July/August 2022

Cory’s feet are firmly planted on the ground—until she befriends her mysterious, fanciful neighbor Once, underneath the beautiful London sky, there was a little back lane called Quinton Lane. The lane was made of cobblestone, and cherry trees lined the edges. Fog usually hung around. The fog seemed to say, “Ha! I’m not going anywhere. It’s too much fun to make this lane and everyone in it all grumpy!” And it was true. The fog, and the frequent rain, and the dreariness and gloominess of spring just not coming, made the few houses of the lane seem to groan. Though you could have made the argument that spring was already there, for it was mid-April. And the weather was rather warm. But the nights still grew very cold, making it impossible for a few small patches of snow to melt. Usually, the little children who lived on the lane loved snow! You could build snowmen, and have snowball fights, and catch snowflakes on your tongue! But this snow was not fun snow. It was not fresh snow, because it had not snowed in weeks. This was just dirty, leftover snow. Sometimes, the children would go out for hours trying to stomp away the last few piles. “Let spring come!” they would cry as they stomped. But Quinton Lane remained dreary, wet, and foggy. One old woman sat peacefully on a small bench by the side of the street, feeding the pigeons. She was glancing up at a window in one of the tall, gray houses. It was the nursery window, and in it you could just see the shape of a perfect little girl making up her bed. Meet Cory Hanmay: Cory is what people would call a perfect little girl. She’s polite, pretty, graceful, simple, amusing, and helpful. And does it all without getting her dress dirty. Now, she was making up her bed in her own beloved nursery. She was of the age of nine, but never wanted to go out and stomp on that dirty snow with the other children. “Spring will come when it comes, and I’ll leave it up to the cherry blossoms’ own determined wills to decide when they want to bloom,” she had said once. It was something that her grandmother had said, except not about cherry trees blooming, but about a runaway dog coming home. Cory was always quoting grownups— her grandmother, her mother and father, her aunt, and even the old pigeon woman. Cory was never being “childish and foolish”, as she called it. She was too focused on becoming grown up and mature. She wanted to be the mother of five, when married. And she practiced constantly with her dolls. When her bed was neatly made up, Cory went out onto her tiny balcony. The balcony had only enough room for one person and had strong metal bars, and was the same as every other house’s nursery balcony on Quinton Lane. It was not quite raining, though it was certainly foggy, and leftover drops plopped down from the roof onto the balcony. All the houses on the lane were almost identical and very close together. If Cory had a stick, she would have been able to reach out and poke the next house simply by leaning over the railing a little. The next house had a small window across from Cory’s balcony. And Cory could not help but peering inside, for she saw a little girl around her age rummaging about. She had seen this girl a few times before: on the street, in the park, talking mysteriously to the old pigeon woman, and now, looking into her window. Cory did not mean to spy—she really didn’t. But it was only spying for a little while, for soon the other girl spotted her, and walked over to her window. She opened it and leaned out. “Hello, Cory Hanmay!” she called. “How do you know my name?” Cory asked. “Are ya kidding? We’re neighbors! I’ve seen you ’round,” the girl replied. “Well, I don’t know your name,” Cory replied. The other girl thought for a moment. “I’m Princess Carolina of the North,” she said proudly. Cory examined her. She had long, jet-black hair and pale skin. Her eyes were a deep navy blue, and her eyelashes were the longest Cory had ever seen! And though the girl was rather pretty, Cory did not believe she was a princess. “What’s your real name?” Cory asked. “Why, that is my real name! Well, in my Second World it is,” the girl replied. “Your Second World?” Cory questioned. “Yes. My Second World. In it, I’m Princess Carolina of the North. And no, I’m not in the least embarrassed to admit that my Second World is . . . in my imagination. But in the imagination is the best place for something to be! Because there, you are always the queen, or king, or princess! Because you created it! So nothing can happen unless you happen it. Cory then realized that she didn’t know much about imagining things. She was too busy focusing on reality. “Did you know? I live in a castle made of pink stone. It has thousands of windows and balconies, and very tall towers. And I have a garden of lollipops! There’s a pond of melted chocolate, and the leaves on the many trees are edible! They taste like gummies.” Cory looked at her in awe, wide-eyed. “But—but what’s your name in . . . this world?” Cory asked. “Oh. Well, I suppose you can know that my name is Anita Blakely,” the girl—Anita—answered. “Now, want to  go stomp on some snow?” “Oh, no, thank you. I don’t stomp on snow. I let it melt when it pleases.” “Aw! It’s awful fun! How old are ya, anyway?” Anita said, pointing with her chin toward Cory. “I’m nine. What about you?” “Guess!” Anita demanded. “Hmm . . . seven? I think you’re seven or eight.” Cory shrugged. “Humph. No, I’m nine.