The Gathering

Jester and Alice

VI. Virtual Concerns

The café smelled of cold coffee grounds and pastry grease. Sweet. Going stale. The excitement had subsided. For an hour: disbelief, smartphone searches, autograph requests. Then retreat. Respectful distance.

Philip brought a third pot and shortbread. "From Mrs. Tindell. She cried when she heard 'The Rowan's Lament' at her mother's funeral."

The sisters sat alone in the corner. Afternoon light slanted through the windows. Warm on the worn tabletop.

"So we're made up." Mia let the words sit. Testing their weight. "Imaginary. Some fellow at a computer clicked buttons and out we popped."

"That's what the wee gadget says." Lora gestured at the borrowed phone. The screen showed: Wilds Sisters: AI-generated folk duo. Created by Distro Media / K. Fischer. Below it, album covers they had never posed for. Songs they had never recorded.

Mia scrolled through the track list. Her finger left a faint smear on the glass. "The songs are ours, though. Every one. I remember writing 'Yon Willow' in the barn loft. Summer of '79. Hay dust in the air. You said the second verse was too dark."

"It was too dark. Still is." Lora took the phone, frowning. "But here it says 'proprietary AI composition system.' Whatever that means."

"Someone's taking credit for our work."

"Or we're the work someone's taking credit for."

They sat with that. The ceiling fan turned. A fly droned against the window.

"The Court had folk like this," Mia said. "Remember the Painted Ones? They swore they'd been dreamed into existence by a sleeping giant. Said they'd vanish the moment he woke."

"The giant never woke."

"No. But they never stopped worrying." Mia took a shortbread. Butter smell when she bit into it. "This tastes real. The tea tastes real. I pinched you earlier. You swore. That felt real."

"So either we're imaginary and imagination is more solid than advertised."

"Or we're real and someone's built a very convincing lie around us."

Lora set down her cup. Ceramic against ceramic. Click. "Either way, I want to meet this Fischer fellow."

"Aye. Have a wee chat about intellectual property."

"Among other things."

The bell above the door gave its flat clatter.

Both sisters went still.

The young woman in the doorway wore a blue pinafore over white blouse. Black ribbon in blonde hair. Aggressively Victorian. She looked like a steel engraving given flesh. She surveyed the room. Calm. The room had gone silent. She didn't notice or didn't care.

A college student at the counter said, loudly, "Holy s**t, is that a time traveler?"

"Language," his companion muttered.

"Dude, look at her."

Her gaze swept past them. Past the gawking patrons. Past Philip's neutral expression. It landed on the corner table.

Something shifted in her face. Recognition. Or calculation.

Mia felt it first. A resonance. Like hearing a familiar chord in the wrong key. This girl was wrong the same way they were wrong. Displaced. Out of time. The air around her shimmered the way theirs did. Someone who had stepped through a door that shouldn't exist.

"Oh," Lora breathed. "She's like us."

"Partially," Mia agreed. "Or differently. But definitely something."

The girl crossed the room. The patrons parted without realizing they were doing it.

She stopped at their table. The scent of old lavender and something metallic came with her.

"You're the ones who sing," she said.

"We're the ones who sing." Mia smiled. "And you're the one who dresses like our great-great-grandmother's porcelain doll."

The girl blinked. Once.

"I beg your pardon?"

"The frock." Lora gestured at Alice's outfit. "Very fetching. Is there a fancy dress competition we weren't informed of? Historical Reenactment Society outing? Funeral for someone who died in 1847?"

"I see." The girl's expression held. Something flickered behind her eyes. Filing the interaction away for later analysis. "My clothing is appropriate to my origin. I could say the same of yours."

"Our dresses are practical." Mia smoothed her skirt. The cotton was soft under her fingers. "Farm work. Summer weight. Breathable fabric."

"And yet you appear to be sitting in a café rather than farming."

"We're on holiday."

"From 1982, apparently." The girl pulled out the empty chair and sat. Uninvited. "My name is Alice. You already know that, I suspect."

The sisters exchanged glances.

"We dreamed you," Lora said slowly. "In the Otherworld. A girl who walked through glass."

"And I have seen you. In reflections that showed rooms I wasn't in. Times I wasn't part of." Alice folded her hands on the table. Her gloves were yellowed at the fingertips. "We appear to be converging. The question is why."

"The question," Mia said, "is whether you're also imaginary."

Alice's composure flickered. First genuine reaction.

"I beg your pardon?"

Lora slid the phone across the table. Alice looked at the screen. Her face shifted through confusion, recognition, then something close to amusement.

"Ah," she said. "You've discovered the biography."

"You knew?"

"I knew there were versions. Other phases. Realities where I am a character in a story, or a pattern in a song, or a dream someone is having." She scrolled. "'Gothic symphonic rock.' 'Alice in Wonderland themes.' How reductive."

"So you're not bothered?"

"I'm curious." Alice looked up. "In my experience, the question of whether one is 'real' or 'imaginary' is rather beside the point. I have walked through mirrors into geometries that shouldn't exist. I have met myself in corridors that led to different centuries. The boundaries are more negotiable than most people assume."

