Chapters (53)
- Front Cover
- Letter from the Author
- Title Page
- Copyright
- Contents
- • One •
- • Two •
- • Three •
- • Four •
- • Five •
- • Six •
- • Seven •
- • Eight •
- • Nine •
- • Ten •
- • Eleven •
- • Twelve •
- • Thirteen •
- • Fourteen •
- • Fifteen •
- • Sixteen •
- • Seventeen •
- • Eighteen •
- • Nineteen •
- • Twenty •
- • Twenty-One •
- • Twenty-Two •
- • Twenty-Three •
- • Twenty-Four •
- • Twenty-Five •
- • Twenty-Six •
- • Twenty-Seven •
- • Twenty-Eight •
- • Twenty-Nine •
- • Thirty •
- • Thirty-One •
- • Thirty-Two •
- • Thirty-Three •
- • Thirty-Four •
- • Thirty-Five •
- • Thirty-Six •
- • Thirty-Seven •
- • Thirty-Eight •
- • ∞ •
- • Thirty-Nine •
- • Forty •
- Epilogue
- Acknowledgments
- Excerpt from Be Dazzled
- One
- Two
- About the Author
- Back Cover
Kane blinked at the tea service of priceless, bone-white china beneath a dizzying lace of gold. Poesy picked up her own cup and used a little silver spoon to stir the tea into a small whirlpool.
Silver on porcelain. It was such a tiny sound. Kane wondered how he had heard it two stories below.
“You’ll have some tea, won’t you? We have quite a bit to discuss and not much time to do so, but there’s no sense in dispensing with deportment. We aren’t barbarians, are we?” Poesy chuckled knowingly as she filled Kane’s cup.
“You know about the reveries?” he asked.
“I do.”
“What do you know?”
“A lot.”
“What are they?”
“Very dangerous.”
Poesy’s answers only spawned more questions, like mushrooms shedding spores. Kane shoved down his curiosity, knowing it was useless to expect a drag queen to do anything other than exactly what she wanted. From his limited knowledge, he knew drag queens often lip-synched to songs as bars full of cheering people fought to give them money. Kane didn’t have any cash, and he didn’t think Poesy would accept it anyway. He’d just have to let her perform her way, or no way at all, and so he shut up and sat back.
Poesy raised her teacup. Kane did the same. Together they sipped. The tea was infused with rose, and it buzzed like electricity in Kane’s stomach.
“Mr. Montgomery,” Poesy began. “What do you know of etherea?”
Etherea. The word was new to Kane, but it hung in his mind like a faceted gem, a feeling of familiarity emanating from its cut ridges and refracted depths. Kane whispered it to himself, feeling as though it ought to whisper back.
“Mr. Montgomery, I want you to think of reality as a cloth, lushly embroidered with everything you see in this world. Just layer upon layer of elaborate, incredible design. And if reality is a cloth, it must be woven from something, yes?”
“Like thread?”
Poesy licked her small silver spoon. “Like thread. Like etherea: the magic of creation, the magic that makes real the unreal. All things—reality around us, and the reveries you traverse, even other magics—are woven from etherea. Even this charming little town is a well-formed design. Stable and self-assured, it ought to exist for a good long time.”
After another sip, Poesy’s eyes darkened.