‘Hi, Madame L. I’m … um …’
‘Oh, my giddy aunt. It is you! Honestly, Blake Luckhurst. I do tire of your shenanigans. Truly, I do. Your book was due to be finished three months ago, and I will not tolerate any further delays! I do not care if Mr Bonner’s incendiary device left him with serious facial injuries. Write him a jolly good plastic surgeon and get on with it! He’s an action hero, made of stern stuff. Quick healer.’
Colette stepped out from behind the bookshelf. In her great, furry black coat, she loomed over the tiny, silver-haired woman in the satin dressing-gown.
‘If you will pardon me, Madame Lib—’ Colette began, quite politely.
The Librarian turned a withering gaze on Colette, though it had to travel quite a distance upwards to reach the taller woman.
‘Hush! Did I speak to you? I’ll come to you momentarily.’
And Colette was astonished to find that there was, indeed, something in that voice that made her feel most unusually obedient. Colette did not, as a rule, do obedience.
‘Off with you, Mr Luckhurst! What do you need? Pen, paper? There’s some in the bureau in the foyer. Or is it food? Get something from the dining room and then get going. And here … don’t ever say I don’t do anything for you!’
The Librarian reached into the pocket of her dressing-gown and drew out a large, gold coin.
‘Be very specific about where you want to go. No procrastinating. No additional characters that do not add to the plot. Get into the thick of it, Blake,’ she said, pointing towards the book room’s doors. ‘Right this instant!’
Blake – head down and with no trace of his former confidence or magnanimity – made his way out of the huge room. At the door, he paused and glanced back.
‘Um, Colette. Sorry … tried,’ he said. ‘Later.’
And then he was gone.
‘And you. If I am not mistaken, you are no writer,’ said the Librarian to Colette. ‘Into my office, now!’
‘Sit down,’ said the Librarian imperiously, resuming her seat on the chaise longue and gesturing to an elegant curved-back chair in the middle of the room. Colette sat.
‘Thank you,’ said Colette. ‘I do apologise …’
The Librarian interrupted. ‘I require to know who you are, and how you have managed to find your way into my Library.’
Colette did her best to smile a charming smile. As she looked perfectly enormous in her bearskin coat perched on the Librarian’s delicate chair, this did not quite have the effect she desired.
‘I am godmother to Tuesday McGillycuddy, who is in great danger, or so I am told by her dog, Baxterr. Baxterr himself has gone in search of Tuesday, but has not returned. Mr Luckhurst and I met by chance. It is clear, of course, that you are a person of great power here, and I must apply to you for assistance. I have promised her mother, you see. And I am a woman of my word. You know her mother, of course. I believe she is also here, somewhere, safe and well. I would not like to disturb Serendipity, at this present, delicate time, with bad news. I would simply like to have Tuesday returned to Brown Street so that when her mother returns all is well.’
‘Bad news!’ the Librarian said with a snort. ‘Bad news? Tuesday is writing a story. Her mother should be proud, delighted! At least one of them is writing. That’s all I can say.’
Colette drew herself very upright in her chair.
‘It is true I am not an expert, but the green thread … I believe it is of concern.’
The Librarian smiled broadly and picked up her knitting and resumed her handiwork.
‘Oh, Tuesday McGillycuddy is a very original young lady,’ she said. ‘I expect she’s imagined something entirely new. Every now and then you get a writer that can do that, you know. I’ve had my eye on Ms McGillycuddy. I knew from the start that she was quite special.’
‘I wish, nevertheless, to go into the world to ensure she is safe and well,’ said Colette, still attempting to be charming.
‘You know, this is not the first time I’ve been through this with friends and relatives of Ms McGillycuddy. For no good reason. Has anything terrible thus far befallen her? No! It has not! She is probably out there, right now, writing the book that will forge her career, and you want to check if she’s safe. Heavens. Stories are not safe.’
‘That is precisely my point,’ said Colette drily. ‘I have told you that I am a woman of my word and this means I will go to the world.’
The Librarian laughed loudly.
