‘The fourteenth of July, 1789,’ she whispered.
Silver Nightly chuckled. ‘You have no idea how often I’ve had to remake those flags! They get terribly torn up.’
‘But they don’t notice that everything stops, the people there?’
‘I think it’s as if they all blinked in unison,’ said Silver Nightly.
Suddenly Colette had a sense of something looming above her. When she looked up, still wearing the Gardener’s spectacles, she saw a gigantic world, apparently about to squash them. She let out an alarmed noise before Silver Nightly had the presence of mind to whip the glasses off her face, and Colette could see that although a world was coming in close to the Conservatory, it was still a good way off.
‘Oh, that’s mighty interesting. Mighty interesting’ said Silver Nightly, rubbing his chin.
‘What is it doing?’ Colette asked.
‘Oh, it’s coming in for routine maintenance,’ Silver said. ‘Truth is, I’ve had it on my priority list. It’s been worrying me. But still, the timing is remarkably apt.’
Colette watched in amazement as the world approached one of the long piers leading out from the side of the Conservatory. There it landed and rolled towards them along the pier, growing smaller as it came closer until at last, when it slid through a hatch in the wall of the Conservatory, it was the size of a large fishbowl. It came to land, by way of a glass chute, on a velvet cushion on the Gardener’s bench with a quiet hsssssssss sound.
Baxterr got up off the floor from beside Apache and trotted over to the workbench.
‘Ruff, ruff,’ he said, and sniffed close to the world.
‘Smart dog,’ Silver Nightly said. ‘That there is none other than the world of Vivienne Small.’
Colette remembered the highly polished exterior of the world that she had only recently slid off.
‘This might save us all a lot of trouble,’ she said, watching as Silver Nightly swung a hinged lamp over the world and removed a section of its exterior as if it were a lid.
Silver Nightly hesitated. ‘By rights, I shouldn’t let you get involved. But since you’re as good as family, and she is so very young, I’ll let you take a peek.’
Colette sat down in Silver Nightly’s work chair and repositioned the spectacles. She stared into the world of Vivienne Small. There was the Restless Sea, and the snow-covered Mountains of Margalov. There was the Peppermint Forest, deep in winter. There was the River of Rythwyck, frozen solid.
‘So cold,’ said Colette.
‘I know,’ said Silver Nightly, leaning against the long table beside Colette. ‘I’ve been thinking of warming it up a little. Just a degree or two. But it’s one of those things that Madame Librarian is likely to scold me for. It’s been worsening, that winter, for quite a while. But even more curious is something you’ll see if you look away south. It has me a little concerned.’
Colette’s eyes tracked across the Restless Sea towards the Islands of Xunchilla and beyond. She gasped. ‘That doesn’t look good.’
‘As you can see, it runs from the heart of the desert right out to the ocean,’ said Silver Nightly.
‘Is that normal?’ she asked. ‘That worlds suddenly get great huge cracks in them?’
‘I’ve not seen it, but then I’m still fairly new on the job. That rupture happened some time ago. The world was quite close at the time and I actually heard it,’ he said. ‘Made a fearful noise. It’s not my place, as such, to intervene in the storytelling. Perhaps there was meant to be an earthquake. But then, when it came in for routine maintenance, I saw that winter had settled. A deep bitter winter. Now, as you can see, it’s still winter and I would darn near swear it’s been a year or more. And that fracture in the world, that’s exactly the same as it was after it happened.’
He paused and then continued, ‘It’s a nasty thing, that split. It goes way down. But the strangest thing, and maybe the reason I’ve been keeping a close eye on it, is that the whole place has a lonesome, deserted feel. It’s not right.’
‘Like Brown Street,’ murmured Colette.
Silver Nightly picked up another pair of spectacles and, together with Colette, peered into the world.
‘I see a ship,’ said Colette, spying a mast on the fierce seas.
‘Well, that’s a new development,’ said Silver Nightly. ‘I would think that is a good thing.’
