Instead, he levered the entire roof off the great house and lay it down on the bench top. Just as if he’d taken the lid of a doll’s house, he was now staring down into all of the mansion’s many rooms. It was early morning in this world, and in one bedroom, a lonely girl sat – as if frozen in time – with a breakfast tray in front of a fire that didn’t give out nearly enough heat. The Gardener reached in with a tiny fire poker and stirred the coals before adding a few tiny logs of wood.
‘There now,’ he said, satisfied.
In another bedroom, a lonely boy lay in his bed. The Gardener inspected the fire in the boy’s room and saw that it was perfectly well tended. He replaced the roof and surveyed the garden again. He rifled through his collection of paintbrushes until he found one with an almost impossibly fine tip. He dabbed it into a pot of vibrant vermilion paint. He touched it to the feathered breast of a tiny bird that was resting on a bough of an overgrown tree in the walled garden, and sat back to admire his handiwork.
It was then that he realised that Apache was no longer dreaming in a happy, cat-chasing kind of way. Rather than giving out tiny yaps of excitement, she was making sad little whines of distress. Her tail was flicking to and fro and all four of her paws were twitching as if she were racing away from the greatest terror she had ever faced. As the Gardener watched, Apache snapped open her eyes and lifted her head. Then she was on her feet, her ears pricked, tilting her head from side to side as if trying to tune in to a very faraway noise
‘You all right there, girl?’ the Gardener asked in concern, but Apache paid him no heed. She only stared up into the darkness above the Conservatory, threw back her head and began to howl. It was a howl like no other the Gardener had ever heard his dog make, and it caused a nasty shudder to run down the length of his spine.
‘What is it, girl? Hmm?’ the Gardener asked, concerned. ‘Apache?’
But she seemed not to hear him, so intent was she on peering up into the worlds.
‘What can you hear? What is it, girl?’
The Gardener, too, cocked his head and stared up into the sky, but his dull human ears were not nearly acute enough to pick up the sound that Apache could hear, which was the faraway howling of Baxterr. But although the Gardener could not hear Baxterr’s howl, he suddenly did hear a noise much closer at hand: the rattling of clattering crockery. At the end of his workbench a teacup was turned upside down on a saucer. Both the cup and the saucer were shimmying together so violently that the Gardener thought they might rattle themselves clean off the edge of his bench.
Apache bounded across the room and sniffed at the teacup and saucer, then fixed the Gardener with a plaintive look.
‘Rooof, rooof, rooof,’ she said, urgently.
‘You want to go for a walk? That’s what all this hullabaloo is about?’
‘Rooof,’ said Apache, shaking her head.
Then something in the sky caught her eye and she changed her tone, letting out a volley of deep, doorbell barks, insisting for all she was worth that something was coming.
The Gardener slid his magnifying glasses up onto his forehead and followed Apache’s gaze. Indeed something was coming. Someone was coming. Someone familiar. A furred creature, tall and dark, was clutching at the railing of a platform that the Gardener recognised as the very same platform that rightly belonged in the Library. And this platform was coming in to land on his cowhide rug.
‘Well, I’ll be …’ said the Gardener.
‘Rooof, rooof,’ said Apache to Colette.
‘Thank goodness I’m here, indeed,’ said Colette Baden-Baden to the dog in her deep, gravelly voice. Then, to the Gardener, she said, ‘I thought I was going to be flying around forever. This writing business is far harder than I thought. There must be millions of worlds, and to think I thought I could just find one. I’ve been out there for hours, searching for the world of Vivienne Small, which is worse than looking for a thimble in a barnyard. And then, I thought maybe the world of Vivienne Small might be still on your desk. I thought you were sending it back out, but perhaps you were delayed. So then I had the job of finding you again. Finally I remembered that you are south if the Library is north. And to my surprise, and enormous relief, here you are!’
‘I would call that a mighty bit of navigating,’ said the Gardener. He smoothed back his hair, wiped his hands on a handkerchief from his back pocket and indicated the couch beside the ottoman where Colette had fallen not so long ago.
‘Coffee?’ he asked. This made it seem as if he had guests all the time, whereas the only visitor other than the Librarian that had ever arrived at the Conservatory since he’d taken up his post as the Gardener was Colette Baden-Baden.
‘I do not think I have time for coffee,’ said Colette. ‘I am terribly worried I will be too late to be any use at all. I am woefully bad at this godmothering business. In truth, I am a little embarrassed to realise I don’t know how to take responsibility for anyone other than myself.’
The Gardener nodded warily as if he didn’t agree, but before he could say anything, Colette continued.
‘I apologise for disturbing you twice in such a short time, Silver Nightly, but as you know I promised to take care of Tuesday. After we left here, we did as you suggested, but that Librarian was, let us say, reluctant to help. Baxterr departed from the Library promising to return quickly with news, but alas, he did not. I waited for a very long time. Luckily, while I was waiting, I came across a writer who alerted me to the existence of this platform.’
‘Not a tall, gangly kind of fellow by any chance?’ asked Silver Nightly, with a twinkle in his eye. ‘On the young side?’
‘Indeed he was,’ said Colette. ‘This place, I am discovering, is full of people with great affection for my goddaughter. Unfortunately, the young man was prevented from assisting me further. I took flight – not easily, I have to say. But at last, I got the hang of that,’ she said, indicating the platform still parked on the rug, quivering a little as if in anticipation of another flight soon. ‘So, do you still have the world of Vivienne Small here?’ Silver Nightly sighed and shook his head. ‘It’s been returned. If I’m not mistaken, I see it right over there.’
Colette followed the direction in which Silver Nightly was pointing. ‘Well then, I will be off,’ she said.
