Marylea

In the Shaper's Wing, where the air was so still it rang in her ears, Marylea kicked off the biting heels and shed the wedding dress. She let it sit on the floor, and it was so sturdy it stood up on its own. It was pretty, with glittering sequins and silky satin, but the swath of fabric overwhelmed her, and she was glad to shed it for the thin cotton fabric of her pajamas.

After a hot shower, she emerged smelling like Tropical Breeze, put her pajamas back on, and patted her pants pocket to make sure Makerholf's letter to her mother was in her pants pocket. Then she crawled under the covers, and before the pain from Keenan's betrayal could grip her, or the shock of Tem's disappearance could haunt her, her eyelids fell and she returned to her world.

Her world. The Aragonians referred to it as the Other Place, but it was her home.

Aragonia was home, too, but now that it'd struck her with heartbreak, she wasn't so sure anymore. Heartbreak was something she'd thought she would be immune to in a fantastical world like Aragonia. How often did you enter a world where you, alone, had magical powers to create objects? Aragonia was her escape from her drib-drab life as an assistant librarian. Aragonian was her living fairy tale. And it was falling apart.

Before she fell apart herself, she shook her head and sat up. Her bed creaked like a whiny child. She was back in her eigth-floor apartment room, with its blue walls, painted five years ago by her mother and herself. The windows had square grilles on them, because the government was afraid people would fall out by accident. On her bedside table sat an empty wooden frame, one she'd intended to fill with a portrait of Keenan and her, once she'd figured out how to take photos in the Realm, where electronic objects from the Other Place mysteriously ceased to work. The thought sent more pain wrenching through her like a crowbar, and she shut her eyes tight.

Her thoughts veered towards the grenade, which had been detonated in the Aragonian Sea in public eye to assure the public that it was no more. Nevertheless, she wasn't sure if they would ever trust her again.

That was not the first time she'd shaped a weapon – it had been at the Dardaril's cottage, before Trevain and his cavalry had swooped in and intervened. But it was too disturbing a memory to re-envision, so she forced her thoughts elsewhere.

But where else could her thoughts go? Everything was falling to pieces. Aragonia, once stable, was now overflowing with chaos. And she couldn't help but wonder if it was her fault.

A clink of china came from the kitchen, followed by the gush of water from a tap. Her mother was home. Marylea swung her legs over the bed, patted her pants pocket, and stretched the soreness out of her body. She'd been in Aragonia for twelve hours, which meant she'd been asleep for the same time. Stifling a yawn, she opened her room door and shuffled into the kitchen on bare feet.

Her mother looked up from scrubbing a plate with a yellow sponge. She wore a white collared shirt and black dress pants. Cassandra was an executive of a multinational company and spent half her days thousands of feet in the air. That was where Cassandra was when Marylea first entered Aragonia, and she hadn't told her mother about it until she returned a week later. Her mother hadn't been too pleased, but she hadn't been surprised, either. All she'd said was, "Don't worry. Aragonians are good people." That day, Marylea had found out that her mother used to be the Shaper of Aragonia, too, but had found a reason and a way to leave somehow. Her mother was now cemented in the Other Place – or Earth – with no desire to return.

Her mother, fire red ringlets cut to a crop so they circled her face, furrowed her brow at Marylea's expression. "Are you all right, Lea?"

Marylea chuckled bitterly. "Was it that obvious, Mom?"

Her mother rinsed the plate off, put it in the drying rack and began scrubbing another plate. "What happened?"

Marylea sat at the round wooden dining table, where a plate of steaming fresh pancakes sat. Normally she would be cheered by the sight of pancakes, topped with strawberries and whipped cream, but the shock of her groom-to-be disappearing into gold dust hadn't worn off yet. "I saw someone disappear today. I was hoping you could –"

There was a crash, and Marylea jumped. She looked up from her pancakes to see her mother standing at the sink, staring blankly at the shards of soapy china in the metal basin.

"Mom?"

Cassandra shook her head, flicked the tap on and washed the small cut on her hand. She winced in pain and dried it off with a paper towel. "I'm fine. Did you say – disappeared?"

Marylea held up her fork but didn't use it. "Yes. Into gold dust."

Pressing a paper towel against her fresh cut, Cassandra sat next to Marylea and asked shakily, "In Aragonia?"

"Are you sure you're okay, Mom?" asked Marylea, eyeing her mother's hand. Blood stained the white paper towel red, and the stain was growing.

"I'm okay, Marylea," said her mother. Marylea wondered if she even felt the cut. "Tell me - how did it happen?"

