Dedicated to author DM Robb, whose "Corpse Bride" stories I've always enjoyed. Thank you for letting me use your version of Victoria! I hope I did her justice.
Author's Note: This is going to be a long one. Bear with me. Or skip right to the story, whatever you prefer!
I was 19, just like the movie's protagonists, when this film came out. "Corpse Bride" touched me deeply, even with its flaws. I thought, and still think, that it is a sweet and heartfelt meditation on life and on love. But I am at a different place in my life now. Now I'm in my mid-30's, I've been married for a decade, and I have a four-year-old. And I still count this movie among my favorites and I still think there is so much to explore in its universe. All this to say: I'm basically a dinosaur. I got in on the ground floor of the fandom and I'm still here. When I was younger that might have worried me. What a dweeb I am! But like I said. Mid-30's now. You run out of damns to give about what little things make you happy by this age.
There has been one constant for nearly 20 years in this fandom: Victoria hate. I, in turn, really hate that. I love Victoria, I identify with Victoria, she is basically Sally from "The Nightmare Before Christmas" and I remain baffled as to how people can love Sally and hate Victoria. That's its own essay, though. I will be completely frank and say that this story is, at base, a big middle finger to those who do not like Victoria. As we said on eff eff dot net back in my day: Don't Like, Don't Read.
Last, I think I might be losing my mind a bit, hence the meta and bizarre nature of this story. As I mentioned, I have a four-year-old. The four-year-old loves skeletons. So I showed him "Corpse Bride" and of course he loves it. I think we were on our 135th re-watch when I had this idea. I'd also been re-reading Jasper Fforde's Thursday Next novels, which also might have had something to do with it.
I hope it's fun. I hope it converts at least one Victoria-hater. I hope it's a good read. I hope you enjoy it. – "Grandma" PlayerPiano
Victoria(s)
"He's quite the catch, isn't he?" Lord Barkis remarked. He was examining his fingernails, not looking her way, but Victoria knew the words were meant for her. She spared him a sideways glance before staring, frowning, at the door Victor had just fled through.
A heavy silence hung in the room for a beat. Then, as one, those of them left in the drawing room let out a breath. Pastor Galswells was the first to speak.
"I'm off," he said, shuffling toward the door, staff in hand. He nodded to Victoria on his way by. "I'll see you at the church."
"Yes, Pastor Galswells," she said. She watched him leave the room, idly wondering how he spent his time between his appearances. He always left the drawing room immediately after the botched rehearsal. Emil, as usual, followed him out, where Victoria knew he'd head round to smoke with Mayhew and Hildegarde.
Unlike Galswells, Barkis always stayed until the very last minute. This time he'd set himself up in the far corner of the room with an expensive-looking ebony manicure kit and was fussily cleaning his nails. He'd hang about, she knew, until the lighting changed, and then duck out of the room just in time to meet the Town Crier in the hall.
Victoria meandered over to the window. Behind her she heard the sounds of her and Victor's parents setting up their usual whist game in front of the fireplace. In the early days, when the story was novel, she'd spent her time thinking and preparing for what was to come. Often they'd even improvise what had been left unwritten. But as time passed, as the story was told over and over, boredom was perhaps inevitable. Hence the games of whist, the manicure kit, the books and magazines and knitting Victoria kept in a dark corner of the drawing room.
Early on she'd attempted visits with Emily or Victor in an unwritten moment when they were both free. She and Emily especially, annoyed by the fact that they had no true interaction at all in the story, had wanted to spend a bit of time together. But odd things happened. She'd never forget the sight of Emily bent over her coffin, in tears and retching.
"I don't have a stomach! How is this happening?" she'd cried in between dry heaves, clutching at her middle. Victoria had dearly wanted to help, but she'd had a blinding headache and was seeing double, barely able to stand. They'd only tried one another time, with the exact same results. Quite the visits.
And Victor, he got nosebleeds. Grisly ones. He'd gone through a half dozen of her handkerchiefs and started on her pillowcase the last time he'd attempted to come see her. That had been the same time that Victoria had actually passed out, her headache had been so terrible. So they'd all given up, disappointed. The story demanded that they stay where they needed to be, for the most part. No messing about.
She looked out at the familiar gray sky, at Victor's house across the square, of the huddle of servants chatting together by the Van Dorts' carriage. Should she sew or read today? Or take a walk? She'd found that a turn about the village gave her no ill effects. And it stayed light outside for ages.
