Once upon a time, in the City of No Stories, Gwendolyn Gray was all alone. This little girl did not mind being alone, most of the time. And the deserted Hall of Records was as good a place as any to be alone. She felt less lonely when surrounded by books than when she was surrounded by people.

 

Books can be great friends. But the shelves that towered over young Gwendolyn Gray held little more than casual acquaintances. The Hall of Records was a building-sized filing cabinet for official documents and instruction manuals and encyclopedias of things that no one cared about.

 

She didn’t mind. These were some of the only books in the entire City, and whatever they lacked in interest or excitement, she would fill in with her own imagination. An imagination as untamed as the bushy red curls that fell into her face as she read, sitting cross-legged on the floor. She blew at a strand of hair, but succeeded only in knocking a few more loose. She brushed them back and shifted positions on the cold tiles. Her legs were falling asleep, and the book she was holding was laughably large in her petite hands.

 

No sooner had she found a more comfortable position than she felt someone tap her on the shoulder. She cried out, whipped around, and toppled over in the process.

 

Mother stood there, hands on hips, foot tapping. “Well. It looks like Father was right. He was sure we’d find you here.”

 

Gwendolyn scrambled to her knees and gathered up the book. “I’m sorry, I was just, umm… reading.”

 

Marie Gray cocked an eyebrow, her face serious, but not stern. “How many times have we told you to ask permission if you’re going further than our block? I was worried you had run away again.”

 

“No, I was going to come back this time, I promise. It’s just that Mr. Tompkins mentioned something in class called an aeroplane, so I came here and found this book about it, see?” She held up a picture of a sleek winged contraption with a propeller on the front.

 

A flash of white flickered in Mother’s eyes for a moment, as it always did when Gwendolyn talked about such things. It was the same light that steered most Cityzens away from the Hall of Records in the first place. Instead of looking at the book, she scrutinized her daughter. “You’re getting your new overalls dirty.”

 

“How can you tell, they’re already grey…” she muttered under her breath.

 

“What was that?”

 

Gwendolyn hung her head, hiding her face behind a curtain of hair. “Nothing. Sorry, mommy.”

 

“It’s Mother, if you please. Eight-years-old is too old to be calling me ‘mommy.’ Now where’s your hair ribbon?”

 

Before she could stop them, Gwendolyn’s eyes darted guiltily toward one of the books on the floor beside her, where a black silk ribbon had clearly been used as an impromptu bookmark.

 

Mother sighed. She got down on her knees next to her daughter, taking extra care not to get a run in her hosiery. She tugged the ribbon out from between the pages and motioned for Gwendolyn to turn around.

 

Gwendolyn did, sitting cross legged once more, and Mother began running her fingers through her daughter’s fiery tangles.  A pleasant shiver ran through Gwendolyn at the gentle touch, tingling over her scalp and down her spine. She wriggled a little.

 

“Hold still, please.”

 

She did her best. “When did you stop calling your mommy, mommy?”

 

“Oh,” Mother said in surprise. “I suppose I was a little older than you, if I’m honest.”

 

“And did you ever run away?”

 

“Certainly not! I was a very well-behaved little girl. Even as a teenager, I would always tell your grandmother exactly where I was going and what I was doing.”

 

“That’s not what Daddy says.”

 

Mother peeked around and gave Gwendolyn a pert little grin. “Well, your father is not to be trusted.” She wagged a finger. “Obeyed, yes. But never trusted.”

 

Gwendolyn giggled. When she stopped, the two of them sat in pleasant silence as Mother finished tying back her daughter’s hair.

 

“I wish I’d gotten to meet them,” Gwendolyn said. “My grandparents.”

 

Mother came around and sat down next to her, both legs to one side. “You did. But you were too young to remember.” Her tone grew wistful, and she gazed absently at the blank stretch of wall at the end of the row of shelves.

 

“Do you miss them terribly?”

 

Mother nodded. “Every day.”

 

Gwendolyn nodded as well. “I wish I knew them enough to miss them. And Daddy?”

 

Mother did not correct her this time. “It’s even worse for him, in a way. He lost his parents when he was still young. Just old enough that he didn’t have to go to the Home for Unclaimed Children, thankfully…” Her voice trailed off, and Mother fidgeted with the hem of her skirt. “Anyway. That’s enough talk for now. Come on, I’ll take you home.”

 

“Can I bring the book with me?” Gwendolyn said, holding up the enormous tome.

 

“You’re not really allowed to, but...” Mother frowned and looked around the deserted space. “I don’t suppose anyone will notice. Just this once,” she said with a wink. “And don’t tell Father, I’ll never hear the end of it. Now, help your dear mother up, I don’t think I can manage it in this skirt.”

 

Gwendolyn got to her feet, tucked the book under one arm, and took her mother’s hand. But Mother gave her a playful pull and she fell forward, both of them laughing as they lay sprawled onto the tile.

