Tuesday tore open the wrapper and put the contents in her mouth. A rich taste of citrus melted on her tongue. Bliss, Tuesday thought. And then she bit the sweet and a gush of liquid filled her mouth. Tuesday gasped. It was as if she’d just eaten a red hot chilli. She jumped up and fanned her tongue. The heat went on and on in waves of intensity. Tuesday flapped her hands, dancing about, moaning and groaning, her eyes streaming. She looked desperately about for something to cool her mouth, panting rapidly to quench the blaze on her tongue. Ermengarde, rather alarmed at all this, buried herself back in the poncho.
Tuesday’s eyes fell upon a shadow on the wall in the far corner of the cave. She put her hand against it and discovered it was moist. She laid her tongue against it, intensely grateful for the cool damp, and made a low aaaaah sound. At last the heat subsided and she slid down the wall to the floor, drying her eyes. Her tongue felt like metal on a hot day, but the worst was over.
She returned Ermengarde to her shoulder and began to carefully explore the poncho, discovering that it concealed a great many little pockets. Some were empty, but some were not. Gradually Tuesday extracted a small trove of items that she laid out on the floor. There was a tiny pocket knife. Several packets of nuts. Three small pouches of dried apples. Four squares of what looked like chocolate. And a drinking straw curled up like a snail.
Tuesday took the knife to the damp section of wall and sliced a narrow channel into it. She fashioned a crude bowl at the base of the channel and waited. Soon enough, a steady drip began and after a little while she was able to use the drinking straw to slurp out the small puddle of water. It tasted a little salty but also sweet, like the water in the tunnel. She held Ermengarde while the rat poked her long nose into the bowl and sipped gratefully.
As Tuesday waited for the water bowl to refill, she shared one of the packets of nuts with Ermengarde, who ate daintily. Next they ate a single piece of dried apple and a single square of chocolate. Every mouthful felt like a gift. Tuesday drank from the water bowl again, using her straw. She thought this was possibly one of the best meals she had ever eaten. When the bowl was empty again, she spread the poncho on the floor and wrapped herself in it, Ermengarde tucked in beside her.
‘I don’t know where we are, and I don’t know what Loddon’s plans are,’ she murmured to her little companion, ‘but I know Baxterr will find us somehow.’
Tuesday’s eyes closed, as did Ermengarde’s. Half a heartbeat later, they were asleep on the floor of the cave while outside in the cavern, the paper moon gave off a pearlescent glow, and the gold paper stars twinkled in the darkness.
Chapter Eighteen
Colette Baden-Baden stood behind a large, flowering shrub and surveyed the Library.
‘So,’ said Colette to Blake Luckhurst. ‘Can you take me to this Librarian? If it would not be too much of an inconvenience. I can see by your appearance that you are in the midst of important business.’
Blake surveyed his dust-covered clothes and blackened hands. ‘I’m not sure Madame Librarian is the person either of us wants to see,’ said Blake, his voice low.
‘But I was assured by the Gardener that she was the only person who could help,’ whispered Colette.
‘The Gardener?’ whispered Blake. ‘Wow, you’ve been travelling about!’
‘Not exactly, I fell … well, I fell into his home.’
Blake nodded. ‘You fell into …? Interesting. And how exactly did that happen? I mean, I’m just guessing here, but you’re not a writer, are you?’
‘I do not write fiction,’ said Colette. ‘I sometimes write reports and reviews and essays …’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Blake. ‘But not stories.’
‘I am a documentary filmmaker. I do tell stories and, until this very evening, I have always found truth to be more interesting than fiction. Other than in …’ Colette glanced sideways at Blake, ‘… the most engaging novels.’
‘Thank you,’ said Blake modestly. ‘But I don’t think you should be here. This is a place for writers. This is a place where writers visit their worlds and experience everything they need to write their stories. You need to leave before the Librarian catches you.’
‘But that’s impossible. For one thing, my trusty steed is gone, leaving me with no means of return. But even if return were possible, I made a sacred promise to Tuesday’s mother that I would take care of Tuesday. And I understand the Librarian is the only person who can help me fulfil that duty right now.’