‘Three masts, flying a flag with a lightning bolt on it,’ said Colette.
Silver Nightly nodded. ‘Maybe not as deserted as I thought.’
Colette squinted and the magnifying glasses seemed to respond, focusing tightly on the deck of the ship. There was a tall green creature with bright green hair, his arms outstretched as if he’d just thrown something. And there, peering over the side of the ship, Colette was amazed to see Tuesday, in Colette’s rainbow poncho. Colette was glad to see Tuesday was dressed for the weather at least. That particular poncho had accompanied Colette on many treks.
‘Ah, there, in the water,’ Colette said, glimpsing a flash of blue.
It had to be Vivienne Small! That was the colour of her wings! Which meant the rest of Vivienne Small was also in the sea. And putting two and two together, Colette surmised that the green creature had thrown her in.
‘Oh, my,’ said Silver Nightly after observing the scene for a few moments. ‘Tuesday sure does know how to get herself into an adventure. But she also knows how to get herself out of one. I know it seems dangerous, but that young lady has more mettle than a cross-continent railway track.’
‘I need to reach her,’ said Colette, taking off the spectacles and fixing Silver Nightly with a stare. ‘Can you put me in there somehow?’
Silver Nightly removed his spectacles, drawing himself up and noticing again that while he was tall, Colette was at least as tall, if not slightly taller. He shook his head. ‘It’s forbidden. I’m sorry to say it, but it’s absolutely not allowed. This world will be going out again soon enough, and after that … well, as you are aware there are very strict rules about entering worlds.’
‘This Librarian, can she get me in?’
‘She could … but she won’t.’
‘I have a duty of care,’ said Colette Baden-Baden. ‘I gave my word that I would look after Tuesday. And I fear she may be in danger from that strange green creature.’
‘Ruff, ruff,’ said Baxterr.
‘Yes, you could go, doggo. In fact I think you ought to go,’ said Colette. ‘But first, take me to this Librarian. When will this world be out there again?’ she asked Silver Nightly, waving her hand at the worlds floating above the Conservatory.
‘Oh, no time at all,’ said Silver Nightly.
‘Ruff,’ said Baxterr.
Silver Nightly raised an eyebrow, but Colette did not explain.
‘I would like to have been more help,’ said Silver Nightly.
‘I would have liked that too, Mr Gardener,’ said Colette.
After only the briefest of goodbyes, Silver Nightly watched Colette and Baxterr take off into the darkness. Baxterr gave a few dips of his wings and then they were lost between worlds.
Apache gave a whine. The Gardener patted her head.
‘Quite a dog. Quite a woman,’ he said, and he stood there a while longer.
Chapter Twelve
Baxterr flew up and up, threading a path through the swirling worlds. He and Colette flew until only one thing remained in the sky above them: a sphere of palest mist. To Colette’s intense relief, this time she and Baxterr flew easily into the mist, which seemed to her to give off a pleasant, cinnamon smell. For a moment they were enclosed in whiteness. Then they emerged on the other side of it, and Colette had a stunning aerial view of a large, white building and its beautiful formal gardens, pathways and fountains. It was early evening and the building was bathed in a large circle of light emanating from its many French windows. It had a wide stone balcony, and binoculars were mounted at intervals on the railings.
For Colette’s benefit, Baxterr flew a s
low lap all around the perimeter of the building, his furred wings beating the air as softly and silently as an owl’s.
‘Imagine,’ she read aloud as they passed by the main entrance, for the word, as you know, was carved above the door as a direction, an invitation and a reminder.
Baxterr came in to land beyond the lit balcony and lawns where the shadows had grown long. Almost instantly he assumed his regular size. Colette smelled roses and lilac.
‘Now, where do we find this Librarian?’ asked Colette.
‘Ruff,’ said Baxterr.
‘All right, we will be very quiet if you think it is necessary,’ said Colette more quietly. ‘But which way to do we go?’
‘Doggo?’ came a voice.
