Beside the coat was a rolled blanket striped in colours that made Tuesday think of a carnival in the desert: gold and aqua, rose and yellow. She opened it out, then she realised it wasn’t a blanket at all, but a poncho. She thought that Colette wouldn’t mind if she tried it on. It came down over her hands and the bottom almost touched her feet. It was warm and soft, and she hugged it to herself. It too smelled of pine trees and wood smoke, and she thought that Colette was possibly the most interesting godmother anyone ever had.
Tuesday whirled about, watching the poncho’s colours blur. When she steadied herself, she was facing Serendipity’s desk. Right in the middle of it was her mother’s beautiful typewriter, still threaded with the blank and abandoned page. Tuesday felt a draught from the window, which had been left ever so slightly ajar. She lay a hand on the glass. Rain was melting the city lights beyond the pane and everything was shimmering. And then, with a shock, Tuesday realised that there was a thread outside the window. As she watched, it tapped urgently on the glass. Then it snaked through the narrow gap between the window and the sill and slithered into the room, swerving from side to side as if searching for something.
Tuesday reached out her hand. The thread was green. How unusual, she thought. The thread seemed to suddenly sense her presence. It turned and darted at her hand, wrapping itself quickly around her wrist.
‘Oh!’ she said. ‘Hello. What a very insistent thread you are. And you’re green. I’ve never seen a green thread bef— Ouch!’
The thread tightened around her wrist so hard that it felt as if it might cut into her skin.
‘You’re hurting!’ Tuesday said, and she tried to peel the thread off.
It wouldn’t budge. It made Tuesday afraid.
‘Baxterr,’ Tuesday called. And then, louder, ‘Doggo? Baxterr! Colette?’
Downstairs, Baxterr’s ears pricked and he launched himself out of the kitchen and up the stairs. But by the time he had run the five flights to Serendipity’s writing room, the window was wide open, and Tuesday was nowhere to be seen.
He was a small and ordinary dog when he leapt up onto the desk and peered anxiously out the window. But then a miraculous transformation began. Baxterr grew wings. They spread from him with as little effort as it takes for you to spread your hands. They were golden brown and furry, just like the rest of him. He was growing, too. He was no longer a small dog, but a decidedly large dog.
And then, just as Baxterr was about to take flight through the window, there came a voice from behind him.
‘My, look at you! Magnifique! Wunderbar! But I hope you’re not dashing off without telling me where you’re going!’ said Colette Baden-Baden.
Baxterr whined, his gaze not moving from the darkness outside.
‘Well, maybe she doesn’t need you on this occasion,’ suggested Colette.
Baxterr barked.
‘I see,’ said Colette. ‘And you are quite sure there’s something wrong?’
Baxterr barked again, a little more gently this time.
‘Very well. I understand. But I shall need to accompany you.’
‘Hurrrrrr,’ said Baxterr.
‘You are forgetting that I also made a promise to Serendipity that I would take care of Tuesday. Just as you are a dog of your word, I am a woman of my mine.’
Baxterr whined and cocked his head.
‘I do not care if it is irregular. I know you would do an excellent job of protecting Tuesday from whatever you think may have befallen her, but you are not going alone. Whether you like it or not, I was put in charge.’
Baxterr turned his head, then glided to the floor beside Colette.
‘Well,’ she said. ‘You have to be more comfortable than a camel. Just let me get my coat and hat.’
And so it was that if, for a moment, you had glanced up on that rainy night a few minutes later, you might – if you were lucky – have caught sight of the silhouette of what appeared to be a bear riding a colossal bird. The bear was, of course, Colette Baden-Baden in her fur coat and hat, and the bird, of course, was Baxterr. Behind them the lights were still on at Brown Street, but nobody was home.
Chapter Nine
Tuesday’s flight across the sky was no gentle or meandering journey. The green thread had yanked her out of the window and up into rain so fast she’d hardly had time to catch her breath. Never had she known a thread to pull so hard. She squinted into the rain. It stung her eyes and chilled her hands. She pulled Colette’s poncho tight about her, grateful for its size and warmth.
