•••

Peneloper replays the last thirty seconds of her life in her head: the swooning incident; the gentle rustling of fabric as she walked shoulder-to-shoulder alongside Crispen; the pitter-patter of rain intermingling with a heart that refused to calm as Crispen smoked in silence; him towering before her, hand outstretched, fulfilling his promise earlier to tell her everything; the sincerity of his words, "Let me show you the worlds."

There it was again, she thinks. Worlds. A purposeful use of the plural. No mistakes here.

She ponders the implication. Worlds. In movies, such things were known as multiverses - an over-saturated money-generating landscape filled to the brim with cut and paste origin stories that only fatigue the viewer. 

But what Crispen had offered to show her was much more nuanced. Worlds. He wanted her to know of them. Only thing was, she wasn't sure she wanted to.

• Look Through My Eyes •

Peneloper had not expected Crispen's offer so suddenly. Even without supplying any of her trademarked prodding, goading, or annoying into reluctant submission, Crispen had presented her with this moment. The moment, to be exact. It shouldn't have surprised her though, as Crispen had told her flat out he would tell her all she wanted to know.

Recalling that conversation, where he assured her if she asked honestly, he would respond in kind, she asked, "If I take your hand, I'll be shown the world?"

He nodded, rain misting his neck and soaking his sleeve as the awning proved futile in the smallest breezes. Drops pounded the asphalt and car hoods, filling the silence between them when words failed to form.

Peneloper shifted her gaze and focused on Crispen's hand. The hand. Empty as offered presently but filled with the knowledge she desired. If she took it, what then? Would they deal with this Refracted, defeat it? Then what?

Would she enlist in some hidden away magical school to refine her latent ability? As far as she knew, such places were relegated to the movies.

"While Silence has been an exquisite friend to me for several years," Crispen said. " I'm afraid, Miss Auttsley, you don't have much time to—"

She clenched her fists and set her jaw. Face downward, she watched the rain drown a patch of grass to her right. Finally, she managed to scrounge up the remains of her voice and said, "Just—" She swallowed. "Just give me a moment, please."

"No rush," Crispen whispered. "Take all the time you need, Nell."

Knowing he'd overhear it, she thanked him with her thoughts, confident he was smiling at her unspoken kindness though she dared not look up and find out for herself. He'd given her time, and she would use every second.

Two options laid at her feet. Option one was the smartest option. It required Peneloper to give up her pursuit of the magical and come to terms with the fact that odd things would always happen to her no matter her choice of college, field of work, and final resting spot. If choosing this option, she could snub the boy of crows' hand once again, turn back around, head to her math class, take her subsequent punishment for being late in stride, and return home. Live out her remaining days writing her novel instead of finishing her homework, enjoying many more bowls of soggy breakfast cereals.

This option ensured she wouldn't have to lie to her mother or put on a strong front around Carmichelle. She wouldn't worry Chant and he'd continue to supply her with all the green M & Ms her heart desired.

Then again, this option saw to it she ignored Crispen's warning, so everything aforementioned above would be fantasy, because, if Crispen had been telling her the truth, and he had given her no reason to think otherwise, Death would come for her in an hour, a day, a week from now, and any plans she might have had for the future would be buried alongside her corpse.

Option two meant being reckless and daring and losing all of her good, common sense. It meant indulging someone who might have felt more comfortable surrounded by padded walls as needles pumped him full of 'happy drugs.' It meant trusting wholly in a stranger and jumping into a world of unknown wherein she'd never not be able to know again. Life would change, for better, for worse, for weirder - somehow.

She took his hand and, as was the case in tons of teen stories chock full of sparkling romance and smoldering, heartrending moments of passion, her world upended.

A pleasant heat radiated from Crispen's hand as he enclosed his fingers over hers. He gave her a gentle squeeze and she met his gaze. He mouthed a heart-obliterating 'thank you' followed by a small half-grin before his pupils disappeared and his eyes turned white.