A tall boy was approaching them from deeper in the garden, crouching low as he made his way across the lawn. Colette observed that he was wearing filthy clothes, combat boots that were mostly unlaced, and a torn deerstalker hat. His arms and face were scratched and bruised and he was powdered with what appeared to be a fine ash, almost as if he had recently been standing close to an exploding building.
Colette watched with interest as Baxterr rushed at the boy, leapt into his arms and licked his face.
‘Hush now. He is not a roast of lamb,’ she said.
The boy looked at her with a slightly stern expression and Colette was reminded of one of her literary action heroes, Jack Bonner.
‘So would you like to tell me where Tuesday is?’ he asked curtly.
‘Who’s asking?’ Colette replied, bristling slightly.
‘Blake,’ said the boy, lowering Baxterr to the ground and standing firm. ‘Blake Luckhurst.’
Colette Baden-Baden stared at Blake. Her mouth fell open and no matter how hard she tried to form words in her mouth, all she could manage was a strangled sound.
‘You, you …’ she managed at last. ‘You are Blake Luckhurst, the author, yes?’
Blake grinned, and his persona of world-weary modern-day hero dropped from him. ‘That’s me.’
‘I am a great fan of your books,’ said Colette with intensity. ‘Jack Bonner is …’
A red flush rushed up Colette’s face and she took off her hat and stared at her feet. Then she continued in her gravelly voice, her words coming fast.
‘What I like is that you know the sound a bomb makes. And what people do when they are crazy with fear. You know how to get people in a big fix, and then get them out of it. You have a knack for making the heart race. You never say too much, but you do not say too little. I, well, I …’ Here Colette hesitated seemingly for once lost for words. ‘I thank you for many wonderful evenings with just a lamp and a sleeping bag and a book. So young to be so talented. Ha. I am honoured to meet you.’
She held out her huge hand and Blake took it.
‘Thank you, so much, Miss …?’ he said, smiling magnanimously, as if he were accustomed to this response from fans.
‘I am Colette Baden-Baden,’ Colette said, and Baxterr ruffed as if to confirm this with Blake. ‘I am godmother to Tuesday, and a long-time friend to her mother and father.’
‘Mr McGillycuddy,’ said Blake, and an edge of pain came into his voice. ‘He was one of a rare kind. Tragic.’
‘Indeed,’ said Colette. ‘He was my oldest friend.’
Baxterr gave a small ruff. Blake grimaced and shook his head. ‘I’m so sorry. It’s been hard to know what to do. Tuesday’s hardly returned my calls.’
‘We are all bereft,’ said Colette with a sigh. ‘But there is urgent business to attend to.’
‘So Tuesday … is she here with you?’ Blake asked. ‘Somewhere?’
‘That is why I have come to the Librarian for help,’ said Colette.
‘Help?’ Blake said, swallowing.
‘Ruff,’ said Baxterr softly. ‘Ruff, ruff.’
‘Yes, yes, doggo,’ said Colette. ‘Of course you must go. You have been exceedingly patient. I will be fine from here. You go on, hmm? Go find Tuesday and ensure she is safe. Hurry! Come back the minute you know something. Meanwhile I will find this Librarian. Vite! Schnell!’
Baxterr, needing no further encouragement, returned to his magnificent Winged Dog size. In one powerful, graceful movement, he sprang into the air.
Chapter Thirteen
You may think it sounds like fun to be to be whisked away from your home into another world altogether. And perhaps you understand how exciting it could be to find yourself aboard a great sailing ship speeding across a wild green sea, a strong breeze bearing you into the unknown. But I’m sure you also realise how frightening it would be to find yourself unable to get off that ship, to know that you are in fact captive to someone who seems, if not entirely mad, then certainly unpredictable and cruel.