She wondered what was so urgent that she had been hauled off like this. Did her mother need her? Or was it Vivienne? And where was Baxterr? Tuesday peered back through the falling rain, sure her dog would be flying after her.
‘Baxterr!’ she called. ‘Baxterr!’
But he was nowhere to be seen.
Then, abruptly, the rain stopped. The clouds, the city and the weather disappeared. Below, above and all around her, Tuesday could see nothing but stars. She was still hurtling behind the green string that was attached firmly – too firmly – to her outstretched arm and about her waist.
And so they went on, Tuesday and the thread, through the darkness, going at such a speed that her hair began to dry out. She wriggled her toes. No shoes. She was wearing the socks she had left the house in, and they were still damp with rain.
At last she could see a familiar distant point of light ahead, and a little of the worry that had accompanied her since being pulled so ruthlessly through the window, started to melt away. Soon Tuesday could see the mounded peak of a green hill with a single, ancient tree.
‘There’d better be a good reason for this,’ she muttered into the rushing air.
She looked behind her again, searching the sky for any sign of Baxterr, but there was none. She had never been here without him, and it didn’t feel right.
She braced for landing as the thread swooped down towards the tree, but the thread did not let go.
‘Wait!’ Tuesday yelled, struggling against the string. ‘Wait!’
The string swept her around the tree, but still it did not let her go.
‘I don’t mean to be rude,’ Tuesday called to the tree, ‘but I need shoes! Whatever you think might work! I’m sorry, but I seem to be in a hurry!’
The thread pulled Tuesday up and away from the tree, and she thought perhaps the tree might not have heard her. But suddenly two items came flying through the sky as if catapulted from the tree’s highest branches. The first one she caught firmly. The second one zoomed to the left of her, and she lunged for it. They were shoes: rainbow-coloured runners with green laces. Inside one of them was a dry pair of socks.
‘Thank you,’ she called back to the tree, and although its leaves gave a brief shiver, Tuesday was already too far away to see.
On and on she was pulled, over acres and acres of mist, then without warning the thread swerved downwards. Tuesday was plunged into whiteness, then she dropped out of the mist into a dark wintry sky. A blast of salty, ice-whipped wind rushed into her face as she picked up speed once again. Tuesday grasped the shoes firmly against her as she skimmed over a stormy sea. Huge waves crashed against towering rocky outcrops. Recognising the contours of the cliffs and bays, Tuesday saw it was the Restless Sea, and she felt a thrill of relief. But the weather was far wilder than she had ever known it to be in the world of Vivienne Small, and the air was bitterly cold. She stared down at the land and saw that it was white with snow and ice and the Peppermint Forest was steel grey.
In the distance, further out to sea, rising and falling on mountains of white-veined water, was a ship. Tuesday knew the vicious, sharp lines of its hull, but the vessel appeared to have been freshly painted in gleaming black, and its white sails looked new. There was no sign of the mould stains and ragged seams she knew so well. Speeding behind the thread, Tuesday gained on the ship, and was soon close enough to see that although the sails were trimmed for the weather, and the ship was making its way steadily wind-wards, the
re were no sailors in the rigging. Only one figure stood at the wheel. Tuesday saw a flash of green, brilliant as her thread, and then realised there was a second person by the wheelhouse. A very small person.
Suddenly Tuesday was coming in to land on the ship’s deck unpleasantly fast. She had enough time to make out Vivienne Small standing beside a tall green creature with wild and vivid hair, before she was dropped unceremoniously on the hard, slippery deck. The thread unravelled and rolled itself into a ball, then disappeared as if it was a candle flame that had been snuffed out.
Tuesday, rubbing her knee where it had hit the deck, scrambled up to greet Vivienne. But the green person loomed over her, grinning as if he had never been more pleased to see anyone in his life, and one of his arms was wrapped menacingly around Vivienne’s neck.
What a bizarre creature, Tuesday thought. He appeared to be a boy tightly woven from long, stretchy strands of grass. Vivienne was tiny beside him and her face was more angular, as if the bones of her cheeks and jaw were a little more defined. Thin, thought Tuesday. And then Tuesday noticed Vivienne’s wings. Still leathery, still blue, but large enough to take Vivienne anywhere. Tuesday couldn’t help but feel a thrill of wonder at seeing them, until she realised that the beautiful blue wings were sewn together crudely at their edges with what looked like fishing line. Had the boy done this to her?
