‘Not necessarily,’ said Tuesday, with a grin. ‘Maybe this is exactly when you’re meant to arrive.’
Colette considered Tuesday with her deep brown eyes and, in that moment, Tuesday understood that Colette Baden-Baden was one of those people who smile with their eyes.
‘I remember you when you were first born,’ Colette said. ‘You liked me to carry you over my shoulder. Went to sleep there, when not much else worked. I’ve still got photographs and films from back then. I will get them out.’
Tuesday wanted to ask so many questions. How did her parents know Colette? Was that actually a bearskin she was wearing? Did Colette know her mother was also the world’s most famous author, Serendipity Smith, creator of the Vivienne Small series?
‘I am very good at keeping secrets,’ Colette said, winking at Tuesday. ‘I know when to call your mother Sarah and when to call her Serendipity.’
Tuesday was startled. Had Colette Baden-Baden read her thoughts?
Serendipity, seeing the expression on Tuesday’s face, began to explain. ‘Colette went to school with your father. In fact they lived next door to each other from when they were very young.’
‘We got expelled,’ said Colette. ‘Together.’
Colette and Serendipity smirked at each other.
‘His fault you got caught,’ said Serendipity.
‘My idea to do it in the first place,’ said Colette.
Colette looked at Tuesday. ‘We must become friends.’
‘Okay,’ said Tuesday. The warmth of the tea had reached her toes and she was feeling pleasantly light-headed. There was something highly irregular about Colette. It was partly in the way she sat: very upright, as if she wasn’t used to chairs with backs. It was also in the low growl of her voice, and the way she pronounced words with the emphasis in unexpected places. And it was in the steady way she took everything in, almost as if she were on guard, ready to defend herself at a moment’s notice.
Colette poured more tea and added more of her special potion. When the teapot was empty and the small green bottle completely drained, Colette announced they were all going out for hamburgers. Baxterr ate a Cuban sandwich, which he thought was the nearest thing to dog paradise you could get in this world. Tuesday saw her mother smile more times in a single hour than she had done since Denis fell ill. It was late when they returned to Brown Street. In the hallway, Tuesday kissed Serendipity (who hugged her fiercely) and hugged Colette (who kissed her fiercely), and went upstairs, with Baxterr, to bed.
Alone together Colette and Serendipity smiled at each other in the manner of the old, old friends they were.
‘I’m so glad you’re here,’ Serendipity said. ‘We could talk all night and still have too much to say. But it’s late. I should make a bed for you.’ ‘Just show me to a room,’ Colette said. ‘Any room. The laundry will do.’
‘Not possible,’ said Serendipity.
Colette, with a suitcase in either hand and refusing any assistance from Serendipity, followed Serendipity up, and up, and up to the writing room on the top floor.
‘Hmm,’ said Colette, looking about. She gravitated towards the bookshelves, nodding as she recognised the titles of many of the books that were crammed right way up, upside down and sideways into the shelves that covered the walls.
‘It’s a bit … oh, I’m sorry,’ Serendipity said, noticing the mouldy cup of tea and whisking it up, causing a small dust storm as she did so. ‘This room could do with a good clean.’
‘Tomorrow,’ said Colette. ‘We might wash a little of the sadness out of this whole house, hmmm?’
‘Is it time?’ Serendipity asked.
Colette nodded.
‘There’s a spare mattress—’ Serendipity began.
‘No need,’ Colette said, and proceeded to unsnap the latches of one of the silver cases. She drew out of it a long thin drawstring bag that held silver poles of the extendable sort you might use to put up a tent. Serendipity sank into her big, deep-red velvet reading chair and watched as Colette joined the poles into a frame that she finished with the addition of two large hooks at either end. Then she whipped out a hammock and hung each of its loops onto the hooks.
‘There,’ she said, with a grin. ‘Instant bed.’
‘I thought you might have gotten softer in your old age,’ said Serendipity.
‘Ha! Couldn’t sleep on a mattress, even if I wanted to. Spongy. Like sleeping on a strudel,’ Colette said.
Although she was a tall woman, Colette was nimble as she clambered into her hammock.
‘Can I get you a quilt, or a pillow?’