Marylea told the story in third person, leaving out the part where she was the bride. She didn't think Cassandra, a modern single mother, would take too kindly to the notion of the royal council ordering a loveless marriage upon her daughter. "Apparently, many other people have gone missing before this. It was all kept hush-hush. Do you know what this means, Mom?"

Her mother ran her hands through her red ringlets. Then she looked up at Marylea with wide, hazel eyes. Her eyes were filled with fear, and something else. Was that... guilt?

Her mother let her hand fall limp on her side. "This could be my fault," she said softly.

Marylea's eyes widened. "Your fault?"

Her mother massaged her temples. "I can't be sure. It's only a guess." She reached out for her daughter's hand. "When a Shaper's descendent comes of age, the Shaper must bring him or her into the Realm for Initiation. That way, the Kingdom then recognizes its new Shaper. When I made the choice not to bring you into the Realm, I skipped your Initiation, thinking you would simply not be inducted, and you would never know. But when you told me you'd been entering a world in your dreams, I- " She faltered. "I never thought this would happen. The Keeper didn't warn me about it. I thought it was okay."

Panic rose in Marylea. "Warned you about what?"

Her mother looked at her, and Marylea now realized she saw regret.

"Because you were never Initiated, the world may be refreshing itself."

Marylea yanked her hand from her mother's. "Refreshing itself?"

Her mother's gaze shifted to the table. "Wiping itself clean. A blank slate. Starting over for its new, uninitiated Shaper. I thought it wouldn't happen because I'm banned from the Realm. I thought it didn't apply to us. A refreshing hasn't happened for centuries. Shapers were always careful..."

"Everything - everyone - will be erased?" Marylea asked. She dreaded the answer.

"Everyone."

Suddenly Marylea felt like she was chin-deep in a pool of quicksand – hopeless. No, she refused to let that engulf her.

"But there must be a way to stop it," she said. "Please tell me there is. Aragonia cannot be refreshed. Mom, please tell me there's a way."

Her mother wiped the tears that had begun to fall. She stared at the 1-cat-a-day calendar that hung on the wall, her expression a stark contrast to the doe-eyed kittens posing in wicker baskets. Marylea let her mother think. It seemed like eons before her mother opened her mouth to speak again, but when she did, Marylea allowed her heart to fill with dangerous hope.

"I have heard of a poem once. I cannot remember the words, but it was about a place that souls go when the Kingdom is refreshing. Ask the royal historian – whoever's replaced Pete. The whole Aragonian library sits in his head."

That left Marylea feeling very conflicted. She felt joy that Aragonia might be saved, but the thought of Keenan plunged her into a whole world of hurt. She mentally kicked herself for being ridiculous. With the fate of Aragonia and its thousands of citizens at stake, what was a meager heartbreak?

"I will," she said. "I will go back to Aragonia right now and see what can be done."

Cassandra nodded. "I will send an excuse letter to the library for you. Stay in Aragonia as long as you need to."

Marylea's chest about exploded with appreciation for her mother. How thankful she was that she had someone to confide in without being sent to the looney-bin. "Thank you, Mom, I love you." Then curiosity crept into her, and she couldn't help but ask the same question again. "Why did you leave, Mom?"

Her mother had refused to answer several times before, averting the subject or blatantly saying "not now." So Marylea was surprised when her mother looked up and said, "Your father died in Aragonia."

Marylea felt surprise crash over her. "You said Dad died in a car accident."

Her mother smiled sadly. "No cars in Aragonia."

Marylea sat in silence for a few seconds, letting it sink in. "Was Dad from there?"

Her mother looked out the grilled apartment window, her eyes glazed over. "Yes."

"How did he die?"

The glaze in her mother's eyes disappeared, replaced by something dark. She turned away. "I will answer that another time." She turned to the sink and began picking up the broken shards of china from the metal basin. "Go. Aragonia needs you." She looked over her shoulder to smile at Marylea, then returned to her chores. Marylea she saw tears swimming in her mother's eyes.

Marylea remembered Makerholf's letter. She pulled it from her pants pocket and handed it to her mother. "Makerholf wrote a letter to you," she said.

Her mother's weary eyes widened slightly, and her fingers tremored as she took the letter from Marylea.

"Ah, Makerholf," she said softly. "Thank you." She tucked it into her apron pocket, then went back to her shards. Obviously conversation time was over.

"Good night, mother," said Marylea, even though it was barely morning. She retreated into her room to sleep, where she would burrow under the covers, nestle her head into her pillow, close her eyes, and return to Aragonia.