His skin birthed a luminescence that would make the moon wane from self-doubt. The colors around Peneloper shed their shapes, and swam around them, a soup of metallic, earthen tones splashed with the green of Miss Grandly's Beetle.

The rain fell in the reverse, as though someone had found the VHS tape of the world and had started rewinding the whole thing as if wanting to return it to its purest state - to the days when it had been nothing more than a glimmer in the grand-schemer's eye as they glimpsed the fabric of the universe and found it wanting.

Peneloper bit down the urge to expel that second bowl of Captain Crunch from that morning. Her head throbbed, as the things around her made less sense. Crispen's hand tightened around her own, and though she looked at him and saw that his mouth did not move, she heard him say, "Magic, Miss Auttsley. See for yourself."

She gave his hand a return squeeze. She'd heard him, and she would, despite the blood raging like rapids in her ears, the shrieking of her heart as it sought to dislodge itself from her chest, and the shaking in her legs, see.

Direction became irrelevant. Peneloper sunk into the ground, beyond the pavement, the dead grass and soil. Worms squirmed as they cut cavernous homes while beetles and ants set out to do the same, some meeting where their tunneling intersected, and taking to seated positions of good, rigid postures, set out to settle these minor territory disputes in a peaceful manner, rarely exuded from humankind.

Elated by this discovery of diplomacy so far below ground, Peneloper steeled herself to see more, to experience the full gamut of this queer magic. She'd missed out on so much, what else had gone unseen?

Bright green flashed before Peneloper's eyes and with it the scents of sweet rolls and nutmeg scented the air. Her mouth watered as she remembered her Aunt Rita's infamous autumn squash stew and the inevitable buttered rolls that accompanied it.

Beyond the green, came red. An expanse of red, a horizon, and with it, dust-coated Peneloper's skin. She coughed, her eyes watered and she could taste grit on her tongue and wedged between teeth. She wished for a toothpick or floss, and desperately craved a bottle of water, because, for some unknown reason, she'd grown incredibly dry of mouth.

White came next as a feeling of calmness and serenity wrapped around Peneloper like a warm blanket. Her ears filled with the familiar sounds of clocks, thousands of them ticking away. The air tasted of cinnamon rolls, fresh out of the oven.

Further in, the color receded. An expansive emptiness stretched before her, wet and all-consuming. Peneloper stared into it, felt unable to turn away, and fear shuddered inside her. She wanted to run, to break the contact and go on seeing as she had. But Crispen—having not lost his sense in pursuit of bravery—held her in place and squeezed her hand.

The emptiness gave away soon after, and before her blossomed a landscape of sand dunes, tall and imposing, rivaling the skyscrapers in the biggest cities in the world. The sky was purple here, and a constant sea of sand barraged her face and hands. She found herself ankle-deep in it, the feeling of being coated—like a second skin of sealant—took root.

If this was what lay at the center of the world, no molten core, no land lost to time where dinosaurs still wore their crowns, the people in charge of high school curriculum needed to be made aware of their grievous oversight.

Crispen chuckled. Peneloper grimaced and cocked her head. She asked, though never speaking the words, what had him giggling at such an inopportune time.

He answered, "Your thoughts. They never fail to disappoint."

She mentally assured him she hadn't gone out of her way to entertain him, at which he smiled and nodded in the know.

What have I seen? she thought.

"Layers," he responded.

One word and she knew it to be true.

Layers. Worlds. And the magic tying it all together. 

She'd seen. Wonder made real.

●

After exerting large amounts of energy, reprieves are generally needed, and a person of sound mind and solid manners will allow for such moments to occur. Peneloper Auttsley needed such a moment and luckily for her, so, too, did the boy of crows. At the release of her hand, the world returned to normal.

If what she had seen while coupled with Crispen were the vivid threads of a most interesting tapestry, then this return to the familiar was like a bland foray into beige, which, to Peneloper's abhorrence, reminded her of Mr. Howell and his fondness for pairing khaki with lighter khaki. 