Blake shook his head slowly. ‘I don’t think she’ll see it that way.’
‘Well, I think I will go and find her and explain my circumstances. One woman to another. We will come to an understanding.’
‘Why are you so sure Tuesday needs your help? I mean, Baxterr will find her. She’ll be fine.’
‘I have reason to believe that she is not fine. She called for help as she was pulled out the window. Baxterr is of the firm belief that she is in great danger, and I would never doubt that dog’s instincts.’
‘Okay, said Blake, glancing covertly once more towards the Library then sinking to sit on a stone ledge. Colette sat beside him. ‘But surely Baxterr will bring her back?’
‘Then I will wait. And if he does not return swiftly, then we must find this Librarian.’
‘Okay,’ said Blake. ‘Then we’ll wait together.’
And so they waited. Blake asked after the Gardener, and Colette described all that had happened during her time in the Conservatory. The night deepened and mist continued to shroud the edges of the garden and balcony. Baxterr did not reappear.
‘I gather you know all about the family?’ asked Colette.
Blake tilted his head. ‘A bit.’ He had been sworn to secrecy, and even if Colette was Tuesday’s godmother, he was not going to reveal that he knew about the world’s most famous writer and the double life she lived as the rather ordinary Sarah McGillycuddy. Not unless Colette did so first.
Colette laughed. ‘I think anyone who knows Baxterr is a Winged Dog knows many other things he keeps secret. I admire that. You might be surprised to know that it was me who first suggested to Serendipity that she invent a disguise. Long ago when everybody knew her as Sarah! What do you think of that?’
Blake nodded, conceding that he was a little impressed.
‘You know,’ Colette continued, ‘I have seen fame do terrible things to people.’
‘Really?’ said Blake.
‘Oh, yeeesss. She and Denis were young. They wanted a family. I mean, how is one meant to raise a family with journalists peering through the letterbox, spying with their cameras, wanting to follow you into the supermarket? Believe me. I know. I was a journalist for many years before I became a filmmaker. It’s no way for a child to be raised. And I was certain that Sarah’s books would make her famous. It required planning. Well, as you know, it worked. They had a normal life when they needed it. Tuesday had a normal childhood. But now, of course, nothing is normal.’
Colette sighed grimly, struck by the truth of her statement.
‘There might be another way,’ Blake said. ‘Into the world of Vivienne Small.’
‘Yes?’ Colette’s eyes widened, and then narrowed.
Blake said, ‘Jack Bonner always has a back-up plan.’ But in truth Blake was not so certain about the one that was forming in his mind. There was only the slimmest chance of it succeeding.
‘Ah! Jack Bonner,’ said Colette. ‘The man who says there is no substitute for explosive force! No, I do not think we ought to blast our way into this world. Leave no trace is my preferred method.’
Blake raised his binoculars and muttered, ‘What’s she waiting for? Surely she can’t know we’re here?’
In a low tone, Colette said, ‘She worries you, this Librarian.’
‘I’ve blown a deadline. I’m in a mess. She’ll be furious if she catches me … but if we wait a bit longer she’ll hopefully retire for the night and we can kill two birds with one stone.’
‘Indeed,’ said Colet
te. ‘If reaching Tuesday’s predicament is one of these birds, what is the other?’
‘Food,’ said Blake. ‘I’ve been living on dehydrated potato for weeks.’
Over the course of his career, Blake had spent many a night in the great Library and not one of them had been comfortable. Sometimes he was only wounded. Other times – worse times – he was clueless and plot-less as well. He’d discovered that when you wrote action thrillers, the odds of getting injured in explosions, or crossfire, were high. And the risk of your plot going off the rails was roughly equivalent to the risk of your high-speed train doing the same thing. Being here again, he felt an old, familiar unease. Not only was the Library a vast repository for every book ever written, it was a place where books incubated, biding their time, being deliberated on by writers over months and years, waiting on shelves in strange states of transparency and translucency. And it was the Librarian’s home.
