student of the mind.”

  “Never mind.”

  “You … you do want this, though, don’t you?” Her sweet little smile crept back. “I’m not trying to fool you, Maisie. I mean everything I said. All I’m offering is a chance to discover yourself, all your possible futures, sketched in brief for you to peruse. I might play a trick or two, but it’s all in good fun, that’s just part of my nature. And I’m … ” She bit her lip again. “I’m here for you. Not for anybody else. Only you, Maisie. Only you. But … ” She swallowed. “Please do put the knife down. We won’t need that where we’re going.”

  “Very confident of you.”

  The Mimic winced. “Sorry! Sorry. Um, we won’t need it where we’ll go, if you agree to go, with me? Is that better?”

  “To where?”

  “To my home, of course. Not my bedroom. But close enough.”

  “And where is home?”

  “Where the heart is,” she said. I made a vague gesture with the knife. She quickly added: “Just — not here! Elsewhere. The roads between. And I shan’t even keep you long. You’ll be home before dinner, before you know it. A-and you can totally bring the knife, if it’ll help you feel safer! If you think I’m trying to trick you, well, you have some steely insurance right there.”

  “Huh.”

  “Or!” The Mimic brightened. “You could invite one of your friends to come with us? Somebody you trust? You needn’t do this alone. I’m not trying to get you all by yourself. How about one of the other residents of this lovely house? I’ve heard so much about Number 12 Barnslow Drive, after all, it would be a delight to meet one of your playmates. How about—”

  “No,” I snapped. “It’s you and me alone, or not at all.”

  The Mimic blinked in surprise. Her cheeks turned rosy red. “Oh.”

  “You want this too,” I said.

  “I’m … sorry? I—”

  “You want this too, yes or no. You said you were infatuated with me. It’s simple enough, don’t fuck this up now.”

  The Mimic nodded. “Yes, yes I do!”

  “And you can’t do this without my consent.”

  “I … can’t. Yes.”

  “But you would if you could.”

  The blush deepened in my Reflected cheeks. “Well … yes.”

  “But you can’t. So you won’t.”

  “I won’t.” She shook her head.

  “You can’t do any of this without my consent. If you could, you would have grabbed me and done it already.”

  “I suppose I would … ”

  “Case rested. Resuscitated? Rusticated.”

  “I … pardon?”

  “You’re a fairy,” I said. “Or you’re acting like one. And not the nice kind. Not a girl-shaped sprite in a glittery dress. You’re the other kind.”

  The Mimic swallowed. “Well … I shan’t say you’re totally wrong. But—”

  “That’s what you let me glimpse earlier. Testing to see if I would be scared or not. I don’t appreciate this big run-around. Admit it or fuck off.”

  The Mimic — the Fairy? — nodded, turning her eyes downward, twisting one foot, biting her lip.

  Still cute, but growing saccharine.

  I slapped the knife back down on the table, turned away from the Mimic, and stomped over to the kitchen countertops. I yanked open the bottom drawer next to the oven, where Praem stored all the tea towels. Praem had a lot of tea towels, (and yes, they were Praem’s tea towels, not Barnslow’s tea towels, or the polycule’s tea towels, or anybody else’s tea towels; Praem kept them clean, Praem folded them, Praem selected new ones to add to their already swollen numbers.) I selected the largest and most absorbent, which was printed with little cartoons maids. Then I turned back to the Mimic.

  The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  “Ah?” she said. “What’s that for?”

  I snapped the fabric taut between my fists. “Strangling you,” I said. “So your blood doesn’t make a mess on the floor.”

  The Mimic’s eyes got very big and she went very white. She took a step back. Her hand almost dropped, offer finally rescinded.

  “That was a joke,” I added.

  “Oh!” The Mimic sighed and put a hand to her chest. “Oh, right. Y-yes. Haha! Very funny! Y-you won’t really—”

  “I’m not going to strangle you.” I walked back to the table, to stand in front of my Reflection.

  “Then why the tea towel?” she asked.

  I snapped the towel taut another couple of times, then lay it over my shoulder, another awkward and clashing addition to my outfit, like a little shawl for my shawl. Why did I even need the tea towel when I had a shawl? Because a shawl is clothing, and a tea towel is not; a shawl cannot be used for the same purposes, not without disrespect, or confusion. Towels are different.

