All the furniture was minimal and spare: clean lines and simple frames, black seat cushions, gray pillows and a threadbare blanket that was neatly folded and placed atop a bed. Solid shades of gray dotted her vision; this home was a place where colors did not exist and patterns were not made. It was steady, sturdy, and extremely tidy. The rug underfoot was soft and gray and fluffy, and not bothered by a single spot.

Alice and Oliver weren’t sure what to do with themselves.

It was a strange home for a painter, stranger still that there was no sign of his paintings anywhere. Alice cleared her throat, rocked back and forth on the balls of her feet, and waited for the old man to return.

He came forward with fast, heavy footfalls—now moving without the assistance of his cane—holding two cups of hot tea that spilled into their saucers with his every step, and set them down on a small table around which a large couch and a few chairs had gathered. No cream, no sugar, no please or thank you.

“Well, sit down, then,” said the man, looking from her to Oliver, obviously irritated. He pulled the wool cap off his head to reveal a rather large tuft of dark hair that stuck straight up before falling into his face, and as she and Oliver tentatively took their seats, so did he.

He seemed much younger than Alice had originally thought he was. In fact, she was fairly certain he wasn’t old at all. He was just crabby. She tried to get a better look at his face, but he’d ducked his chin into his chest, and his eyes were now partially obscured by his hair. Alice sat back, confused.

It was coming back to her now—her conversations with Tim—and she looked around, carefully cataloguing all the gray. There was not a spot of bright color anywhere, and Alice was growing more convinced by the moment:

This must be a prison village.

But how could it be? Could the painter also be an inmate? Alice wasn’t sure. She didn’t know Furthermore well enough to know whether this was possible.

Alice looked to Oliver and nearly told him what she was thinking (she was thinking that if this was a prison village, that perhaps this man might be able to tell her how to find Father), but fear had made her too afraid to hope, so she kept her theories to herself.

Oliver cleared his throat.

The painter crossed his legs and leaned back in his chair (she noticed then that he wore thick wool socks), and leveled them with a stare she couldn’t quite match. Alice felt too open, too vulnerable and bright-eyed, so she looked away.

“So you’ve come about your arm, then?” he said to her.

Alice nodded.

“And how did you manage to lose it?” he said.

She blinked up at him, then looked down again, frowning. “I—well, I made a mistake,” she said, digging the toe of her shoe into the carpet.

“What kind of mistake?” he said.

“I followed a paper fox,” Alice said quietly. “My right arm turned to paper.” She hesitated. “And then the fox ripped my arm off.” Alice didn’t know why she was speaking so stiltedly or, more importantly, she didn’t know why the painter made her so nervous, but her hand was sweating and her heart was pounding and her emotions were trying to tell her something she couldn’t yet hear.

The painter laughed a loud, humorless laugh. “You followed a paper fox and got your arm ripped off.” He sighed. “Yep. Sounds about right.”

His voice was rough from lack of use, but there was something about it that made Alice feel like she was overheating. Something in it—somewhere in the rustiness—that reminded her of something, of someone she could not place—

“What’s your name?” he said, tilting his head, and for just a moment, his hair shifted out of his eyes.

Alice thought she might collapse.

“Oliver,” she cried. “Oliver—”

“Your name is Oliver? That’s a strange name for a girl.”

“My name is Oliver,” said Oliver, who’d jumped up and was now looking anxiously at Alice. “What’s wrong?” he said to her. “What’s the matter?”

But Alice couldn’t get the words out. She was seeing spots; she thought her throat might close up.

“Alice?” said Oliver, panicking. “Alice, what are you—”

“Her name is Alice?” said the painter, who was now on his feet.

“Father,” she gasped. “Father.”

And then she fainted.

!!!!!!!!

I don’t know how much time elapsed between when she fell and when she woke—Oliver says it was at least several minutes—but when Alice finally blinked open her eyes, they’d already filled to the brim with tears.

Alice Alexis Queensmeadow had finally found Father.

Accidentally, unintentionally (serendipitously), Alice had found Father and she was unsinkably happy.

Their reunion was long and joyous; tears were shed, laughter was shared, stories were recounted from all. Alice’s and Oliver’s stories are already familiar to you, so I won’t bother relating them again, but Father’s story was new, and certainly new to you, too, so I’ll do my best to remember exactly what was said. However, before I do, I’d like to address one detail that must be bothering you:

Strange, you must think, that Father hadn’t recognized Alice himself.

You are wise to wonder so. And when Alice first told me how it all happened, I thought it strange, too. But we must remember that Father had been locked away for three Ferenwood years in the heart of an impossible land. Father had never dreamed—never dared to think it possible—that his young daughter would, firstly, know a single thing about Furthermore and, secondly, have survived long enough to find him, when he, a grown man, had barely survived himself. He had never dreamed Alice might show up. In fact, when Father saw Alice and Oliver requesting permission to enter his village, he accepted their request solely because the young girl he saw—her white hair, her white skin—reminded him a great deal of his own daughter.