‘It wasn’t me that called. It wa—’ Vivienne croaked, but the grassboy only tightened his grip on her throat.
‘Do hush, Vivienne Small,’ he said, squeezing a pained sound out of her. ‘We have a guest, and my, isn’t the day suddenly green with promise?’
‘What have you done to her? Let her go!’ Tuesday said, leaping at the grassboy and trying to wrestle his arm away from Vivienne. She was surprised how sinewy his arm felt, and how effortlessly he slipped from her grip, sliding Vivienne away with him.
‘Writer! Aren’t you pleased to see me? Where is my greeting? Where are your tears of joy at seeing me again? Aren’t you glad I didn’t die in the breaking day?’
Tuesday frowned. ‘Who are you?’
‘Don’t you dare pretend you don’t remember,’ he said.
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said Tuesday.
He squeezed his arm against Vivienne’s neck again and she winced, but her eyes were fierce and Tuesday was in no doubt that she and Vivienne had to find a way to distract this creature. He seemed to think Tuesday knew him. But she didn’t. She had never seen him before in her life.
‘I’m sorry,’ Tuesday said. ‘It was such an unexpected journey, terribly fast, and I’m not thinking straight. My feet are wet, you see, and I never think straight when my feet are wet.’ With this, Tuesday indicated her damp socks. ‘Would you help me peel them off? It’s freezing and I swear my fingers and toes are turning blue.’
The boy blinked.
‘Please?’ said Tuesday.
‘I’ll help,’ said Vivienne, her voice squeezed by the boy’s arm.
‘Very well,’ said the boy, releasing Vivienne and pushing her roughly towards Tuesday.
‘Run!’ said Tuesday, the moment Vivienne was free. Then she kicked at the boy’s knee in an attempt to stop him running after Vivienne. But just at that moment a huge wave hit the ship. Tuesday and Vivienne were flung into the air before falling heavily to the deck. Vivienne, with her hands and wings tied, landed on her stomach. Tuesday banged her elbow hard on the wooden floor, one shoe sliding out of her grasp. The boy did a perfect mid-air cartwheel and landed with one foot on Vivienne’s back. He laughed, entirely unperturbed by the violent motion of the ship.
‘Neither of you is going anywhere, is that clear?’ he said. ‘At least not until I say so. Now, Writer, do please tell me that you remember me.’ Tuesday frowned, and then she simply shook her head.
The boy screamed. It was an anguished cry of rage and frustration.
‘How dare you?’ he said. ‘I saved you. You’re my only friend, that’s what you used to say. You promised me you’d never forget me. Then you left me down there.’
Tuesday glanced at Vivienne, who was struggling to get to her feet. But the boy’s foot kept her pinned to the deck.
‘It’s been a long time, hasn’t it, Writer? But we’re together again now,’ he added in a singsong voice.
Tuesday inched over and retrieved the shoe that had been flung away. She began peeling off her damp socks and replacing them with the dry ones. Then she put on the new shoes and laced them up. She did all of this slowly and gently, trying not to hold the attention of the green boy without angering him further. If she had another chance to escape she wanted to be ready. The boy kept talking.
‘I waited,’ he said. ‘You promised: I’ll always tell you stories. I’ll send them every day. But you stopped. I waited. I did busy things. But it wasn’t enough. I got hungrier and hungrier, but you didn’t send stories. And then the breaking day came. Everything went wobbly like the earth had become the sea. I thought it was the end of the world. I dug and I dug. I brought Storm Rider with me. Look how big she grew! Look how big I grew! Then I found this world. And I found her.’ He stared down at Vivienne Small.
Tuesday frowned. A ship called Storm Rider? It was strikingly similar to The Silverfish, as if this was The Silverfish, new and sparkling. But the boy was still talking.
‘I thought if you wouldn’t come for me, you were sure to come for her. All those stories you sent me about her. So I found Vivienne Small. And now she has done her job.’