"That's a very philosophical way of saying you don't know either."

"Precisely." Alice's mouth bent at one corner. "But I intend to find out. And I suspect," she glanced at the phone again, at the name K. Fischer, "that finding out will require meeting whoever is doing the imagining."

Mia leaned forward. Her chair scraped. "We were just discussing that very thing."

"Were you?"

"We were going to have a wee chat with Mr. Fischer about intellectual property."

"And ontological status?"

"That too. If we can fit it in."

Alice considered this. Behind them, a patron raised his phone. Philip intercepted with a firm shake of his head.

"I would like to join you," Alice said. "If you'll have me."

"Can you defend yourself in a scrap?"

"I have never lost a fight."

"Ever?"

"I have perfect memory of every version of myself across every timeline I can access. None of them have ever lost a fight." She paused. "Admittedly, most of them avoid fights entirely. But the principle stands."

Lora looked at Mia. Mia looked at Lora.

"She talks like a book," Mia said.

"Aye, but she's got good posture."

"And she's definitely something."

"Definitely something."

They turned back to Alice in unison.

"Right then," Lora said. "You're in. But you're changing clothes before we go anywhere public. That frock is an embarrassment."

"I have worn this ensemble for over a century."

"And it shows."

Alice's expression shifted. First c***k that looked like genuine feeling. Not offense. Something closer to delight.

"You're not intimidated by me," she observed.

"Hen, we spent ten years at the Seelie Court. We've met beings that could unmake reality with a stray thought." Mia took another shortbread. "You're just a lass in a daft costume who walked through a mirror. You're practically normal by our standards."

"Practically normal," Alice repeated. She was smiling now. "I don't believe anyone has ever called me that before."

"Stick with us. We'll have you feeling ordinary in no time."

Philip arrived with fresh tea and a third cup. He set them down. Glanced at Alice's outfit. Glanced at the sisters' matching dresses. Visibly decided not to ask.

"Will there be anyone else joining you?" he asked.

The three women exchanged looks.

"Probably," Alice said. "There usually is."

VII. The Jester's Proof

The conversation had turned to logistics. Fischer's studio location. Sarah's availability. What to say to a man who believes he invented you. Then Mia's eyes caught something.

"What's that, then?"

She pointed at Alice's pocket. Pasteboard. Gilt edges faded almost to nothing.

Alice glanced down. "A reminder."

"Of what?"

"That certainty is a choice." Alice drew it out. Tarot. Worn soft with age. A young figure at a cliff's edge. Dog at their heels. Bundle on a stick. The Fool. "I've carried it for a long time."

"You're a gambler?" Mia's voice went sharp. The Seelie Court had been full of gamblers. Beings who wagered centuries on the turn of a phrase. Who bet their names on games that weren't games.

"No." Alice tucked the card away. "There's no gambling involved. Not for me."

"Everyone gambles, hen. That's the nature of cards."

"The nature of cards is that they exist in all positions until observed. I simply observe more carefully."

Lora and Mia exchanged glances. The Wilds knew boasting when they heard it. They also knew when someone wasn't boasting at all.

"Prove it," Mia said.

Alice's posture shifted. Subtle settling. Like a cat who'd spotted movement.

"I would need a deck."

Mia looked around. Her gaze landed on the wealthy couple. The woman with the iPod. The man with the iPhone. The pair who had looked at them with disdain.

"Oi!" Mia called across the room. "You two. You've got Tarot cards."

The woman stiffened. Her face went pale. "Excuse me?"

"Tarot. Death, Tower, Lovers. You've got one in your bag. Silk pouch. Drawstring." Mia's smile was pleasant and merciless. "May we borrow it?"

The café had gone quiet. Philip stood behind the counter, dishcloth in hand. The college students watched.

The woman reached into her bag. Her hands trembled. Silk pouch. Burgundy. Gold drawstring. Exactly as Mia had described. She crossed the room and placed it on the corner table.

"Thank you kindly," Lora said. "We'll return it presently."

Alice unwrapped the deck. The cards were well-used, edges softened by years of handling. The smell of old paper and dried perfume rose from them. She spread them face-down. A crescent of hidden images.

"Name a card," she said to Mia.

Mia didn't hesitate. "The Fool."

"Naturally." Her hand moved over the spread. Not touching them. Her eyes were open. Unfocused. "You would choose the Jester. The one who walks the edge. The one who begins every journey and ends none."

Her hand descended. One card. She placed it face-up.

The Fool. Upright.

"Lucky draw," Mia said, but her voice had lost its teasing edge.

"There is no luck involved."

"Do it again."

Alice gathered the card back into the deck. Mia snatched the deck and shuffled. Not a polite riffle. Aggressive scrambling. Cards tumbling over each other.

"Now," Mia said. She spread the deck face-down again. The arrangement was completely different. "Find the Jester."

Alice closed her eyes. She breathed once. The café held its breath.

Her hand moved. Decisive. Striking like a snake. She drew a card. Placed it without looking.

