Page 49 of Barbie: Dreamscape

“You’re in Everland,” she says, glancing at me over her shoulder and smiling. “And I’m Evalyn.”

“I’m Barbie,” I say, barely stepping out of the way of a child holding a cup of hot chocolate overflowing with marshmallows. He’s taking sips while simultaneously playing with a ball that looks like a giant peppermint.

A baker in a rippling white apron opens the door to his shop, which is actually the door to a giant oven, full of fresh-baked loaves with festive shapes carved into the crusts. All at once, he starts grabbing the bread and tossing the loaves behind him without looking. People catch them in baskets, like this is a normal occurrence. The woman leading me along lifts her hand—

And catches one of her own. She tears a piece off and hands it to me.

I expect the crust to be burning, but it’s pleasantly warm, a wisp of steam curling from the center of the sourdough. I take a bite and nearly melt right into the cracks between the uneven cobblestone.

“Good, isn’t it? Those are cranberries and nuts inside. His specialty.”

I quickly finish the rest.

“Cookie?” Evalyn asks.

Before I can answer, she reaches over to the next house we’re passing—and plucks a gingerbread man right off its trim. She offers it to me. I just gape at it.

“Perfectly edible, darling,” she says. “The house is baked fresh every morning. It will be replaced tomorrow.”

In that case… the cookie snaps easily in my mouth, and then sugar and spices are dancing on my tongue.

“Cider?”

By now, I realize it isn’t really a question, but more of a statement. We pass a shop made completely of apple cores, and she knocks on the window. A hand reaches out, holding what looks like a completely carved-out apple, filled to the brim with shining bronze liquid.

Evalyn snatches it up. “They never sweeten it enough,” she says as she leads me toward a tree in the middle of the town square. In a flash, she produces a spile from one of the many pockets of her skirt, stabs it into the bark—and holds the apple goblet beneath it. Slowly, a drop of maple syrup falls in. Then another.

“There you go.” She hands me the cup, pockets her spout… and we keep walking.

“This place… it’s like a storybook…” I say, taking a sip of the sweet, warm cider. It staves off the cold nestling into my bones. It’s a lot cooler here than it was in Anyland. Children are laughing, playing, tossing giant leaves that cartwheel through the air. Every door that’s opened unveils a new, warm, mouthwatering scent.

“You’re lucky you landed here and not in the forests, is all I’ll say…” she tells me, her shoulders hiking with a chill.

At last, at the far edge of the market, Evalyn steps inside a house shaped like a gift box, painted onyx. The windows are glazed over. The door is a sheet of bark that looks like it was roughly peeled from a tree.

It creaks as she leads me through it, and I’m hit with the delicious warmth of a hearth. My vision fills with shades that are decidedly brighter than the shop’s exterior.

The store is full of bolts of fabric, all glistening like a massive color palette. There are spools of glittery ribbon, stored in baskets woven from twigs and branches. I spin around in wonder.

“You’re a dressmaker?” I ask.

“Oh, no,” she says. “I’m a spider whisperer.”

I just blink at her.

She smiles benevolently. “The spiders are the artists. But they can be… moody. Temperamental, at times.” She purses her lips. “They’re also venomous, which doesn’t help things.”

“Oh.”

Maybe her dress is made of cobwebs, then.

“Here, you look like you could use more to drink.” Only then do I notice I drained the cider from the cup.

In moments, Evalyn returns with a mug of strangely pitch-black tea—sweetened by a generous spoon of honey—and wraps a soft blanket around my shoulders. Was this made from the spiders?

I take a soothing sip of tea, readying myself for my outlandish explanation. This woman has shown me kindness, but she’s about to think I’ve lost my mind. “You’re never going to believe this, but—”

“You’re from another land and need my help,” she says simply.