Chapter Thirty-Two

Incident: Helena and Theseus, East Veronaville, May 16, 1902

As was stated previously, the date was the sixteenth of May, 1902, and six-year-old Helena could be found in her backyard, accompanied only by a couple of stuffed bears. Her two younger half-siblings were confined to bed with a mild bout of croup, and her mother, her stepfather, and the housekeeper were all quite preoccupied with the pair of them, leaving the older girl to amuse herself for a few hours. I doubt Helena minded at the time–while she was never an anti-social girl, she did have a more than sufficient imagination with which to entertain herself when necessary–and I know for a fact that if she could live that day again, she would not have changed a thing. If one of her parents had been with her, or perhaps even her younger sister, she may never have met Theseus.

Who, pray tell, is Theseus, you might ask? That will be resolved shortly, and in all honesty, I highly doubt that any of you care all that much about the answer. Perhaps the more pressing question is this: What, pray tell, is Theseus?

First off, Theseus is Helena’s age–to the day, to the hour, to the precise minute and second. For something that seems as though it could only possibly be a coincidence, it is so extremely implausible that I am apt to believe that it is, in fact, not. According to Theseus himself, as well as his belated kinsman, Puck, I am correct in this regard.

Anyway, Theseus entered the yard inaudibly; it was only when Helena happened to look up and see him standing in front of her that she realized anyone was there. I imagine she blinked rapidly, as he was dressed rather strangely, and bore the additional oddities of pointed ears and darkly-circled eyes with a greenish tint to their lids and the space beneath his eyebrows. Of course, Helena was not a shy girl, nor the sort who flees at the sight of anything out of the ordinary, so instead of rushing inside and screaming for her stepfather, she instead chose to greet the boy.

As it so happened, they had much more in common than their exact age. They both enjoyed the same sorts of stories, about pirates and cowboys and barbarians. They both loved painting and hide-and-seek and climbing trees. Most importantly, neither of them had anyone they considered a “best friend”–until then.

Their connection was instantaneous. It was like–for lack of a better word, as I personally do not believe in this concept–destiny. The pair of them could have been talking about something so mundane as the inner seams of Helena’s mother’s tablecloth and not grown tired of one another. Each was, to the fullest extent of the word, fascinated.

Even with what I know today, I cannot fully comprehend this phenomenon. I can, however, explain it as best I can, and I have every intention of doing so.

But alas, there are other matters I must address before I can do this occurence justice in my own mind.

You’ll just have to bear with me for a little while longer.

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