She looked mild enough, as Librarians often did in his experience. She was petite and certainly not young. In fact, it was possible she was ancient. But that wasn’t what bothered him. What unsettled him was her voice. It had an effect on him like no one else’s, reducing him to a nervous, obedient little boy. And she had an unnerving way of discovering him whenever he had hidden himself away somewhere hoping for a brief respite. He was dreading hearing her voice at any moment, dreading her appearing in the garden in a lavender-coloured dressing-gown to berate him for sneaking about in the dark with a non-writer and an out-of-control novel.
‘Do you think Baxterr is coming back?’ asked Colette.
‘He sure is taking a long time. I think we ought to figure out a way to find out what’s going on. And if my plan works—’ He broke off, then whispered, ‘Yessss! She’s switched off the main lights. Now, stay close, and quiet.’
Crouching low, Blake scooted out from behind the vegetation and skirted the fountain. Colette jammed her hat in her pocket, and followed. Like two shadows they tiptoed along the balcony that wrapped around the stone building. Blake slid along the wall until he reached the only pair of French windows still illuminated. Dropping to the ground, he commando-crawled along the width of the doors. He scrambled to his feet on the other side and beckoned urgently to Colette.
Colette, however, walked quietly right up to the edge of the window, and peeped inside. On the far side of the room, nestled comfortably on a mauve chaise longue that was piled with cushions, was a very small, very old woman. She was wearing a violet satin dressing-gown over matching pyjamas, and she was knitting what appeared to be a fluffy purple scarf. Her tortoiseshell needles moved fast and a skein of purple wool rolled across the mauve carpet as she tugged on it. Colette couldn’t help it. She gave a little snort of laughter, then removed her hat from her pocket and pulled it down over her head and slipped – a furry shadow – past the French windows.
‘You took a serious risk,’ said Blake.
‘That little lady is your ferocious Librarian?’ she whispered to Blake, and although it was dark, she could tell he was blushing the same shade of red that his deerstalker hat might have been before it got covered in dirt and dust.
‘You have no idea,’ Blake said.
They continued along the balcony past the brass binoculars. Colette edged over and examined one set of these binoculars closely. She ran a finger over the coin slot on the top and automatically felt through the pockets of her coat for loose change.
‘You won’t have the right currency,’ Blake told her. ‘Trust me. Madame L dishes out the coins. But if we’re lucky …’
‘What would I see, though, if I had a coin? Not this mist, eh?’
‘Depends who you are,’ Blake said. ‘Serendipity would see the world of Vivienne Small. So would Tuesday. It’s unusual – rare – but Serendipity and Tuesday share that world. Drives Madame L nuts. And me? I’d see the world of Jack Bonner.’
‘Let me get this straight. You see your whole world? The whole thing? All of it? In my mind this world of Jack Bonner is very large.’
‘Yeah, you see it all, to start with. But then you kind of think yourself into the exact part you need to visit. Then it appears. And see those stairs?’ Blake pointed to wide, curving marble staircase that led down, apparently into the garden. ‘That’s the way. For a writer, that is.’
‘And for those of us not so fortunate?’ Colette asked.
‘An abyss, I’m guessing. But follow me,’ said Blake.
Chapter Nineteen
Blake, with painstaking care, twisted the handle on one of the darkened French doors and led Colette into the building. Once inside, Colette put her hands on her hips and surveyed the room. She was in a dining room with a high ceiling and a polished floor. There were a great many tables, all cloaked in white linen and softly lit by beautiful, egg-like lanterns in their centres.
Despite being on a surreptitious mission, Blake could not resist sneaking over to the buffet to see what was on offer under the silver domes that rested there.
‘You can take what you like?’ Colette murmured, coming up behind Blake.
‘Madame L believes in writing on a full stomach,’ Blake said.