He hauled Vivienne up and put her back on her feet. Vivienne stared at Tuesday meaningfully. Then, with a flick of her eyes, she glanced up into the rigging above them. Tuesday gave Vivienne a tiny nod of understanding, but didn’t dare follow her gaze.
The boy leaned down and smiled at the scowling Vivienne. His voice was sweet as he said, ‘Oh dear, small Vivienne Small, it’s time for you to leave this story. Any last words? Well, then, goodbye.’
With that, he lifted Vivienne by one arm, and with enormous strength, swung her up into the air and flung her over the side of the ship. Vivienne flew through the air then plummeted into the roiling sea, her feet, her body, her head and then her blue wingtips disappearing into the trough of a wave.
‘No!’ Tuesday screamed.
But the boy only laughed. ‘You can’t have both of us. It would never work!’
Tuesday raced to the side of the ship and searched the sea for any sign of Vivienne surfacing. But the waves were high and steep. She thought she saw a flash of leathery blue there, or maybe over there? But the ship sailed swiftly on, away, away, from what might have been Tuesday’s last glimpse of Vivienne Small.
‘How dare you!’ Tuesday said, momentarily forgetting the power the boy could wield and flinging herself at him. ‘You’ve killed her! You’ve killed Vivienne Small!’
‘Dear me,’ said the boy, chuckling and again slipping from her grip with uncanny speed and agility. ‘You aren’t listening, Writer! This is my story. There’s no place for Vivienne Small or anyone else I don’t choose. It’s going to be just like old times.’
Tuesday was beginning to feel quite sick. Maybe it was the speed of her flight from Brown Street, or the truly shocking things she had observed since she arrived, or possibly just the swell of the ocean beneath the ship, but suddenly she thought she might vomit.
‘My, you’ve turned a wonderful shade of green,’ the boy said, appearing quite delighted.
‘I don’t understand,’ said Tuesday, lurching for the railing. She took a deep breath as she did her best to quell her stomach. But it was no good. It might have been a long time since lunch with Colette, and she’d had no chance to eat dinner at all, but still she vomited over the side of the ship until she could vomit no more.
At last, she turned around and stared at the boy, who had clearly been waiting for her.
‘Who are you?’ she asked.
‘I’m Loddon,’ said the boy, perplexed, laughing. ‘Loddon! You must remember me. You gave me my box to keep me
safe.’
Something shifted inside Tuesday. A little drawer in her memory sprang open and she heard her mother telling her a rhyme.
At the bottom of the garden, underneath the tree,
The boy called Loddon calls to me.
Tuesday couldn’t remember what came next. But she remembered how it ended.
Perhaps he still calls, I don’t know,
I put him in a box far down below.
‘Loddon?’ she murmured.
No, it couldn’t be. He was just an imaginary boy in a poem – a boy Serendipity had told her about, the one who was always hungry for stories. But what was he doing here? And why had he called her?
‘Yes!’ said Loddon, holding his hands together and smiling at her. ‘That’s right. And we’re together again. At last.’
Chapter Ten
Over the course of her life, Colette Baden-Baden had done many remarkable things. She had explored sweltering jungles, climbed blue glaciers, crossed tangerine deserts, traversed rainbow-coloured sandstone cliffs and ascended goat tracks to pinnacles above the clouds. But this was her first time aboard a flying dog and her heart was hurtling at full gallop as Baxterr soared into the night sky.
Unlike many people, who close their eyes when they’re frightened, Colette had the unusual affliction, when terrified, of being unable to blink. Her eyes were pinned wide as saucers as the city below, with its tall buildings and wide streets and leafy parks and glittering carpet of lights, gradually receded to a distant glow. At last Colette’s ears popped and somehow that made her eyelids blink, and when she opened them again, the city was gone and there was only the reassuring, rhythmic beating of Baxterr’s furry wings transporting them through a star-sprinkled blanket of sky. It was then that Colette realised how tightly her hands were holding two fistfuls of fur at the back of Baxterr’s neck.
‘Well, doggo,’ said Colette at last, ‘you are remarkable. This flying … it is exhilarating. I like it.’
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