Otherhalf

When Lola was five her mother taught her the secret of the painting on the mantelpiece. She lifted her daughter up onto the ledge, and Lola reached out, and her fingers slipped right into the picture. For a moment they shimmered, and took on the appearance of paint on canvas, and then they dissolved. Frightened, she yanked her hand back. Her fingers reappeared at once. Her mother laughed at her fright.
"There's another world through the painting," she said, hugging Lola tightly, protectively. "The Other world. And on the other side of the painting is an Other house a bit like ours, and in it lives an Other family a bit like us."
Lola didn't really understand what that meant, but she liked the thought of a secret world through a painting.
"Nobody knows about the Other place except us, though," her mother continued. "So you have to keep it a secret. If you promise to keep it a secret, I'll let you visit there all the time if you like. There's a little boy in the Other house who likes all the things you like."
"Even fairies?" she asked, wide-eyed. She'd thought it was a Fact that boys didn't like fairies.
"Even fairies," her mother promised, laughing. "Go on, go through and meet him. Tell his daddy that Margie says hello. You can stay until it's time for dinner, but then you have to come back."
Although she trusted her mother completely, seeing her fingers and hand and arm and elbow disappear into the painting made Lola cry. She believed that there was an Other world, of course she did, her mother had said it was there. But she was still afraid that something would go wrong, and when she put her face into the painting it would disappear forever. Her mother shushed her and gave her a gentle push.
"It's exciting, Lo," she said. "Mummy promises. Go on."
And Lola leaned forward, pushing her face against the canvas. For a second it resisted, but then she felt something give, something a bit like tearing cloth and a bit like parting water and when she opened her eyes she was crouching on a different mantelpiece, facing out into a room that was almost like the one she'd been in a moment ago.
A man and a boy stood a little way away, waiting. The man came over and lifted her down.
"I'm Morgan," he said, setting her on the floor. "You can call me Uncle Morgan, if you like, or just Morgan for now. This is my son Lucas. He's been looking forward to meeting you for a while now. Ever since your birthday."
"Our birthday," Lucas said, reaching out and shaking her hand solemnly. "It's on the same day, both of us."
"Okay," Lola replied. She still wasn't sure if this was fun or not.
The room looked mostly normal, with a few couches and a bookshelf and a fireplace that was clean but obviously well used. It had wood in it, though, which she wasn't used to - theirs ran on gas. The light coming in through the window was much brighter than the light in her living room had been, and she wondered how it could be raining there but not here. How far had she gone when she went through the painting?
"Want to see my toys?" Lucas offered. "I have lots of toys, they're pretty good."
"Lucas," she asked, shyly, "do you like fairies?"
He shrugged.
"Sure, if you can catch them. There's some in the garden. They always steal the seeds out of the bird feeder though."
Morgan laughed at the way her eyes widened at this.
"Go on," he prompted. "Go play."
He continued to smile as the children ran from the room, but when the room was silent once more he looked with plain longing at the painting for a long time.