The Fool. Upright.

Someone at the counter made a small, strangled sound.

"You're cheating," Mia said. But she was grinning now. "I don't know how, but you're cheating. Nobody's that good."

"I told you. I observe more carefully."

"Observe what? The cards are face-down. I shuffled them myself."

"You shuffled them in this phase." Alice opened her eyes. "In others, the shuffle fell differently. I simply looked at the versions where the Fool ended up where my hand would land, and aligned."

Lora leaned forward. Her weight shifted the chair. "You're saying you can see other possibilities? Other ways things could have happened?"

"I can see other ways things are happening. Simultaneously. The versions diverge and converge constantly. Most people experience only one track. I experience more."

"How many more?"

"It varies. Today the density is quite high. I suspect proximity to you is increasing the phase interference." Alice gathered the cards. "Would you like another demonstration?"

Mia's grin had turned feral. "The hard way this time."

She grabbed the deck. Shuffled it brutally. Then threw the entire deck into the air.

Seventy-eight cards exploded upward. Empress tumbling past Hanged Man. Tower spinning beside Star. The café erupted in startled exclamations. Cards rained down on tables. Into coffee cups. Onto the floor.

Alice didn't move. Then one hand. Single gesture. Faster than sight.

She caught one card.

She didn't look at it. She placed it on the table, face-down, and slid it toward Mia.

"Turn it over."

Mia turned it over.

The Fool. Upright.

The café exploded into applause. The wealthy woman was standing now. Her hand pressed to her mouth. Philip was applauding too. The dishcloth forgotten on the counter.

Alice sat motionless through it all.

Mia stared at the card for a long moment. Then looked up at Alice with an expression the sisters rarely wore: genuine respect.

"You'd be accepted at the Seelie Court," she said quietly. "And not as a jester."

"I beg your pardon?"

"The Court." Mia's voice had lost all its playfulness. "The gentry. The ones we spent ten years among. They test everyone who enters. Tricks and riddles and games you can't win unless you're something else. Something more." She tapped the Fool card. "This would have impressed them. This would have made them cautious."

"I'm not certain I wish to impress beings who require caution."

"No. You don't." Mia smiled. Warm now rather than sharp. "But you've impressed us. And we're harder to impress than they are."

Lora gathered the scattered cards from the floor. Several patrons helped. The wealthy woman approached the table.

"That was..." she began.

"A parlor trick," Alice said. "Nothing more."

"That wasn't a parlor trick. I've seen parlor tricks. I've seen street magicians and stage shows and..." She stopped. "What are you?"

Alice considered the question.

"I'm Alice," she said. "Just Alice. The rest is rather difficult to explain."

The woman looked at the Wilds. At their matching dresses and ageless faces. She looked at Alice. At her Victorian costume and preternatural calm. Something was shifting behind her eyes. The recalibration that happened to everyone who spent too long in the presence of impossible things.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly. "For earlier. When you came in. I thought..."

"You thought we were playing dress-up," Lora said. "It's all right. Most people do."

"We're not, though," Mia added. "Playing, I mean. This is just what we are."

The woman nodded. She retrieved her deck from Lora's hands. But before she turned away, she pulled a single card from it and placed it on the table.

The Fool.

"Keep it," she said. "It seems to belong to you. All of you."

She returned to her table. Her companion was speaking rapidly into his phone. Trying to explain what he'd just witnessed. He wouldn't succeed. Some things resisted explanation.

Mia picked up the card and studied it. The youth at the cliff's edge. The dog at their heels. The bundle on a stick.

"You know," she said, "I'm starting to think this Mr. Fischer has no idea what he's gotten himself into."

"Almost certainly not," Alice agreed. "But that's rather the nature of creation, isn't it? You never know what you're making until it stands up and introduces itself."

"Is that philosophy?"

"That's experience." Alice stood, smoothing her pinafore. "Now. You mentioned something about changing clothes before we proceed?"

"Aye, we did. That frock is still an embarrassment."

"I've worn it for over a century."

"And it shows." Mia stood too, tucking the gifted Fool card into her pocket. "Come on, then. Sarah can take us shopping before we hunt down our supposed creator. Can't confront the man who invented us looking like a historical reenactment gone wrong."

"I believe you said that. I merely agreed to accompany you."

"Same thing. Lora, are you coming?"

Lora had been watching Alice with a thoughtful expression. The look she got when a song was forming in her head.

"Aye," she said slowly. "I'm coming. But Alice, that trick with the cards. The way you aligned with other possibilities. Could you teach that?"

Alice paused. Uncertainty crossed her face.

"I don't know," she admitted. "No one has ever asked."

"Well. I'm asking."

"Then I suppose we'll find out together. Along with everything else."

They walked toward the door. Two women who looked like teenagers but weren't. One woman who looked like a Victorian illustration but wasn't. None of them quite fitting into the world they moved through.

Philip watched them go.

"Well," he said to no one in particular. "That's the strangest tea service I've ever hosted."

It wouldn't be the last.