‘Impossible!’ she cried. ‘My only concern is how best to get you home and out of here, where you do not belong. I hope I can rely upon your absolute discretion? This place has remained the closely guarded secret of writers for all time.’
Colette sighed. And had the Librarian known Colette a little better, she would have recognised the sigh as a warning. Quite calmly, Colette stood up, took two confident steps towards the Librarian, caught up the wool in the Librarian’s hands, and tied it swiftly around the Librarian’s upper body.
‘Stop! Stop! Release me! You brute!’ the Librarian squeaked, outraged. But Colette simply popped the remains of the ball of wool into the Librarian’s mouth, silencing her. Then, quite methodically, she drew out some new skeins from the Librarian’s knitting basket and proceeded to bind the small woman’s equally small hands and legs. Before long, the Librarian was neatly trussed in a haze of fluffy purple wool. She stared in fury at Colette. Her pearl earrings were quivering, as if emanating rage.
‘Wait there,’ Colette said, then chuckled.
Colette visited the dining room and returned with a sarsaparilla spider, which she set down on the table beside the Librarian’s chaise longue. She bent the red-and-white-striped straw and put it into the glass. But seeing that it was too low for the Librarian to comfortably reach, Colette grabbed a few books from the Librarian’s private shelves to raise the glass up a little.
‘We needn’t be uncivil about this,’ Colette said, removing the woolly stopper from the Librarian’s mouth and waggling it in front of the Librarian. ‘If you make a noise, or say a single word, I will have to replace my little cork. Now, with a simple nod of your head – yes or no – will the platform in the book room take me wherever I want to go?’
‘How dare you!’ said Madame Librarian.
Colette waggled the ball of wool at the Librarian.
‘Not a word, I said. Nod yes or no.’
Madam Librarian stared at Colette in mute cold rage, not moving a muscle.
‘Well,’ said Colette. ‘I see that you are not a person easily intimidated. I admire that. But it leaves me with only one option. I’m not particularly happy about it, but I find I must try out your platform.’
The Librarian glared at her as Colette rolled back the study’s shimmery mauve carpet to reveal, as Blake had described, a trapdoor with a brass ringbolt for a handle.
Chapter Twenty
‘Perfect. That’s perfect. A brilliant story!’ cried Loddon.
He sat up from where he had been lolling on the paper grass and clapped loudly.
In this story, Tuesday had sent Loddon in search of a giant who was throwing boulders onto a town. He had made friends with the giant, saving the town from certain disaster. Having received the appropriate accolades, including a lifetime supply of gold, he had decided to go with the giant to visit other places, riding high on his shoulders. The first town was saved – but perhaps other towns wouldn’t be. Unless they paid.
Tuesday had discovered that Loddon much preferred stories in which he was the valiant hero who saved the town from the dragon, but was given the finest castle for doing so. Or he saved the city from a plague of cats, but when the townspeople refused to pay him, lured all the children away with his flute into the mountain and they were never seen again. He was a hero – of sorts. He never did anything for nothing.
‘And now … another one,’ Loddon said.
Tuesday groaned.
‘Come on, Writer. We’re having such fun. More! More!’
> Tuesday looked around the confines of the paper cavern and then closed her eyes in despair. She was exhausted, her throat was hoarse, she was hungry, and the last thing in the world that she wanted to do was to tell another story to Loddon, about Loddon.
How long had she been here? Tuesday couldn’t tell. Several times, she had returned to her cave exhausted, and slept. Several times Loddon had woken her by shouting, ‘Story time!’ in a loud and cheerful voice at the mouth of her cave, then demanded she come down to the tree and tell stories. For hours and hours. When she came down the stairs the paper sun was out, but as soon as she returned to her cave, the moon and stars appeared. Whether these were real days or nights outside in the world of Vivienne Small, Tuesday had no way of knowing.
The last of her supply of nuts was gone. All that remained were two slices of dried apple. Her stomach felt as empty as a peanut shell. It felt like days since Tuesday had watched Ermengarde nibble on the final meagre offerings of two cashews. She wondered if they were both going to slowly starve to death.