‘Bah!’ said Colette. ‘I don’t believe in them.’
She lay down, crossed her ankles and pulled her fur coat about her.
‘Thank you for coming,’ Serendipity said. ‘We need you. Tuesday needs you. I haven’t been much use since …’
‘Hmm,’ Colette said, in a way that seemed to suggest that all of this might be true, but nevertheless, it was the best that could be expected. ‘She’s a good girl that one. She’s just what you would expect to get if you put you and Denis in a food processor and whizzed you about.’
Serendipity winced a little at the thought.
‘But with a dash of magic, too. She’s creative, yes?’
‘Very,’ said Serendipity. ‘Though not so much … lately.’
‘And then there’s Baxterr,’ Colette continued, her gravelly accent giving extra dimensions to the double R. ‘He is not a regular dog, is he? Where on earth did you find him?’
Serendipity gave her old friend a wan smile. ‘You’ve always seen things that nobody else does, haven’t you?’
‘Hmm,’ agreed Colette. ‘And since you speak of seeing things, what on earth is that?’
Colette was pointing beyond Serendipity’s writing desk and typewriter to the drawn curtains at the window.
‘What?’ asked Serendipity.
‘That,’ Colette insisted, sitting suddenly upright in her hammock.
And then Serendipity saw it, easing its way in through the opening where the two curtains overlapped. It was a fine filament of thread, and it was drifting further into the room, curling in soft loops in the air above the typewriter, making its way unmistakably towards Serendipity.
‘It’s … er …’ Serendipity stammered.
‘Purple,’ suggested Colette. ‘Or would you call that violet?’
‘Mauve?’ suggested Serendipity, who in all her life as a writer had never seen thread that wasn’t silver.
‘That is most unusual,’ Colette said.
‘It is,’ Serendipity agreed.
Colette leapt out of her hammock and peered at the thread, her brow furrowed. And as she watched, the thread twined itself around the index finger of Serendipity’s outstretched hand.
‘This is a writing thing, yes?’ Colette said.
Serendipity nodded. ‘It’s a … story. Well, it might be. You know, the beginning of one.’
‘Curious,’ said Colette.
‘But I have nothing to write,’ said Serendipity, partly to Colette, but mostly to the thread.
‘Still, it has come for you, yes?’ Colette asked.
‘It has.’ The thread was winding about Serendipity’s wrists and tangling around her ankles. ‘But I can’t. It has to stop.’
She set about shooing the thread away, but this only seemed to encourage it.
‘I can’t possibly leave Tuesday,’ she said. ‘Or …’ and the word Denis hung in the air unsaid, though they both heard it.
Colette thought for a moment. ‘So, if you go, will you be gone long?’
‘It’s difficult to say,’ Serendipity said. ‘Not usually. Often I’m back by morning.’
‘It would be good for you to go, don’t you think?’ asked Colette.
‘I don’t know,’ said Serendipity. ‘I’m not sure I’m ready.’
‘I think you’d better go. In my experience stories do not wait until we think we’re ready.’
T
he thread was winding around Serendipity’s middle and lifting her out of her chair. Colette watched in amazement as Serendipity now floated above her desk.
‘So that is how it happens,’ Colette said. ‘Ha. I have lived to see another remarkable thing.’
An invisible wind blew back the curtains and the large window opened to the night sky like an invitation. Serendipity let out a laugh.
‘Go, my friend,’ said Colette. ‘I will take care of your beloved Tuesday until you return. I promise.’
‘I’ll be back as quickly as I can,’ said Serendipity.
‘Everyone here will be safe. You have my word,’ said Colette.
With what seemed to Colette to be alarming speed, Serendipity was drawn out of the window and up into the star-filled night. For a moment, she was still visible to the astonished Colette. And then, all of a sudden, she was not.
Chapter Five
The following morning, Tuesday woke with a start, feeling as if she had slept more deeply than she had for weeks. With a sigh of relief, she remembered it was Sunday. There was the sound of rain falling outside and she was about to remark upon this to Baxterr when she saw that he was already gone from the foot of her bed where he usually slept.