  “Praem says you should always take a towel when you travel,” I explained. “It’s a important tradition.”

  The Mimic blinked several times, then burst into a sweet little smile. Tooth-rottingly sweet.

  She offered me her right hand again, fingers trembling, lips parted, eyes shining.

  “You mean, you’ve decided to accept?”

  “Mm.”

  “Ah!” She beamed. “I’m so happy!”

  I shan’t blame you for thinking I’m an idiot. Heather has set your expectations when it comes to reckless behaviour, hasn’t she? She never looks before she leaps, she jumps in with both feet first and both fists whirling and a head full of justifications. You’re used to her doing stupid things for emotional reasons, which she tells herself are moral or practical reasons. You’re expecting me to do the same, and how can I deny it? There I was, alone with an intruder, unwilling to raise the alarm, having established to my total and complete satisfaction that she was going to pull some kind of trick on me. She was offering to take me to a second location, and she’d used my needs against me, to get me to agree to go alone.

  I should have been terrified, shouldn’t I? Poor little Maisie Morell, imprisoned for ten years. Six weeks (and three days) out, and there I was again, tempting fate. Was I stupid, or just an addict?

  But no, I wasn’t scared.

  Unlike my beloved sister, I don’t ignore what’s trapped in the empty sphere of my skull.

  A wiser voice than mine (and there’s plenty of those — yes, shocking, I know, who would have guessed?) once said that we do not invent symbols — the truth is the opposite, symbols invent us. I did not care what the Mimic’s real reasons were. She had surrendered those the moment she had entered my solitude. Now she was a symbol of everything I wanted, everything I craved beyond the velvet cage of Heather’s memories.

  Her intentions were irrelevant; she was mine to use.

  Thus, I am created.

  Got any plans? Why yes, Raine. Yes I did.

  I reached for the Mimic’s hand—

  And she flinched away from me.

  The Mimic looked up and around all of a sudden, half-turning toward the kitchen door, and the front room beyond.

  “What are you—”

  “Wait!” she hissed. Her eyes widened and her cheeks dimpled with sudden excitement. “Wait, there’s— I hear— oh gosh!”

  “No,” I said. “No, come here. We have to go, before—”

  I swiped for her hand. She wriggled away again.

  And then I heard the distraction — two pairs of footfalls pattering down the stairs, down into the front room, and across the floorboards, toward the kitchen.

  “Give me your hand!” I snapped. “Now! We can’t be seen!”

  The Mimic just beamed, as if this was all a joke. “Wait, wait a moment, I want to see her!”

  “What? Who?”

  “Her.”

  “Fuck you,” I said. “You said you were—”

  “Don’t be rude!” the Mimic giggled.

  Two people walked through the kitchen doorway; both halted in surprise.

  The first wasn’t too bad — Tenny, confused but not alarmed. You could always tell if Tenny was truly concerned, because her tentacles would be going absolutely everywhere, trying to do a dozen things all at the same time, mostly batting at or biting whatever had alarmed her. But on that chill October morn, Tenny’s namesake appendages were mostly tucked away beneath her cloak-like wings. A few were trailing behind her, they suddenly snapped upright as she stopped.

  Looking at Tenny was easy enough, because I could always look at the tentacles.

  But I had no idea what to say.

  Tenny said: “Auntie Maisie? And … auntie Maisieeeeeee? Brrrrrrrt?”

  Tenny had the most beautiful voice in the world. No, I’m not exaggerating, and yes, I know you’ve heard all of this before, from Heather, but she doesn’t get it. Heather considers Raine’s voice and Zheng’s voice to be the pinnacle of beauty. She doesn’t understand what Tenny’s voice does — it penetrates flesh and bone and metal and carbon fibre, and makes your body sing with her words, like it’s you who’s purring, not Tenny; her voice buzzes and flutters inside her chest and makes you feel like she’s lulling all the pain of thought away from you.

  I could easily have passed a whole day doing nothing but luxuriating in Tenny’s vocalisations. In my more idle moments over the previous six weeks I had considered broaching the subject of introducing Tenny to ASMR videos on the internet. She could be a star overnight. She wouldn’t even need to say words or show her face (or an avatar), just hum for six hours and she’d do ten million hits in a week.

  But right then I could barely see her; my eyes were blinded by tears of frustration.

