Free Worlds of Ink and Shadow by Lena Coakley Page A

shared with Emily. Her two younger sisters sat on the bed, holding hands, unable to hide the excitement shining in their eyes. The Brontë siblings had waited three days for the perfect time to cross over. It was rare to have the house to themselves, but today Tabby was visiting her sister and Papa had taken Aunt Branwell intoKeighley. Branwell was writing his own story in the next room, but, by mutual agreement, the two stories would converge at the party.
    â€œNow remember,” Charlotte said, “no event can be revised in Verdopolis—no dead characters resurrected, no ruined ladies unruined. Branwell and I have tried many times but to no avail. The plot can be directed, of course—must be, in fact—but once an event happens, it has happened for good and all.”
    â€œWe know,” Emily insisted. “We’ve been to the worlds before, remember.”
    â€œAh,” Charlotte said. “That brings me to another point.”
    Emily groaned. Charlotte knew that she was being a bit insufferable, but she couldn’t help it. Now that the moment had finally arrived, she was feeling protective of Verdopolis. She felt as if she were letting a precious glass bauble into the hands of two children who wanted to play catch with it.
    â€œAs I was saying. The last time you were in Verdopolis, you were there as one of the Genii, the great creators, but magical entities don’t figure in Verdopolis anymore, except as part of ancient history. Now our stories are more realistic, and we must play characters. The two of you will need to decide who you might be. Take some time now—”
    â€œI know who I will be,” Emily interjected.
    â€œAs do I,” Anne said quietly.
    Charlotte hoped they’d given the matter enough thought. “I see . . . There are only a few more things . . .”
    â€œFor heaven’s sake!” Emily cried. “Papa and Aunt Branwell will be back in a few hours.”
    â€œI’m sorry,” Charlotte said. “It’s just . . . I’ve loved this world. I want to give it a perfect ending.”
    â€œYou will,” Emily assured her. “Your stories are always perfect. Isn’t that right, Anne?”
    For a moment Charlotte thought Anne could not have heard, for she only stared straight ahead, frozen, like Jasper Pheasant when he’s seen the cat.
    â€œIsn’t that right, Anne?” Emily repeated, poking her sister in the side.
    Anyone else would simply nod her head, but Charlotte saw that for Anne this would be a falsehood. She did not think Charlotte’s stories were perfect.
    â€œI see,” Charlotte said, trying not to sound icy. “Well, I hope I shall always welcome literary criticism.”
    Anne glanced around the room as if looking for an escape. Finally she fixed her eyes to her knees and whispered, “It’s nothing, really. It’s just . . . I suppose I’ve always wished your writings were a little more . . . true, Charlotte.” She was blushing very red now.
    This came so close to Charlotte’s unspoken fears about her own work that she felt her eyes widen in surprise. “What do you mean by true?” she asked, but Anne’s only answer was to shake her head.
    â€œAnne has mentioned that she wishes your stories took placecloser to home,” Emily said hesitantly. “After all, we don’t actually know anything about Africa, and it doesn’t figure much in the story, except that it never snows and there are palm trees.”
    â€œI know one thing about Africa,” Anne said, finding her voice. “There are Africans in it—but in Verdopolis they only appear when Branwell wants to have a war. That seems . . . well, I can’t put my finger on it, but it doesn’t seem . . . Oh dear, I wish I hadn’t begun this line of thought.” She dropped her head again. “Please ignore me.”
    â€œYou