Making her way down the stairs, she could hear the gruff voice of Colette Baden-Baden, rising and falling in a one-sided conversation. Tuesday pushed open the kitchen door to find Baxterr sitting on a chair across the table from Colette, his head cocked, his eyes imploring her.
‘I already told you, Baxterr, I do not make pancakes,’ Colette was saying, waving a finger at him. ‘No, no. No pancakes. In my world there is muesli or toast. Sometimes chilli beans. Sometimes fresh fish. Or eggs. But no bothersome pancakes.’
‘Good morning,’ said Tuesday.
Colette spun around. ‘Well, good morning to you, Tuesday. Did you sleep well?’
‘Yes, I did, thank you,’ said Tuesday. ‘Are you really talking to Baxterr?’
‘Of course,’ said Colette. ‘He is trying to convince me to cook pancakes.’
‘How do you know it’s pancakes he wants?’ Tuesday asked.
‘Phht,’ said Colette. ‘Baxterr and I have already this morning been for a long walk in the park. You might say we are beginning to work one another out.’
‘You took him for a walk?’ asked Tuesday.
‘Well, he joined me at 6 A.M. for my daily yoga session. And then he requested a walk before the rain began. It was a beautiful dawn so we considered colours and reflections in the lake and we talked about you.’
‘About me!’ Tuesday exclaimed. ‘What did he say?’
‘He said that you, his dear friend, have lost your happiness. And that the way he misses your father is like a giant thorn in his paw.’
Tuesday lay her head on Baxterr’s and hugged him. She sighed and Baxterr sighed too. She was not quite sure how she felt about her dog and her godmother talking to one another, but Baxterr licked her cheek and it was impossible for her to worry.
‘There is another thing I must tell you,’ Colette continued. ‘I do not want you to be alarmed. Your mother is not here.’
‘Not … here?’
‘She has gone to the place writers go. I suspect you know this place yourself. And perhaps it is the very best place she could be right now. So, she has left me in charge.’
Tuesday frowned and nodded slowly. She was beginning to think Colette Baden-Baden was one of the most amazing people she had ever met.
‘How do you know so much?’ Tuesday asked, almost in a whisper.
Colette took a sip of what looked to be very strong black coffee. She made a noise through her teeth and then she said, ‘Some of us had very interesting childhoods.’
This seemed to be all the answer that Colette was going to provide.
‘I hope you weren’t wanting pancakes,’ she said.
Tuesday shook her head. ‘They just don’t taste the same since …’
‘You know what?’ said Colette. ‘One day, when you least expect it, you will encounter the right taste again. And it will transport you. You will think that you are here, in this very kitchen, just a girl, and there he will be, your father Denis, standing by the stove, flipping pancakes and delivering them to your plate. The moment will be so warm, it will be as if the sun came from four directions at once. My guess is that it’s not yet time for that. But it will be.’
‘Are you sure, Colette?’ Tuesday asked.
‘Absolutely,’ said Colette. ‘But for now, boiled eggs? Some toast with marmalade?’
‘Yes, please,’ said Tuesday. And suddenly that was precisely what she wanted.
Chapter Six
Serendipity’s journey through the night sky was strangely restful. She arrived as usual at the great tree which stood on a broad stretch of grass atop a gentle hill. But – and this was anything but usual – someone was there to meet her. It was a diminutive woman wearing a crisp mauve pants suit. She had a silken cravat at her throat and a pair of purple suede high heels on her tiny feet. Her enormous pearl earrings caught the light of a mild afternoon sun.
She was, as many of you will know, the Librarian. Holding out one of her small, wrinkled hands, she gave a meaningful cough. At that sound, the shimmery mauve thread that had brought Serendipity on her journey coiled itself into a tidy ball that fell directly into the Librarian’s palm.
‘Madame Librarian,’ said Serendipity. ‘Is something wrong?’
‘Indeed, it is,’ said the Librarian. ‘You have not been writing.’
Serendipity’s shoulders slumped. Her head dropped. ‘I haven’t … I haven’t been able …’
‘I understand completely,’ said the Librarian. ‘Which is why I summoned you.’
‘Summoned?’