Just then, the doorbell rang, making her jump. Everyone froze, casting questioning glances back and forth at one another. Victoria moved to stand closer to her parents' card game.
"Get the door, Emil," Father said eventually, in a slow and questioning tone. He glanced at Mother. "Haven't I said that already?"
"Yes, of course you have," Mother told him curtly, looking at the door. "And Emil's already left. What on earth...?"
"Maybe someone rewound?" Mr. Van Dort suggested, unworried, eyes still on his cards. "Lots of people like that scene."
"Oh, don't be silly, William," Mrs. Van Dort said. "We'd know if they had."
This was true. Just as they always knew what sequence to stay in, they always knew if they needed to play a part of the story again. Victoria and Victor had once done the scene in her bedroom fifty-two times in a row. Not that they'd minded. It was a nice scene. Victoria blushed a little at the memory, and in anticipation.
"And one doesn't rewind," Barkis put in from his corner, as though anyone had asked. "One reverses, nowadays."
The doorbell rang a second time. Again a silence fell and looks were exchanged, as though everyone were hoping by ignoring it they could make it go away.
"I'll answer it," Victoria offered, curious.
"You most certainly will not," her mother immediately countered. With a distinct softening of her voice and manner, she turned in her chair toward Barkis.
"Lord Barkis, would you be so kind?" she asked. "Since Emil's already left, and we've just begun this hand..."
But Barkis was shaking his head even before Mother finished speaking. "Couldn't possibly," he said, his voice dripping with mock-regret. Daintily he held up his fingers. "I've not finished my first hand."
Victoria grimaced at that one, and then turned pleadingly back to Mother when the doorbell went yet again. "Please, Mother, I've nothing to do for ages."
"She does have the length of a musical number," put in Mr. Van Dort.
"Oh, very well," said Mother, clearly keen to get back to the game. "See who it is, and only bother us if it's important. And be sure you're back in time!"
"Yes, Mother," Victoria replied, almost trotting in her eagerness to escape the room to do something new. So little of her time was spent happily, or even engaged in anything aside from worrying in this story, that a diversion was very welcome.
Down the corridor and into the dim hall she went, casting the piano and the empty vase a fond glance as she went by. At the door she smoothed her hair and squared her shoulders.
Victoria opened the door, very much expecting to find Aunt Gertrude wanting to come in for tea. Instead, she found herself standing there on the steps.
2
For what felt like an eternity Victoria gaped at the familiar stranger on her doorstep. No relative, she was positive. No aunt or cousin she didn't know about. She knew everyone in this story. It was her. She, herself, Victoria. But older. Perhaps in her early thirties. Victoria studied her in shocked fascination. There was some gray around her temples, and her hair was in braid down her back. The loose, simple white dress she wore made it clear that she was not corseted. Her nose was a little pink with sun, and there were just the tiniest lines appearing at the corners of her eyes.
Unable to speak, Victoria put a hand to her throat. The woman on the steps made the same gesture.
"I've come to the wrong house," the woman said in Victoria's own voice. She spoke hastily, already backing down the steps. "The wrong time and place, at least. Very wrong. Please forgive me. Good evening."
It took Victoria a moment to wake up from her shock. But when she did, she pulled the door shut behind her and trotted down the steps after the woman, who was quickly disappearing around the corner by the clockmaker's.
"Wait, please!" Victoria called, trotting to keep up. It wasn't hard, as their legs were the same length and they took the same kind of steps.
"I should not be here," the older woman said, stopping at last. She was darting glances all around her, clearly worried. "I'm not sure what might happen if we speak. I'm very sorry. This was a mistake. My mistake. You'd best go back, and I'll do the same. Please."
They'd come to a small alley between the back of the shops and the village wall. The steady rhythm of the ticking clocks was audible even back here, though it was faint. No one ever saw this part of town. It was barely described, Victoria realized as she looked around. Behind her was solid reality. The shop, the cannery, the square, her house. Cobblestones and cracked plaster, gray skies and chilly late winter air. Here, though, the solidity was somehow gone. The air seemed to waver, like the air above flames in a fireplace. The village wall looked as though, were she to put a hand to it, it would fade to mist.
"I think you might at least tell me why you were ringing our bell," Victoria said. "And perhaps who you are?" Her older self merely looked back at her, a troubled expression on her face.
"I'm you," she replied, a bit of a sag to her shoulders.
"I'd gathered that much," Victoria replied, folding her hands before her. "But how? And why?"
