come back. At the other end of the world, Rapunzel felt the pull of her mother’s longing and fled farther still.
“One winter’s eve, when the queen was at last on her deathbed, she sent word to bring her daughter home. Rapunzel, shocked by the news and suddenly sorry for all that she’d done, took the fastest ship bound for the kingdom and prayed that she would reach her mother in time.
“Sadly, Rapunzel arrived too late, for the queen had died a few hours before. Filled with regret, and blaming herself for her mother’s death, Rapunzel never again left the castle. Every night she locked herself in the tower and wept for the love she’d lost and would never find again.”
Ma fell silent then, probably expecting me to speak. I said nothing. I tried not to cry. I tried my hardest. But I couldn’t help it. I stiffened, squeezing my eyes shut as tears fell down my cheeks. I supposed I shouldn’t have been surprised. But I hated myself for crying, for not having the gumption to brush the fallen sentences from my shoulders, the way I shrugged off Ma’s too-tight hugs. But I couldn’t. I was only seven, after all, and the stupid story seeped into my stupid soft heart despite my every effort to keep it out. And the stupid story wasn’t even true. In the mouth of a lesser teller it would have sounded silly and stale, but not in Ma’s mouth. In her mouth it only sounded true. Ma told me that story over and again until I had every word memorized. And the apron strings tied themselves ever more tightly around my wrists.
Scarlet
The timer on the oven sang—Scarlet’s favourite sound. She dashed across the kitchen floor and pressed her nose to the glass.
“Grandma,” she called. “They’re ready!”
“Then take them out,” her grandmother called back across the kitchen. “Don’t let them burn.”
She was the only one who permitted Scarlet such responsibilities. Scarlet’s mother wouldn’t let her close to the oven, let alone allow her to remove piping-hot cakes from within.
Glancing about, Scarlet grabbed for a dishcloth with one hand and tugged at the oven door with the other. In truth, she didn’t need the cloth, since her hands never seemed to feel the heat, but she suspected that her grandmother (who always used two dishcloths—one for each side) might think it strange if she pulled out the tray with bare fingers.
Scarlet loved the rush of warmth at opening the oven door. Sometimes she had to suppress a longing to climb in and join the cinnamon buns within. But she’d read “Hansel and Gretel” and wouldn’t do anything so stupid. Scarlet heard her grandmother’s sigh of pleasure as the scent of sugar and spice wafted across the kitchen to where she was mixing the crumpet batter.
“Heavenly,” her grandmother said. “You know, your grandfather used to bake those for me every Sunday morning while we danced in the kitchen to Bessie Smith. And sometimes . . .”
“Sometimes what?” Scarlet asked, as she set each bun on the cooling rack.
“Oh, nothing.” Esme smiled. “I should wait till you’re older before I tell you such things.”
“I’m nearly eight, Grandma.” Scarlet set her hands on her hips. “I think that’s quite old enough.”
Esme laughed, dipped her finger into the bowl, and licked at the peak of crumpet batter slowly. In certain ways her grandmother did Scarlet the honour of treating her like an adult; in others it was as if she were still a baby. When and how was unpredictable.
“Come and taste this.”
Scarlet scurried over, mouth already open. Her grandmother bent to offer up a spoonful of the batter. Scarlet tasted it thoughtfully.
“Needs a pinch more salt,” she said, echoing a phrase she’d heard her grandmother say many times before.
Her grandmother added a pinch of salt to the bowl. “Yes, I thought so too.”
Scarlet watched, thinking the things she would never admit out loud: how she wished Esme was her mother instead of Ruby, how she wanted to live in the flat above the café and eat cinnamon buns for breakfast every day, how she never wanted to go home. Scarlet’s other secret wish was for siblings, but, sadly, she was sure that was yet another wish that would never come to pass.
Bea
Bea didn’t often levitate on Earth, though she sometimes hovered a few inches above the ground for fun, to remind herself of her power. In Everwhere she could fly for hours and, on occasion, did. She swooped through the falling