IT’S A LONG NIGHT read one of the labels and under its dome was a large bowl of sugarcoated Turkish delight. Another of the labels read ENERGY REQUIRED and when Blake lifted the dome, his eyes lit up at the sight of huge, paper-wrapped souvlaki. Colette investigated the dome labelled LOSING HOPE to discover a tray of tall glasses, containing frothy ice-cream spiders. Beside each glass was a long spiral of raspberry liquorice and a red-and-white-striped drinking straw. Colette lifted a glass, sipped once, discovered it was sarsaparilla flavour, and then consumed the entire drink. She finished with a truncated slurp through her straw as Blake stuck his finger to his lips and hissed at her.
‘This Madame L cannot be all bad,’ Colette murmured, and began to chew on the raspberry liquorice.
Blake took an enormous mouthful of souvlaki, pocketed the rest and grabbed a handful of Turkish delight, then led the way out of the dining room and into a vast high-ceilinged entrance hall. In the low light, Colette could just make out the elegance of its paintings and side tables, but Blake was heading for a set of double doors.
‘The book room,’ he whispered, carefully opening one door and sliding sideways into the room beyond.
Colette followed Blake and stared. She wondered just how many times in one day she could be completely gobsmacked. Hanging from a ceiling that was almost as far away as the sky were green-shaded lights. They glowed softly, lighting the many rows of leather-topped desks. But the bookshelves! They rose, and rose, stretching away, away, away into the distance. Colette could almost hear the millions upon millions of voices all whispering their stories inside the covers of the books. The books! How many were there?
‘Every story ever written,’ murmured Blake. ‘All eight of mine, over there in the L section. But what we’ve come for is that.’
Blake was pointing to an unprepossessing silver platform. It had railings on three sides and was resting on the floor, doing precisely nothing.
You may remember this platform. You may remember how the Librarian used it to give Tuesday her first tour of the Library, and how they dived and soared from the As to the Zs. Indeed, years before, Serendipity Smith had stood upon that platform as a young writer taking in the marvels of the great Library. As far as Blake Luckhurst knew, he and Silver Nightly – now the Gardener – were the only people who had ever accompanied the Librarian on the platform on a journey beyond the Library. On that occasion, they had dropped through the trapdoor in the Librarian’s study, and into a universe of teeming worlds, a sight he was never likely to forget.
Blake was willing to guess that if that platform had taken them to the Gardener’s Conservatory, it could probably go anywhere. After all, it was the Librarian’s and he had no doubt that whatever happened in any story, the Librarian knew all about it. Surely she could only know everything if she went to the actual worlds the writers created? He specul
ated that since the Librarian was not a writer herself, it was probably the case that platform travel was not restricted to authors only. He wasn’t certain about this, but it seemed like a reasonable hypothesis.
As Blake related all of this to Colette in a quiet voice, the platform vibrated gently next to them, as if it had overheard his plan and was trembling with anticipation at the prospect of a trip outside the confines of the bookshelves.
‘Now all we have to do is wait until Madame L’s retired for the night, get the platform out of here, and into her office,’ said Blake. ‘Then we roll back the carpet, open the trapdoor and … you’re on your way.’
‘I don’t like it,’ whispered Colette. ‘For a plan of great importance it lacks rigorous research. Perhaps this platform is the special vehicle of the Librarian, and in anyone else’s hands it will go zipping who knows where? And what if it happens again that I go flying towards the world of Vivienne Small and crash right into the sky and slide like a soap bubble down glass? Only this time I don’t land anywhere, I just keep falling. And die. No, no, no. Not before I have found Tuesday. I think I will take my chances talking to this Librarian first.’
Blake was beginning to protest when the dimmed lights in the book room flickered and flared into full candescence. Blake and Colette heard the doors to the book room opening, then muffled footsteps hurrying across the floor.
‘Behind here!’ hissed Blake, pulling Colette into the gap between two towering ranks of bookshelves.
An imperious voice rang out. ‘Who’s there? Who is that? That had better not be you, Mr Luckhurst. Come out! Now!’
Colette withdrew into the shadows, but was astonished to see Blake step forwards into the light, tamed and cowed.
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