The older Victoria sighed. She twisted her fingers together in a gesture Victoria knew very well. She cast her eyes about, thinking. When she spoke, it was in fits and starts. "Oh, how to—I'm not certain how to—You know you're fictional, don't you?"
"Of course," Victoria said, affronted. What did this other woman take her for, a fool?
"Of course you do," said the other Victoria in a conciliatory tone. "Forgive me. Well, there are other stories. Yours is not the only one. You're in many other stories, actually. And so there are many other versions of you. Of us. We're you, of course, but...also ourselves. Do you see?"
Victoria blinked. She let her arms drop to her sides. "Other stories?" she wondered aloud. "I never knew. I don't think any of us do...So there are other Victors? Emilys? My parents?" Her brain started to swirl a little, and she had to close her eyes for a moment. She hoped she wouldn't get one of her headaches.
"Yes," the older Victoria said, putting a hand to Victoria's arm. "Yes, just about everyone. And we can move about those stories and through the unwritten just as you can through yours." She paused, studying Victoria with concern. "But I never knew we could move into yours. Into...the story, I suppose you'd say."
Victoria studied her other self with fascination. The mostly unbound hair. The loose and simple dress. The scuffed black boots peeking out from beneath her skirts. Now that they'd been standing together for a while, Victoria could even catch a scent of sea air and roses. This was nothing like what she'd imagined for herself in years to come.
"You're...my future?" Victoria asked, feeling silly. As though she were visiting a fortune teller.
"No, no, no," the older Victoria said quickly. "I'm more of a…possibility. If you see what I mean. There are so many possible stories..."
"An infinite number of stories," Victoria agreed. "What is your story? Surely you know mine already."
The older Victoria bit her lip, that troubled look on her face again. Victoria took a guess at the problem.
"You needn't worry. You aren't going to change me," she assured the other woman gently. "I have a very solid sense of self."
Finally, the older Victoria smiled a little, the small wrinkles around her eyes crinkling. "I know very well that you do."
"Shall we sit?" Victoria asked, gesturing toward the pile of crates nearer to the cannery. But the older woman shook her head.
"No, no, I won't take long, I don't want to overstay," she said. Victoria nodded. Then she tilted her head expectantly. She was on tenterhooks, her stomach a little giddy with the idea of learning of a possible future.
At length, her other self let out a long breath. "All right. After your story—the story—Victor and I married. Just a simple ceremony. And we moved to a summer cottage by the sea that Mother and Father owned. A lovely place, on a cove, with a rocky beach. Between the forest and the ocean, very private."
"That sounds beautiful," Victoria said, swept up by the thought of such a place. How romantic and dramatic a setting. She was envious that her parents didn't own such a place. It would have been sold off long ago.
"It is," the older Victoria said, sounding wistful. "We're very happy there. Victor and I are very happy together, as well. Victor is a concert pianist—he didn't want to take over the cannery business. He's very well known, travels a bit to perform. We have two children, a boy and a girl. Emily is twelve, and Will is six. Just the four of us, by the sea, with a piano."
Victoria smiled at this. What a lovely life it sounded like! So free and passionate. And it sounded so likely, as well. "It sounds like a perfectly wonderful life," she said warmly. "A perfect one."
A dark look flitted over the older Victoria's face, stripping the wistful joy away. But she quickly shook it off, leaving Victoria wondering.
"I'm looking for my children," the older Victoria went on. "They enjoy exploring. They visit other stories all the time. I do wish they wouldn't. It can be dangerous."
Victoria assumed she meant dangerous in a physical symptoms sense, thinking of her migraines, Emily's dry heaves, Victor's bloodied nose. But this other Victoria appeared to be fine. So perhaps, if she were to go where this other woman was from, and didn't stray too far, she would not feel any ill effects.
Besides, by now her curiosity was piqued and she'd never be able to live with herself if she didn't do a little exploring. It would be like magic, moving through the mists between possible worlds.
"Let me help you look," Victoria said. "I've plenty of time. I'll be sure to be careful. And...well, they're my children too, aren't they? A little?"
"I suppose so," said the older Victoria slowly. She bit her lip, and looked Victoria up and down. "All right. If you like. And do promise to be careful, I can't imagine the consequences if anything happened to you."
"I think I will be fine," Victoria told her, and knew it to be true. Something, her story intuition perhaps, that same something that told her where to be and how to be, told her this was so.
"Through here, then," said her older self, putting a hand to the stone wall. Just as Victoria had suspected, the wall was not solid. She put up her own hand and had the queerest sensation of holding a handful of cold fog.
Together, they stepped into the mist.