  Behind Tenny, a second figure tottered into the kitchen.

  “Two?” said She. “Double double toil and trouble?”

  Her.

  I gritted my teeth and did not look at her. She liked eye contact, lots of it, and I refused to give her yet more advantages in life. This was meant to be my moment, and it was already ruined. Why couldn’t she have stayed upstairs playing Tenny’s video games, instead of coming down here to watch bits of me get shaved off and burnt up?

  The Mimic, however, was beaming, with my lips, my smile, my eyes — at Her!

  “Oh!” said the Mimic, with my voice, in a tone I would never have used. “And there’s the other one I’ve been hoping to meet.”

  “What?” I said.

  But the Mimic didn’t seem to hear. She went on talking, to Her: “You are another very interesting young woman, do you know that? A little more dangerous to make contact with than Maisie here, of course. The gaze watching your back is considerably more vigilant. But I’d be delighted to make your acquaintance, whenever you’re willing to sneak away for an afternoon. Don’t forget me, now. I won’t ever forget you, after all.”

  “Brrrrrrrt!” Tenny trilled. A dozen black tentacles erupted from beneath her wings, spreading outward in a wiggling halo around her body, protecting her companion (who I am intentionally refusing to name until the last possible moment, because this is my story, and I refuse to give her yet another way in.) “Sevens? Izzat you? Sevens?”

  “It’s not Sevens-Shades-of-Sunlight,” said the other one. “It’s something else. Maisie? Maisie, you should come away from that. I think it’s dangerous.”

  “You’re meant to be mine,” I whispered through clenched teeth.

  The Mimic glanced at me, then back at Her. “Oh, no, I’m not anybody you’ve ever met before, dear, but I’m not dangerous, I’m just—”

  I yanked the tea towel off my shoulder, bundled it up around a new shape, then tucked it under my armpit.

  “I said you’re meant to be mine.”

  The Mimic did a double-take. “Sorry, Maisie? What was that?”

  “You’re mine.”

  And then I took her hand.

  …

  Crossing the dimensional membrane is a unique sensation. Heather insists that words cannot capture the experience, that human language is not up to the task. Which is nonsense, and she should really know better, because she’s the literature student. I’m not a student of anything except myself. Maybe anime.

  Imagine that your forebrain is a void (and ignore the fact that I do not have a physical brain in the front of my reinforced artificial skull; the effect is the same.) Now pierce that void with a sharp point made of eternity. The infinite space beyond your private void then floods into you, filling you completely. You stop being yourself. You stop being anything, because you’re filled with infinity, and infinity is larger than you (unless you’re very big, but those of you on that scale do not even need this explanation, I’m sure you can do better.) This part is either absolutely horrifying or oddly comforting, depending on how you feel about the integrity of your own ego, or so I’m told.

  Then, infinity sucks you inside out. (No jokes, please.) Or, rather, infinity overcomes osmotic pressure, so your void is both voided and inverted. Your insides become your outsides, and the outside is now inside you.

  Conversely, what used to be your outsides are now a new set of insides. That void, new and recreated from your opposite, re-seals itself, while you are still flush with infinity.

  When that process completes, there you are — a void once again.

  …

  Perhaps Heather was right after all; perhaps I should stick to her stock phrase: ‘and then reality folded up.’

  But I’m not going to call it ‘Slipping’. That makes it sound like you’ve taken a tumble in the aisles at a Tesco, because you’ve ignored the warning signs about wet floors. My sister has no sense for names. Again, literature student, she should know better.

  When I took the Mimic’s hand, we Leapt.

  …

  The void that was myself re-inverted. Reality returned. Hooray.

  A reek — rotting leaves, black soil, damp bark. Shadows, thick and greasy as cold gravy. Rustling leaves, creaking trunks deep as whale-song; the whisper of thick-fingered wind.

  Outside and outdoors, in the woods.

  The first thing I did — after the Mimic slipped her hand from mine and hopped back in surprise — was double over and vomit up my breakfast. Yes, I did have a stomach; yes, it was made of self-image and hard light, or whatever else you want to call the soft tissues of my imitated body. And yes, the muscles were still perfectly capable of forced contraction. I spewed my guts onto the carpet of old leaves.

  The Mimic stifled a laugh. “Oh! Oh, dear. Oh dear me. There she goes. Chundering away. First time for you, isn’t it?”