The rain righted the way it fell, and when a few drops seeped through her shirt and the cold began nibbling on her shoulder, Peneloper realized she had moved. Before more rain could soak her, she sprinted for the school's exit. Crispen followed in stride, his walk stilted as he frowned, his face flush with the slightest hint of pink.

She asked if he needed her help, to which he answered by tossing a smile her way, a pathetic, measly smile, that lacked in intensity and brightness the ability to stir a swoon inside her belly. The pair exchanged a terse, awkward laugh.

"Allow me a moment." Crispen situated himself on the ground, legs splayed. The last hint of white vanished as his eyes returned to black.

Peneloper nodded and let him be, recognizing this lag in his demeanor as one she'd seen in Mother Auttsley after days at the office had ground on for too long, or a meeting had resulted in a particularly disheartening outcome, or, if all else had gone wrong that week and her fuse had been clipped, and only a spark was needed to ignite her temper, the coffee machine was broke and she had to weather all ten hours with a cup of 'piss-poor, weak-ass tea,' (Mother Auttsley's words verbatim) which did little to settle her nerves, soften her edge, and keep her focus. At times like these, silence was best, though, after what Peneloper had seen, words flowed out of her like lava.

"Those layers, would some call them worlds?"

Crispen slouched. "Worlds within this world, maybe. But layers is more accurate." He breathed out, sweat dripping off his chin. "Think of it like a cake."

Peneloper frowned. "That's far less interesting than what you deigned to show me just now."

Crispen smiled, though his lips were slow to curl. He really had been drained, and she was being persistent and pesky, and pervasive. What ugly shades to wear. "I don't mind," Crispen continued. "Each layer I showed you is a piece of that cake. But unlike a cake, the world cannot exist with its layers. Eat one and the—"

"—world ends?"

Crispen smirked. "Isn't that how the stories go?"

Crispen got to his feet, cool and collected and unaffected. The color had fled his cheeks, his curls regained their buoyancy. His skin dried, sweat once again becoming a foreign concept to him. "There are seven layers."

Peneloper stood. "I'd like to hear of them if you'd oblige."

Crispen gathered his hands in front of himself, and then, raised one finger at as he began reciting the names of these layers. "They are as follows: Reason, where we are now, Reflection, Retelling, The Refinery, The Renewal, Refracted, and The Reverse."

Peneloper nodded, absorbing this with the same alacrity and absorbency as a sponge, though her next question reflected none of that thoughtfulness or piqued interest, and had been birthed solely from sarcasm and cynicism, hers by birthright, "Was the alliteration on purpose or a side-effect of sloppy planning?"

Crispen, as he often seemed to, took this in stride. "I'm sure I ought to say it's the former, but since I've locked myself into being honest, I'm afraid it's the latter. Magical beings tend to lack the foresight and self-awareness to understand our lunacies."

As the names of the layers swirled around in Peneloper's head for a second time, she remembered the form her death had chosen to take. "The Refracted. Is that," she ran a forefinger and thumb along her chin, "where the creature comes from that wishes to kill me?"

Crispen's face darkened. "Yes."

"And do you have a plan to thwart this death-bringer of mine?"

"Yes."

Peneloper eyed him curiously. "Which is?"

Crispen turned, the abruptness of the movement startling Peneloper whose whole weight sagged against the wall. She grew restless as he gazed at her, her inner butterflies, unsatisfied with their limited first showing, gaining traction in her belly. "You'll earn your wings and fly, Miss Auttsley."

Peneloper blushed, at his closeness, the hotness of breath, the scent of him - damp and fresh like the rain - the words he'd spoken and the way he'd spoken them - with confidence and assurance. Warmth boiled to the surface of her skin and she was sure, despite having told her mother and sister otherwise, that she would melt, no sun necessary.