‘Yes,’ said the Librarian, tossing the ball of mauve thread lightly into the air and catching it. ‘When the world’s most famous author suffers such a terrible loss, it is incumbent upon me to do what I can. So, here we are.’
‘Yes,’ said Serendipity quietly. ‘But Tuesday … she …’
‘Doesn’t need you as much as you think. Not since her godmother arrived. Goodness, that woman took her time!’ said the Librarian, her voice regaining its more usual – slightly stern – tone.
‘But—’ Serendipity began.
‘I will brook no disagreement,’ said the Librarian. ‘Your daughter is in good – and rather large – hands. Let us walk.’
She took Serendipity’s hand, threaded it through her arm and patted it. Together they set off down a path that Serendipity had followed many times in her life. It wound its way down the hill, and Serendipity was surprised how thick the fog was. She hadn’t experienced such intense fog for years, not since her earliest visits.
Soon they came to the two stone lion sentinels that marked the path to the great Library. The sky, although less foggy, remained colourless, as if it couldn’t quite decide what mood to be in. As they made their way up the steps and past the fountains, the mist lingered. Serendipity stared up at the single word carved on the great stone lintel above the entrance. It said IMAGINE. She sighed deeply. Imagining had been painful this past year.
‘I know, dear,’ the Librarian said, though Serendipity had not uttered a word. ‘It will never be the same. But it will be all right. I know that’s not easy to believe, but I assure you it’s true.’
Instead of pushing open the doors to the Library, the Librarian guided Serendipity through the rose gardens and to the rear of the building, and then along a winding path Serendipity had never before seen. It led to a deep, blue lake bordered by pale grey pebbles. On the near shore, there stood a beautiful wooden boatshed. The Librarian led Serendipity to the door of the boatshed and took out of her pocket a large gold key.
‘What is this place?’ Serendipity asked the Librarian.
‘Well,’ said the Librarian. ‘Writers, like everyone else, go through all the usual experiences of life. And they write about them. But sometimes, particularly if something dr
eadful happens, they stop writing. Cannot produce so much as a sentence. So, this is where they come.’
Serendipity frowned. ‘Please don’t make me write. Not yet.’
‘You need not write a word. Unless you want to. Perhaps you would rather read? Some find that it’s through reading that they are able to begin again. Some simply need to sleep. Rest. Draw. There’s no one way.’
The Librarian pushed the door open and Serendipity stepped inside. There were bookshelves filled with books, a bed with a white counterpane, a kitchen with a table and two chairs, and a desk by the windows looking out over the balcony to the lake. Serendipity walked to the desk and ran her finger over its polished surface.
‘The thing to remember is that everything you do here is right,’ said the Librarian.
She opened a drawer to show Serendipity several plain notebooks, a box of pencils and several of Serendipity’s favourite pens.
‘The kinds of words that come at times like this are fragile. Often they cannot even stay on the page, but like to drift through the air. Sentences frequently unravel. Characters come and go as if they were, in fact, apparitions. None of that matters, as you will see. But if you allow this place to work on you …’
‘But Tuesday …’ Serendipity said, her eyes prickling. How could she be here when she was needed at home?
‘Time is never what it seems. You know that.’
‘But …’
‘Trust, Serendipity. That is your job now,’ said the Librarian.
And with that she said goodbye and closed the door.
Chapter Seven
Vivienne Small woke to find she was no longer in her tree house. The room she was in was creaking, and the floor appeared to be rising and falling. Her shoulder stung from the poison dart and her head was groggy. She levered herself up and peered out the window.
‘No!’ she gasped. It wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be. But it was. She was at sea on a ship.
Shaking the tiredness from her head and limbs, Vivienne sprang towards the door and tried the handle. It wouldn’t turn. She searched for an implement she could use to pick the lock. Upon a varnished writing desk were a number of brand-new quills in a glass jar. She tipped them out hurriedly and selected the sturdiest. Next, on a high shelf, she found a leather sewing pouch containing several long silver needles of the kind used for stitching sails. She drew out the thickest one, then returned to the lock. Working the quill in one direction, and the needle in the other, she listened carefully until she heard a familiar click. Carefully she eased back the lock and tested the handle. It opened!
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