  “Uuunnnnhhh,” I moaned around a mouthful of sick.

  She was correct, this was my first Leap.

  Heather had not taken me Outside, and had forbidden Lozzie from doing the same, in case Lozzie got any ideas. (Lozzie got lots of ideas, and I suspected I would rather like most of them, if only she didn’t surprise me with loud noises and attempted hugs.)

  Nausea felt worse than I’d expected. It was nothing like the nausea Heather experienced after a Leap, or after what she so bizarrely calls ‘brain-math’. Her nausea is like a great big wave which overwhelms her whole being. We’ve all seen it plenty of times, we know how she tends to embellish.

  Mine was just, well, nausea. I heaved and spat and braced my hands on my knees, regretting the sad little splat of half-digested cereal and acid-tainted almond milk.

  But it only lasted about thirty seconds; there are advantages to being made mostly of carbon fibre.

  I straightened up and wiped my lips on a corner of my tea towel. Turned out Praem was right, the towel was already proving useful.

  The Mimic had brought me to a forest of giants. Each tree was both taller and wider than any of Earth’s redwoods — perhaps fifty feet at each root-gnarled base, bare trunks soaring upward five hundred feet or more, their heads spreading a leafy canopy so dense that it left the forest floor in mottled twilight, affording the eager eye only snatches of grey cloud beyond, (and what clouds I spied, though in slivers too small to divine anything of import.) Each tree gave a good thirty to forty feet of breathing room to its neighbours. The trunks marched off in every direction, into deeper shadows garlanded with wisps of thin fog. I could see faint greyish light far away to the right, perhaps a clearing, or open ground.

  The forest floor was bare, no undergrowth, suffocated by titanic appetites for sunlight, carpeted in decades of leaf-mulch and gooey rot. The soil beneath was spongy loam, black and rich, reeking of fertility.

  Pity about my socks. My soles were already damp.

  Amateur mistake, right? Heather would never have made that error. Or did she? Did she ever get stranded Outside without her shoes?

  I couldn’t remember in that moment, which was nice.

  Alone in the woods. And so very silent.

  Such a delicious thrill, to be out there, alone. I felt like a very naughty girl. Shackles and manacles falling from my wrists and ankles. I almost smiled.

  Worry, though, presented an irritation — Tenny had seen me leave, and I hadn’t thought to leave a note. In moments she would be on to Sevens, or Lozzie, or somebody else. In a minute or two somebody would alert Heather.

  Heather would be very worried.

  I needed my solitude — I needed this — but I didn’t actually want to hurt my sister. I did not wish to give her a heart attack by vanishing on the first day she had left me by myself. I loved her, you understand? Unless you’re like us, you won’t, though you might come close with somebody you choose, and who chooses you. With us it was different.

  But the Mimic was still talking.

  “Oh-ho-ho-ho!” she ‘giggled’ in a voice that was increasingly giving up on sounding anything like me. “Such a jealous little thing, aren’t we? Another unexpected quality, so different to your sister. Should I be flattered that you’ve gotten so possessive so quickly, or should I be worried about that knife?” She emitted a purr — more like a gurgle. “Ohhhhh, but wait. You left it behind. I don’t need to be worried anymore, not at all! Oh-ho-ho-ho!”

  I lowered my gaze from the giant’s wood. “This doesn’t look like your home.”

  The Mimic grinned.

  She was giving up on mimicry — or at least mimicry of Maisie Morell. Her smile reached from pointed ear to pointed ear, a big slash of lipless mouth filled with dozens of sharply triangular teeth. Her eyes were long and lidless, pupil and iris submerged in the green of moss-choked grass. She kept my long hair, but it was turning the shade of a muddy bog. She still wore approximations of my clothes, but the colours had melted into a green-brown mush. I counted two arms — then two more — then another two, but always just two, with too many elbows and far too many fingers, nails all crusted with hard-packed grey soil and old rot.

  She had a lot of legs, more than I could count, all sticking out from her hips and jutting to the floor, like a spider ready to scuttle in any direction. Big naked feet scrunched their toes into the black soil of the forest floor.

  “Oh, but it is,” she said. She’d abandoned my voice too, gone high-pitched and raspy. “This whole place is my home. I told you we wouldn’t be going straight to my bedroom. Not unless you really want to see me in my birthday suit.”