 

Suddenly, there was a thump that knocked the wind out of her, and she opened her eyes. She lay on the floor, yes, but she was no longer in the Hall of Records. And she was no longer with her mother. And she was no longer eight years old. She was in her apartment, lying on the floor next to her father’s chair. She was alone. And at fifteen, she felt that she was getting entirely too grown-up.

 

###

 

Once upon another time, Gwendolyn Gray had saved the world.

 

The City had been a dull grey place of rules and regulations and no ideas whatsoever, without enough imagination to even give it a proper name. It was simply the City, and it was the way it was, as it had always been for five hundred years. Gwendolyn’s riotous red hair had been the only speck of color in the entire world, and likewise, her daydreams had been the only speck of imagination. Until one day, she had daydreamed a little too hard, and made Missy Cartblatt grow a pair of rabbit ears, and brought furry orange creatures to life, and created underground aquatic tunnels full of monsters.

 

These sorts of changes brought her to the attention of the Faceless Gentlemen, the men in bowler hats who erased everything new in the City, preserving the precious status quo. Gwendolyn had only escaped with the help of Sparrow and Starling, two imaginary friends that sprang to life and whisked her away. They showed her the portals between worlds, and they escaped the Faceless Men, hopping from story to story, world to world, and fighting the forces of darkness that threatened to drain them all of their magic and color, until every world was as dull as Gwendolyn’s.

 

With the help of heroes from various other stories, Kolonius Thrash and his crew of airship pirates, the mystical inventress Cyria Kytain, and an army of faerie folk, Gwendolyn had freed the City from the clutches of Mister Zero and his mind-draining Lambents. She had sent imagination coursing through her world again. She had saved her own story.

 

But it had come at a cost. And with every day that passed, she wondered if it had truly been worth it.

 

The image of Mister Five and Mister Six dragging her parents through a portal to another world was permanently etched in her memory. She pictured the Blackstar, the inter-world agent of darkness, leading them through. And Sparrow and Starling, her only two friends in the world, leaping in after them.

 

“Don’t worry, Gwendolyn, we’ll find them!”

 

“We’ll be back, I promise!”

 

She believed in her friends. But she wished they would hurry it up a little. Two years was an awfully long time to wait.

 

Two years since the battle with Mister Zero in the Central Tower. Two years with no parents. Two years living alone in the big, empty apartment. Feeding herself. Fending for herself. Hiding and lying and living in constant fear that someone would discover her secret.  That someone would find out that Gwendolyn Gray was on her own.

 

And then the men would come.

 

Not the Faceless Gentlemen, of course. They had not been seen since they had disappeared with her parents two years ago. No, the men Gwendolyn feared were all too ordinary. They would politely knock with their polished nightsticks, politely tip their caps, and politely pack her away to the Home for Unclaimed Children.

 

She looked around the empty apartment. She must have fallen asleep at the typewriter again and toppled right out of her desk chair. Was she really that tired? She supposed she must be. It was hard to tell. These days, she was always tired. The constant nightmares of the Wastelands beyond the City hardly helped.

 

She climbed back into the chair and stared at her father's typewriter. The page remained stubbornly blank. The panic welled up in her stomach, the familiar fear that the ideas would no longer come, and then the paychecks would no longer come, and then her freedom would be taken away.  She tamped down the fear, and focused on the page again. Start with a title, she told herself. Her fingers clacked out a few words and banged at the return, hearing its reassuring chime.

 

Criminy and the Borpulus Beazle

 

By Marie and Danforth Gray

 

“Borpulus?” she read out loud. “What a terrible word. And I haven’t the slightest idea what a Beazle is, anyway.”

 

Her publisher, Mr. Mason, would throw a fit if he could see this drivel. Then he’d throw an even larger one to see that his two bestselling authors were, in reality, one freckle-faced fifteen-year-old girl. Her parents had saved enough money that she’d managed to get by, until she had the brilliant idea of trying to sell one of her stories. Of course, that meant writing under a pseudonym and impersonating her own parents, as no one was going to hire a newly orphaned thirteen-year-old girl.

 

Not an orphan, she would say to herself. They’re missing, not dead. They’ll be back.

 

She tore out the blank page, crumpled it up, and threw it away. “Fat lot of good you are,” she scolded the typewriter. “You could do your part, you know.”

 

The typewriter remained frustratingly silent.

 

She banged her head on the desk a few times, hoping that might shake a few ideas lose, but no luck.

 

Gwendolyn looked at her watch, and felt an altogether different kind of panic. She was late for the School.

 

Very, very late.

 

How long had she been asleep at the desk? She’d be lucky to make in time for lunch. That’s what she got for trying to get in some writing before school, especially after the cruel irony of another sleepless night.

 

She dashed for the bedroom. Getting dressed was a quick affair, the only benefit of the School’s uniforms. Not having any hair to care for saved time as well. Looking neat and well-cared for was another important step in avoiding attention.

 

She ran a hand over her bare scalp. There wasn’t any point in trying to hide it. She hated wigs. Wigs felt like a lie, and they all looked terrible. So she collected hats. Hats were fashionable. And the City actually had fashion these days.

