A Beggar’s Kingdom. Paullina Simons

ride.”

      Ashton knocked into Julian as they were about to board. “Dude,” he whispered, “you haven’t told her Space Mountain is a black hole with nothing to see?”

      “We haven’t even told her it’s a roller coaster,” Julian said. “You want her to go on the ride, or don’t you?”

      “Do you really need me to answer that?”

      They climbed in, Ashton and Julian first, then the girls in front of them. Zakiyyah tried to sit forward as much as possible, but the bench was narrow and short. Her hips fitted between Ashton’s splayed legs.

      “Can you open your legs any wider?” she said.

      “Said the bishop to the barmaid,” said Ashton.

      “Josephine! Your friend’s friend is making inappropriate remarks to me.”

      “Yes, they’re called jokes,” Ashton said.

      “They’re most certainly not jokes because jokes are funny. People laugh at jokes. Did you hear anyone laughing?”

      Zakiyyah sat primly, holding her purse in her lap.

      Ashton shook his head, sighed. “Um, why don’t you put your bag down below, maybe hold on to the grip bars.”

      “I’m fine just the way I am, thank you,” she said. “Don’t move too close.”

      “Not to worry.”

      They were off.

      Zakiyyah was thrown backwards—into Ashton’s chest. Her hips locked inside Ashton’s legs. The purse dropped into the footwell. Seizing the handlebars, she screamed for two minutes in the cavernous dome.

      When it was over, Julian helped a shaky Zakiyyah out, Josephine already on the platform, jumping and clapping. “Z! How was it? Did you love it, Z?”

      “Did I love being terrified? Why didn’t you tell me it was a rollercoaster in pitch black?”

      They had a ride photo made of the four of them: Zakiyyah’s mouth gaping open, her eyes huge, the other three exhilarated and laughing. They gave it to her as a keepsake of her first time on Space Mountain, a real artifact from an imaginary place.

      “Maybe next time we can try Peter Pan,” Ashton said as they were leaving the park after the fireworks.

      “Who says there’s going to be a next time?” said Zakiyyah.

      “Thank you for making this happen,” Josephine whispered to Julian in the parking lot, wrapping herself around his arm. “I know it didn’t seem like it, but she had fun. Though you know what didn’t help? Your Ashton pretending to be a jester. You should tell him you don’t have to try so hard when you look like a knight. Is he trying to be funny like you?”

      “He’s both a jester and a knight without any help from me, believe me,” said Julian.

      Josephine kissed him without breaking stride. “You get bonus points for today,” she said. “Wait until we get home.”

      And other days, while she walked through Limbo past the violent heretics and rowed down the River Styx in Paradise in the Park, Julian drove around L.A. looking for new places where she might fall in love with him, like Disneyland. New places where his hands could touch her body. They strolled down Beverly and shopped for some costume jewelry, they sat at the Montage and whispered in nostalgia for the old Hotel Bel Age that overlooked the hills. He raised a glass to her in the Viper Room where not long ago someone young and beautiful died. Someone young and beautiful always died in L.A. And when the wind blew in from Laurel Canyon, she lay in his bed and drowned in his love and wished for coral trees and red gums, while Julian wished for nothing because everything had come.

      But that was then.

       Part One

       The Master of the Mint

       “Gold enough stirring; choice of men, choice of hair, choice of beards, choice of legs, choice of everything.”

      Thomas Dekker, The Humors of the Patient Man and the Longing Wife

       1

       Fighter’s Club

      ASHTON WAS AFFABLE BUT SKEPTICAL. “WHY DO WE NEED TO paint the apartment ourselves?”

      “Because the work of one’s hands is the beginning of virtue,” Julian said, dipping the roller into the tray. “Don’t just stand there. Get cracking.”

      “Who told you such nonsense?” Ashton continued to just stand there. “And you’re not listening. I meant, painting seems like a permanent improvement. Why are we painting at all? There’s no way, no how we’re staying in London another year, right? That’s just you being insane like always, or trying to save money on the lease, or … Jules? Tell the truth. Don’t baby me. I’m a grown man. I can take it. We’re not staying in London until the lease runs out in a year, right? That’s not why you’re painting?”

      “Will you grab a roller? I’m almost done with my wall.”

      “Answer my question!”

      “Grab a roller!”

      “Oh, God. What did I get myself into?”

      But Julian knew: Ashton might believe a year in London was too long, but Julian knew for certain it wasn’t long enough.

      Twelve months to move out of his old place on Hermit Street, and calm Mrs. Pallaver who cried when he left, even though he’d been a recluse tenant who had shunned her only child.

      Twelve months to decorate their new bachelor digs in Notting Hill, to paint the walls a manly blue and the bathrooms a girly pink, just for fun.

      Twelve months to return to work at Nextel as if he were born to it, to wake up every morning, put on a suit, take the tube, manage people, edit copy, hold meetings, make decisions and new friends. Twelve months to hang out with Ashton like it was the good old days, twelve months to keep him from drinking every night, from making time with every pretty girl, twelve months to grow his beard halfway down his chest, to fake-flirt sometimes, twelve months to learn how to smile like he was merry and his soul was new.

      Twelve months to crack the books. Where was he headed to next? It had to be sometime and somewhere after 1603. Lots of epochs to cover, lots of countries, lots of history. No time to waste.

      Twelve months to memorize thousands of causes for infectious diseases of the skin: scabies, syphilis, scarlet fever, impetigo. Pressure ulcers and venous insufficiencies. Spider angiomas and facial granulomas.

      Carbuncles, too. Can’t forget the carbuncles.

      Twelve months to learn how to fence, to ride horses, ring bells, melt wax, preserve food in jars.

      Twelve months to reread Shakespeare, Milton, Marlowe, Ben Johnson. In her next incarnation, Josephine could be an actress again; he must be ready for the possibility.

      Twelve months to learn how not to die in a cave, twelve months to train to dive into cave waters.

      Twelve months to learn how to jump.

      Twelve months to make himself better for her.

      It wasn’t enough time.