Tuesday’s dreams had been weird, full of cream buns and chocolate-iced doughnuts, deep-fried sausages and jugs of cola. These were not even foods she liked, but for some reason her mind kept suggesting them.
Tuesday had given much thought to escaping while Loddon was asleep. She imagined making her way with Ermengarde out through the tunnel that had brought them here. But she knew that if she made it back to the outside world, they wouldn’t survive for long, not without shelter from the snow and the terrible winter. Besides, as soon as Loddon woke, he’d be after her. She couldn’t sail Storm Rider and she had no other means of escape. But if she left it even one more day, she wasn’t going to have the energy to go anywhere. Already, though she was sure she had only been awake for a few hours, she wanted to sleep again. She was tired, dizzy and her mouth was dry. The water that was seeping down the wall of her cave helped, but she wanted to drink buckets of water.
Tuesday and Ermengarde had explored the tunnel leading away from her cave, Tuesday tracking their wanderings using the small knife from Colette’s poncho. She had made arrows at various tunnel openings, but the dusky light in the tunnels did not make it easy to find the way back. Also the tunnels had a bad habit of coming out at the edge of the cavern with huge gaps between her and the nearest staircase.
The tunnels and caves were quite fascinating in themselves. In some she found the walls still covered in pages from notebooks and sketches. She recognised her mother’s handwriting. She wondered, at first, how it was possible that she had been able to go so deep into her mother’s world. But she didn’t have to explore very far to understand. Here and there she found her own drawings and stories. One picture that had been rather savagely torn in half was one of Tuesday’s pictures of Vivienne Small. She remembered the day she had drawn it her mother had said, ‘Oh, I didn’t know Vivienne had blue wings.’
‘Didn’t you?’ said Tuesday. ‘Oh, yes.’
‘But she’s not a fairy,’ Serendipity had said.
‘No, she just has wings.’
‘She’s too fierce to be a fairy,’ said Serendipity.
And they had laughed, because Tuesday had been going through a fierce stage herself.
Tuesday missed her mother intensely each time she looked at the fragments of words and pictures on the walls. She wondered where her mother was. Was she already back at Brown Street, or somewhere in this world? Or another world entirely?
‘Come on, Writer,’ Loddon said, his voice breaking into Tuesday’s hazy thoughts. ‘Another story! More! More!’
Loddon threw himself down on the grass and folded his hands behind his head. He closed his eyes.
‘Loddon, there can be no more story time until I have something to eat.’
Loddon opened his eyes and stared at her in disbelief.
‘Nonsense! Writers don’t need food. Writers need words!’
‘Loddon, I’m not going to be able to get down the stairs tomorrow – or even up again later, if you don’t get me some food,’ Tuesday said. ‘Seriously, I could starve.’
‘Oooooh,’ said Loddon. ‘Oh, yes, I know how that feels. You left me alone and I was starving too. I had no stories.’
Loddon quickly plucked at some grass, ripping the paper shreds and holding them out to Tuesday.
‘Food?’ he said. ‘Then story?’
‘That is not actually food,’ Tuesday said.
‘Don’t tell me you’re hungry if you won’t eat what I give you.’
‘This isn’t food,’ Tuesday repeated, tearing a wad of paper grass and waving it back at him. ‘If there isn’t any food here, then we’ll have to leave. You’ll have to take me back, you understand.’
‘Back?’ asked Loddon. ‘Back where?’
‘To the ship,’ Tuesday said, pointing towards the tunnel. ‘So we can sail for food.’
‘Out of the question. Now you’re here you’re not allowed to go. Not ever.’
Tuesday thought for a moment, then said, ‘Loddon, where do you go – when it’s night here?’
‘My room,’ said Loddon.
‘Would you like to show me your room?’ Tuesday asked.
‘Maybe,’ said Loddon.
Tuesday expected it to be up some frightening staircase, but it wasn’t.