  She bit her lip and batted her eyelashes; her teeth drew beads of black blood, and her lashes were not attached to her face.

  “Is this supposed to be scary?” I said.

  The Mimic grinned wider. “I don’t know. Am I scaring you?”

  “Are you?”

  The Mimic stepped closer, a dozen feet squelching in the leaves and soil. “You’re so lost you don’t even know it. Did you know, the best way to kidnap somebody is to make it so they don’t even know they’re being kidnapped?”

  “Are you breaking your promise?”

  The Mimic blinked. Her brow wrinkled. “Eh?”

  “You promised to show me my possible futures. Future possibles. Futures imperfect?” I tutted and shook my head. “Or was that just a lie to get me here? I don’t like liars.”

  The Mimic rocked back on her circle of legs and let out a giggle — a real one this time, a tittering sound from deep in her throat, like an exotic ground bird. “Oh, no, no no no, no lies here! I fully intend to keep that promise. But keeping promises is a lot more circuitous than it sounds.”

  “Circuitous,” I repeated. “That’s why you’ve stopped reflecting me.”

  “She catches on quick!” The Mimic clapped her hands together, all of them, even the ones I couldn’t see without looking directly at them. “What did you think I was going to do? Drag on a series of different masks, show off all the different women you might grow up to be in the future? Ha! I already told you, lich-girl, I’m not Carcosan Royalty. I don’t share their love of quick fixes and book learning. I believe in making things more … experiential.”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  The Mimic kept grinning. “Don’t call you what?”

  “Lich-girl.”

  The Mimic snorted. Mud bubbled in the back of her throat. “What are you going to do about it, lich? Stab me with your knife? Oh, whoops, you left that behind! What good are all your threats now, without a steel claw to back them up?”

  “Nothing, I suppose.”

  The Mimic grimaced, hissing through her teeth, squinting hard. “Why don’t you seem afraid?”

  I shrugged, straight up and down. “Because I’m not.”

  “What?”

  I smiled; she flinched, scuttling back. Cute? A little bit.

  “I’m … happy, I think,” I said. I took a moment to arrange my shawl over my shoulders; it still clashed with the tie-dye t-shirt, but I felt a bit better about the outfit now. Why care about looking absurd when everything was coming up Maisie? I took the tea towel out from under my armpit and held it in one hand. “Happy, or happier, or happy enough for now. Here I am, we are, are we. You and I, like you were promising. We’re Outside, which is somewhere I’m not supposed to be, but almost nobody knows, nobody’s coming for me soon. Or, tch,” I tutted. “Not right away, anyway. I’ve got a few minutes, at least. I’m alone but not lonely. Lone but not alone. You’re here too. And I sort of like you. I’m talking to you almost like how I talk to myself. Huh.” I put the smile away. “Though I won’t like it if you keep insulting me.”

  The Mimic squinted. Green eyes turned to razor slits. “You should be afraid that I’m going to eat you, little girl. Didn’t you say your beloved twin was well-versed in fairy tales? Don’t you know what happens to little girls who get lost in the woods?”

  “They kill big bad wolves.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind,” I said. “And don’t call me that, either.”

  The Mimic huffed, a sharp hiss like a snake. “What now?!”

  “Little girl,” I said. “I’m not a little girl. I’m twenty years old. Plus eight months, ten days, and about eight hours. Don’t call me that. It’s weird.”

  “Ugh!”

  The Mimic threw up all six hands and stomped around me in a circle. The giant trees made a temple for us, with a roof in the heavens.

  I almost giggled.

  I wasn’t exaggerating about feeling happy; perhaps I had struggled to express myself clearly, but that wasn’t exactly new. This experience was all mine. This giant’s wood, this Mimic, whatever she was turning into, whatever reasons she had brought me here, all of this was mine. A bright and shining gem of memory, without anything of Heather attached to it, (though of course I was going to tell her all about it later.) If Heather had ever visited this specific plane of Outside, then she didn’t recall it. This one was not in her memories. It was mine.

  Even if the experience ended right away — which I knew it was about to — nothing could take it from me now.

  “Can we hurry this up?” I said.

  The Mimic stopped stomping. “Excuse me?”