 

There was a mirror in the hall, which Gwendolyn studiously avoided. She knew what she looked like. She had grown, as her trips to the store for new clothes reminded her. Buying her first bra on her own had been the most embarrassing moment of her life, and the last two years presented many strong contenders for that title. The way the salespeople had looked at her…

 

And anyway, she didn’t have time to gaze at her reflection, mentally reciting every detail of her appearance.  The last thing she needed was to be reminded of the hair she had lost. Her fiery red hair, her pride and joy, sacrificed to the faeries for their help to save the City. She threw on a yellow bell-shaped cloche and grabbed her satchel.

 

“Goodbye,” she said, as always. And as always, she got no reply.

 

She stepped out into the hallway of the apartment building, and something furry brushed against her bare legs. She jumped, let out a little squeak of surprise, then looked down.

 

“Oh!” she said. “Hello, kitty.”

 

A little black cat rubbed its face against her leg.

 

“Where did you come from?” She reached down to pet it. There was no collar around its neck. She looked around, but there wasn’t anyone in sight. “You know, an apartment building is hardly the natural habitat for a feline.”

 

It arched its back and purred.

 

She was late. Spectacularly so. But she couldn’t leave a kitten wandering around on its own, and a few extra minutes wouldn’t get her in any more trouble that she was already in. “Do you belong to Mr. Blythe and Mr. Reginald downstairs? They’ll be terribly worried about you. Though I suppose they’ll have left for work already. Come inside, and when I get home we’ll take you down and sort this out.”

 

She opened the door, and the cat bounded in like it was the host and Gwendolyn the guest, rather than the other way around. It hopped up on the counter and meowed a demand.

 

“All right, fine, here you go.” She poured a bit of water into a saucer and set it on the counter. The idea of leaving a strange cat unsupervised seemed a questionable one at best, but another glance at her watch told her she had little choice in the matter. “I’ve got to run. Please don’t get up to any mischief while I’m gone. I’ve never had a pet before, so you’ll want to make a positive first impression, or I might judge your entire species poorly. I know that’s unfair, but those are the stakes. Be good.” And with one last stroke of its silky fur, she darted out the door.

 

It was raining. It would be, on a day like today. Since the Change, the City’s weather had grown more unpredictable. Some days it was cold. Some days it wasn’t. Some days it rained. Some days it didn’t. Today was one of the worst—cold and rainy together. You could hardly see the tops of the towering, blocky skyscrapers. She kept meaning to buy an umbrella, but meaning to and remembering to weren’t exactly the same thing, and she reached the monorail platform a bit soggier than she would like.

 

The wait was painful. She tapped her foot, glancing anxiously down the tracks. A splash of color drew her eye, bright and bold against the dreary day. At the end of the platform was painted a wide arch of various colors, which she now recognized as a rainbow. It made her smile a little. Actual color, in the City. It was unheard of before, but these days, if you turned the right corners and went down the right alleys, you could find colorful murals painted by guerrilla artists in the middle of the night.

 

Or gorilla artists, she supposed. But that seemed highly unlikely.

 

A monorail tram arrived, and she grabbed her bag. Then she noticed that the wall behind her was papered with several large black posters that proclaimed “A RETURN TO VALUES” in blocky white text. The sight of it was like a punch to the gut.

 

For five hundred years, the City’s “values” were to drain all your thoughts into the Lambents, leaving you feeling happy, and stupid, and dull. And apparently there were still quite a few people who would prefer it that way. No matter how hard she tried, no matter how much she sacrificed, it hadn’t been good enough. She hadn’t been good enough.

 

She tore one of the posters off the wall, ripped it in two, then stormed onto the tram.

 

It was empty, a sign of just how late she was. Since she couldn’t make the train go any faster by wishing and worrying, she took out her diary to calm her increasing anxiety. It was blue, with little white flowers on it. A present from Sparrow.

 

She flipped through the pages, full of sketches, story ideas, notes, and regular journal entries. She’d read somewhere that journaling was an effective way of managing her emotional state, which Gwendolyn could certainly use, given her bipolar swings of ups and downs, mania and depression. But this particular morning she settled for doodling her initials, two looping G’s that curled around each other. The repetitive movements helped settle her from a state of trembling panic to mere leg-bouncing tension. She forced herself to move her hand as slowly as she could.

 

She’d heard of people trying out this new tattoo trend. Maybe she’d get one, her little symbol in green, on the inside of her forearm. It wasn’t as though she had any parents to stop her.

 

She snorted a bitter laugh. Laughter was better than tears. But she still found herself pulling her knees in close, huddled in the back of the train, and wishing she had someone to give her a hug and tell her that everything would be all right.

 

Everything will be all right, she told herself.

 

A tattoo was out of the question anyway. It would draw too many questions, and the thought of needles made her shudder. At least, that was how she explained her trembling. Or maybe it was the cold. Or the wet.

 

But she was fine. Really. She just hugged her knees even tighter to her chest to make the shaking stop.