Loddon walked around the trunk of the tree, then looked back thoughtfully at Tuesday. After a long moment, he beckoned to her. To Tuesday’s amazement, Loddon reached for a large ring in the ground at the foot of the tree and pulled up a trapdoor that was covered with paper grass. Inside there was a ladder. Down Tuesday went, following Loddon, into a room panelled with what appeared to be tin. Loddon’s green glow brightened, giving the room an eerie sombre light.
‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ he asked. ‘You gave it to me. You told me I’d be safe here and you’d always tell me stories.’
Tuesday knocked on the walls and it made a dull metal sound. She looked up. The roof was tin too. And then she realised where she was.
The boy called Loddon, underneath the tree,
Can you hear him when he calls to me?
I put him in a box far down below,
He’s down where all the stories go.
She was in Loddon’s box. She shivered. She was down where all the stories go. How was she going to get herself out of this predicament? Her stomach growled and she felt faint.
‘Loddon?’ Tuesday whispered.
‘Yes, Writer?’ Loddon said. Down here in his box, seated on the shredded paper that covered the floor, he looked like a child sitting on a mat in a kindergarten.
‘I need you to go and get me some food. You might need to take Storm Rider. I’m going to need lots of food if you want me to keep telling you stories. And water. I need fresh water. It won’t take you long. If you leave now, you might be back by tomorrow morning.’
Loddon frowned. ‘Are you sure about this food thing? Or is it a tricky writer’s trick?’
‘People die without food and water, Loddon. I will die.’
Loddon thought for a moment, and then climbed a few rungs of the ladder.
‘All right, Writer. I will get this food for you,’ he said, gesturing magnanimously. ‘And I will take my new friend the giant with me! But you can stay here!’
Tuesday cried out, but it was too late. Everything went black as Loddon leapt up the ladder and slammed the trapdoor. She banged on it. She pushed against it. But it wouldn’t budge. Tuesday sank to the floor and thought she might cry. The paper world above had been hard enough, but to be stuck in this pitch-black box was almost unbearable. What if he didn’t come back?
Tuesday reached up to pat Ermengarde, nestled in her hood, but Ermengarde was not there.
‘Ermengarde!’ she called. ‘Ermengarde?’
But there was no familiar scuttling noise, no small warm body clambering up her arm. Tuesday felt about the floor in the darkness. Where had Ermengarde gone? And then she thought of the saying that rats always desert a sinking ship. Was she
a sinking ship? What if she was stuck here forever? How would anyone ever find her?
Chapter Twenty–one
Wandering beyond the boatshed, Serendipity again found the overgrown garden of her childhood home. She could hear her parents shouting at one another in the house, and she had no desire to see that up close. She had so many memories of days like that where the fights went on for hours. So she made her way to the pear tree and realised there was a small girl lying in the grass.
‘Hello,’ said the girl.
A thrill went through Serendipity as the girl raised her head and smiled. Serendipity had no photos of herself as a child, but she recognised this girl straight away. Partly because she looked like a version of Tuesday at six or seven. But mostly because you always recognise yourself if you come across yourself, even in an unexpected moment.
‘Hello, Sarah,’ said Serendipity. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Watching clouds,’ said the small Sarah. ‘Do you want to play a game?’
Serendipity lay down beside her in the grass and stared up at the clouds too.
‘All right,’ she said.
‘Okay. So, we ask each other questions,’ said Sarah. ‘Do you want to go first?’
‘What’s your favourite colour?’ asked Serendipity.
‘Blue. But in this game, you can’t just say a colour, you have to say the special way the colour works,’ said Sarah. ‘So my answer is blue. The sort of blue the sky is now, when I’m under my favourite tree and the whole afternoon is shining.’
Serendipity nodded.
‘My turn,’ said Sarah. ‘What’s your favourite thing to wear?’
‘Boots,’ said Serendipity. ‘Black lace-up boots that will walk me anywhere and never wear out. What about you? What’s your favourite thing to wear?’
‘You can’t ask me the same question I asked you, otherwise it gets boring,’ said Sarah. ‘But because you haven’t played before, I’ll tell you. An umbrella. I know it’s not officially clothing, but they’re fun. And they can be fierce.’
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