Tuesday had just seen her dear friend – someone whose heroism she had admired for all of her reading life – trussed up, tossed overboard and possibly drowned. And for Tuesday the fact that Baxterr was not at her side was deeply unsettling. Tuesday’s heart fluttered like a moth too close to a light. What was she to do? She knew – as you all know – that she was in a story. But whose story? Was she somehow creating this story? Or was it a story made by this very odd grassboy? Tuesday hunkered down against the wheelhouse, bracing herself against the motion of the rolling sea, and tried to make sense of everything.
On Tuesday’s previous visits to the world of Vivienne Small, she had found the place to be just as she and her mother had imagined it. Over many years Tuesday and Serendipity had sat together in City Park, or at the kitchen table, or in Serendipity’s writing room, considering the features of Vivienne Small’s world. What did the Peppermint Forest look like? What did it smell like? What did it sound like? Tuesday and Serendipity had taken many walks together over the years, sometimes in far-flung places. They would climb a path through a steep pine forest, or wander through a sunlit beech forest, or stroll through a pungent rainforest, and discuss how this world and the world of Vivienne Small might be the same. They had discussed the homes and boats of Vivienne Small, and the people and animals of her world. They had discussed cities and seasons, moons and tides, time and weather.
When Tuesday was younger, Serendipity read the Vivienne Small books aloud to her, and Tuesday had always found the story world entirely familiar. Once she could read the stories herself, the world was always there waiting for her, as well known and reliable as ever, and that was part of what made the adventures so wonderful. But Loddon, here in the world of Vivienne Small, and this winter that felt far too cold: these things were entirely new.
Tuesday knew that somehow it had to make sense, but the ship was riding up over increasingly tall and steep waves, the wind was howling, and it was all making it hard to concentrate on anything except holding on. The rigging shuddered and groaned every time the boat descended the far side of a wave. Tuesday felt as if she were going to slide down the deck and slam into the railings. Or she might even be tossed overboard. It was like being on a terrifying water slide.
Loddon, however, seemed unworried. He held his arms aloft as if he were conducting the sea and the wind, which perhaps he was. His face was a mask of delighted concentration, his hair a quiff of luminous green. As Tuesday watched the ship forge through the waves, another fragment of verse came back to her.
The boy called Loddon has bright green hair,
But if you meet him, best beware.
Was that right? she wondered. She tried to remember Serendipity reciting the poem.
Down in the garden underneath the tree,
the boy called Loddon calls to me,
The boy called Loddon has bright green hair,
best not to answer, best to leave him there …
Loddon? Who had Loddon been? And if he was Loddon, then how had he come to the world of Vivienne Small? Tuesday knew it had to make sense. Somehow it had to make sense. But no matter which way she turned it over in her mind, it didn’t. Why had he called her? Why had he sent the thread to find her? What did he want with her?
‘We didn’t have a camera,’ Serendipity had said. ‘We didn’t have anything.’
‘You had your mum and dad,’ Tuesday had said.
‘Oh, yes,’ her mother had sighed. ‘But let’s not talk about them.’
Still, Loddon had recognised Tuesday and was convinced he knew her.
The sea heaved and the ship plummeted down the next wave, then began to climb. The wind screeched about Tuesday’s face and flung back the hood of her poncho at every opportunity. In each wall of water that the ship climbed, Tuesday could see seaweed and fish and strange black shapes that might have been enormous stingrays. She wondered how Vivienne was faring. She knew Vivienne Small had gotten herself out of far greater fixes than being thrown overboard, but she hadn’t had such big wings back then. And those wings hadn’t been sewn together. How would she swim? Tuesday felt sick again. Maybe it was the motion of the ship, or maybe it was the knowledge that it was she who had wanted Vivienne to have bigger wings. If Vivienne’s new wings were the death of her, Tuesday would never forgive herself.
Tuesday wanted to lie down in her own bed, put her head on her pillow and cry. But she was here, on this ship, with this awful creature. She had to keep her wits about her, and keep scanning the sky for Baxterr. Surely he would come soon. The icy wind was vicious on her skin, burning her eyes and freezing her nose. Tuesday pulled Colette’s poncho tighter around her. Surely Baxterr would find her?
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