  “I said, can we hurry this up? Heather will probably appear at any moment, to collect me. Or maybe Lozzie will. I’m actually not sure which I would prefer, but it’s pretty much inevitable at this point.” I sighed. “This is why we needed to leave before anybody saw us together in the kitchen. Tenny saw us. Which means she’ll tell Lozzie, and Lozzie will tell Heather. Or maybe they’ll go to Sevens first. I don’t know. Point is, I’d rather we get on with this, if I’m going to get any of it at all. Skip to the end. Give me the cliff notes. Go on.”

  The Mimic stared — then broke into a smile. Her teeth were like those of a cartoon shark.

  “Ahhhhh yes,” she said. “Heather Morell. Coming to rescue her twin sister. You’re so certain she’s coming to save you, little girl.”

  “Don’t call me that—”

  “And you’re right,” the Mimic purred. “We’re going to do it. All. Over. Again.”

  There really was no birdsong in that forest. Even the wind struggled to blow through the gaps between those giant trees. Leaves and soil squelched underfoot.

  “What?” I said.

  The Mimic leered. “Didn’t you hear me, little girl? We’re going to do it all over again. Heather and you. A rescue across dimensions. Again! Again! And do you know why? Because we all want to wind you up and watch you run. There’s so many of us watching now. Some of us are hoping you come out better after round two. A bit more grateful. A bit less disgusting. From the top, second draft!”

  “This isn’t what you promised.”

  The Mimic cackled. “Oh, but it will be! I promised pages from your future, lich-thing! And the only way to see your future is through an ordeal. Just like your sister. Just like Heather. You wanted a tale of your own? You’ve got it! You’re going to stew in resentment, just like she did! You’re going to twist in the winds of loneliness, just like she did! You’re going to be just like your sister! Encore!” she cried out. “As one of those Carcosan prancers might say. Encore! Encore, encore—”

  I unwrapped my tea towel and pulled out the kitchen knife.

  The Mimic choked on her cries; I would choke her on steel.

  I stabbed her — stabbed at her; the distinction is important, because I didn’t hit flesh, though not for want of trying. Anger makes for poor warriors, another thing my sister doesn’t understand. Though perhaps it is premature to call myself a warrior. You be the judge.

  The knife cut through air — stab stab stab, once, twice, three times. The Mimic scrambled aside and squealed with fear — then with delight.

  She took the knife away from me.

  Spindly fingers like vines wrapped around the blade and yanked it out of my hand, dragging me forward several tottering steps in the mud. I almost fell, but didn’t, because I’ve got good balance.

  The Mimic held up my knife and turned it over, to point at me. She tittered again. “Let’s start the ordeals with a stab wound!”

  She stabbed me in the chest.

  Clink—

  The knife didn’t go in, of course. Not more than a millimetre or two.

  The Mimic’s mud-green eyes went very wide. Her jaw dropped. She tried to pull the knife back — but I had a grip on her wrist now, and my grip was very strong.

  I brought my face close to hers. She tried to cringe away, all her feet slipping and skidding in the mud, but there was no escape.

  She was sweating little beads of dark sap.

  Not cute.

  “Did you forget,” I said, “that I’m made of carbon fibre?”

  Maisie considers this a very important question. The Mimic better answer, and she had better hope that her answer is satisfactory.

  you?)

  Maisie, which is ... more challenging than I expected, compared with Heather. Perhaps I'll say more on that in the future.)

  Maisie is firmly in control of the POV. But things might get complicated as the arc progresses, and I'm very excited to share it all with you! Here we go.

  this wonderful pixel art rendition of Heather and Maisie, complete with Maisie in her very questionable outfit, by skaiandestiny. This is pretty damn close to official art of Maisie, I have to say! Then we have a simple series of two images (by tirrene) in which Maisie and, uh, '' the question. Then we have something which I'm actually having trouble figuring out how to link, since it's an entire series of images with accompanying text (by emmavoid); . For those who understand, yes, yes this is exactly what it looks like. If you want to see the whole thing, click through to the fanart page and scroll down to "Everything beneath this link is a single extended fanart joke!"

  The Drake of Craumont, by Origami Narwhal, is a fantasy/mystery story about a big gay dragon lady that punches monsters. Go take a look!

  Maisie would like to axe you a question. (That pun doesn't work, because this is a knife, but Maisie doesn't care. And she's the one with the knife.)