Page 62 of Velveteen vs. The Consequences of Her Actions

Jack took a deep breath before launching into an explanation of the Seasonal Lands, how they interacted with the “real” world, and why the Spirits of the Season called anyplace that wasn’t an anthropomorphic representation of metaphor the “Calendar Country.” Velveteen, who had heard all this before, turned her out in favor of focusing on Iris, looking carefully at the other woman, searching for some sign that her version of Yelena was still in there.

She couldn’t blame Aaron for being seduced by the life the mirror had offered him, enough so that he had stopped fighting and let himself be absorbed. Jackie wasn’t here, and Jack didn’t control these mirrors, and every version of cosmic travel had its risks. She was worried about him, yes, but she was also confident that they would be able to get him back after they’d found the door and whatever was behind it. Santa wouldn’t have let Jack take them through if there was a chance they could be lost forever.

Or maybe he would have, because Santa lied. But there wasn’t time to worry about that now.

She’d lost Aaron. She couldn’t lose Yelena too. Not when they still had so far left to go.

Iris met her eyes, and something in the other woman’s face wasn’t Iris, not really. Something in her face was confused and conflicted and contrary, the same look she’d had when she was pretending to be Blacklight just to give herself a break from being the perfect icon The Super Patriots, Inc. had wanted her to be. Something in her face gave her away. She knew. She knew they were telling the truth. She knew this world, while real, wasn’t hers. She knew.

“Hey,” said Velveteen, the sound of her voice startling Jack into silence. She kept her eyes on Yelena. Not on Iris: on that flickering little scrap of understanding and dismay that was her first and oldest friend. “What do you say? Trust us?”

Iris didn’t have the chance to say anything. Hyacinth grabbed her arm and yanked her to her feet, saying, through gritted teeth, “Iris can I talk to you for a second alone?” before turning and hauling the taller woman after her into the kitchen.

Velveteen blinked. “I guess she always likes the short girls,” she said, voice low.

“I guess so,” Jack agreed. She reached over and squeezed Velveteen’s hand. It was a friendly, companionable gesture, the sort of thing that implied years of similar gestures. “It’ll be okay. She’ll come with us.”

“I hope so,” said Velveteen, and looked down at Jack’s hand covering hers, and wished that it were blue. “I really do.”

* * *

“You can’t seriously be listening to them,” snapped Hyacinth. “They’re…I don’t know what they are. Role-players trying to suck you into their weirdness. Fangirls looking for your attention. They’re something, and whatever it is, I don’t like it.”

“Or maybe they’re exactly who they say they are, and we should listen to them so that everything can go back to normal around here.”

Hyacinth’s eyes widened. Her tiny storm cloud belched lightning. “You’re not serious.”

“I can’t remember your real name.”

Everything seemed to freeze. Even the cloud stopped raining quite as hard. That was never a good sign, Iris knew that much; when Hyacinth was too stunned to keep up a good storm, heads were about to roll. She pressed onward anyway.

“I know I know it, because I know we’ve been together for seven years. I know I met you at a mixer for LGBT superhumans. It was my first one. You saw me across the room, and when you came over, you laughed, because I was literally changing colors out of fear. You called it ‘power incontinence.’ You offered to show me around.”

“I wound up showing you my apartment,” said Hyacinth, in a low, almost horrified voice.

“Yeah, and I moved in three weeks later, because I am nothing if not good at moving way too fast,” said Iris. “I remember seven years, Cin, I remember coming out on national television, and you kissing me like I’d just done the bravest thing in the universe, and I don’t remember your name. But I remember some of the things they’re saying.”

“What are you saying? Are you saying you’re not real?”

“I’m saying I think they may be right about me being a psychic overlay on your Iris, and if they can get me to this door, then I can go with them, and you get your Iris back. The real one, who deserves you.” The one who wouldn’t keep waiting for a flash of red hair and a complaint directed at a god or goddess that didn’t exist. The one who could love Hyacinth without the shadows.

For someone who created light from her very skin, Iris spent a distressing amount of her time terrified of shadows.

Hyacinth scowled. “Well, I think they’ve put this stupid idea in your head, and now you’re starting to believe them, even though you know you shouldn’t.”

“What harm does it do?”

“What harm? What if they’re con men? We go to this door, and when nothing happens, suddenly you need to pay them a thousand dollars for an exorcism, or…or something. I just don’t like it.”

“I don’t either.” Iris glanced to the kitchen door. She could see a slice of the maybe-Velveteen’s leg, weight balanced on her toe, heel bouncing. Vel had always done that when she was anxious. Always. This was Vel. Maybe not hers, or maybe the one she remembered so vividly wasn’t hers, but…Vel. “We have to find out for sure.”

Hyacinth, who had been with Yelena long enough—first as Sparkle Bright, and then as Iris—to know when her mind was made up, sighed. “You’ll be careful. And if we find out you’re not a psychic overlay, you’ll let it go.”

“I don’t remember your real name, Cin. Do you really think I’m not?”

“No,” said Hyacinth quietly. “But a girl can dream.”

Iris paused. “Cin, why would you…if I’m not your Iris, shouldn’t you want her back?”