‘Rooof, rooof, rooof,’ said Apache, who had been waiting patiently to have her say.
Colette’s eyes lit up. ‘Are you sure it was him? No other dog?’
‘Rooof,’ Apache began, and then continued to explain the situation fully to Colette.
‘I see. Then there is not a single moment to lose,’ said Colette to Apache. She turned to Silver Nightly and said, ‘She tells me you have a small world here that contains dogs?’
Silver Nightly frowned, but he nevertheless pointed to the end of his workbench, where the teacup was still jiggling on its saucer. As many of you will remember, this was the very teacup in which the previous Gardener had kept the world of dogs.
‘Apache must go there without delay,’ said Colette.
‘Rooof,’ said Apache, looking from human to human and madly wagging her tail.
‘Would you care to enlighten me?’ Silver Nightly asked mildly.
‘Baxterr has sent out a call,’ said Colette. ‘It is evidently a very particular howl. It means help is required. Urgent help.’
‘Help?’ said Silver Nightly.
‘Do you have a plank in front of your head? From the Winged Dogs.’
‘Rooof, rooof, rooof, rooof,’ said Apache, bounding over to the bench and directing her noise very pointedly at the overactive teacup.
‘You mean Baxterr needs the Winged Dogs … to go to the world of Vivienne Small?’ said Silver Nightly.
‘Indeed,’ said Colette. ‘With great haste.’
‘Well then,’ said the Gardener, and delicately lifted the teacup by its dainty handle. A tiny world shot out from under the teacup, beating a pair of equally tiny furry wings. The world darted skywards, spinning and
expanding. The larger it became, the more clearly Colette could make out the gold and pearlescent marbling on the world’s surface. Apache watched keenly as it whirled away from the Conservatory. Without turning her head, she gave a very specific, ‘Rooof.’
‘What’s that?’ said the Gardener.
‘She said she must travel alone this day,’ Colette informed him.
The Gardener frowned and scratched his chin. ‘Well, all right then,’ he said. ‘You take care, girl.’
‘Rooof,’ said Apache, then she spread her magnificent white wings and soared skywards.
Chapter Twenty–seven
In the time he’d spent at the Conservatory, the new Gardener had come to think of the world of dogs as a personal backyard for himself and Apache, a place for them to take walks and for her to enjoy the company of her own kind. Apache had grown into an excellent Gardener’s dog – steady and reliable, and with enough strength and energy to fly the Gardener to the many places that he needed to go. And yet, the minute he let the world of dogs out of its teacup, it was as if Apache was a bouncing puppy all over again. When the salt air of the world of dogs got into her nostrils, there was no holding her back.
In the world of dogs, the weather was, as far as the Gardener had observed, always mild, neither cold nor hot. The sky was the many shades of blue a sky can be, and always richly furnished with the plump, fluffy clouds that the Winged Dogs loved to fly through and hide behind when they were playing their games of aerial hide-and-seek. There were soaring cliffs, craggy outcrops, shallow rivers, tumbling waterfalls, and wide sandy beaches on the edge of a green-blue ocean.
Of course, there were dogs everywhere. Old dogs and young dogs, brown and black and golden and white dogs. On a usual day, there would be dogs flying, dogs rolling on the sand, dogs paddling in the ocean, dogs snoozing in the sun. But today, as Apache came into land, the world of dogs was not the least bit usual. The dogs were not gambolling, or playing – not even the smallest pups. They were all gathered on a long stretch of beach, arranged in a large circle, and looking grave.
Apache entered the circle and barked out a message, strong and clear. One by one, the largest, strongest, fittest and bravest of the Winged Dogs stepped forward.
Back in the Conservatory, as soon as Apache took flight, Colette Baden-Baden moved swiftly towards the Librarian’s quivering platform and stepped aboard.
As it lifted off the carpet, she called behind her, ‘So, I, too, will be off.’
‘Now, just a moment there,’ said Silver Nightly, taking his eyes off Apache disappearing into the darkness. ‘I darn well meant it when I said that you cannot go into Vivienne Small’s world. I don’t know how you got around the Librarian, but I sure know that you can’t go intervening in writers’ worlds.’
He made a surprisingly nimble leap, grabbed the platform and hung on, his fingers gripping the edge for all it was worth. The platform rose, lifting him up off the floor.
Colette forced the platform higher, hoping to shake the Gardener loose, but he hung on, dangling at full stretch, his snakeskin boots kicking about in mid-air.
‘Let go, you silly man!’ called Colette. ‘I would hate to tread on your fingers.’
‘Nope,’ said Silver Nightly. ‘I demand, Ma’am, that you come in to land.’
At this point Colette decided that the Gardener was simply the most stubborn person she had ever met. She liked him for it, but not so much that she was prepared to spoil her getaway. She urged the platform higher still. Realising how high he was above the Conservatory, the Gardener’s grip faltered and he fell, fortunately landing on his ottoman and saving himself a broken ankle.
Colette once again set her gaze on the world of Vivienne Small, its snow-covered mountains glinting through its polished-glass exterior. But the Gardener was not easily beaten, and raced to his collection of neatly coiled lassos. The previous Gardner might have been good with a boathook, but the current one was good with a rope. He selected one and, quick as a rattlesnake, flung it into the sky above. It was an excellent shot, and the platform, with Colette aboard, was instantly captured. The Gardener reeled in his prize.
‘Mr Gardener,’ shouted Colette Baden-Baden as she was pulled back into the Conservatory and the platform was forced down to the carpet. ‘Do you have all your cups in your cabinet? This is an act of outright …’
But then she seemed to lose all vocabulary and instead fixed him with a distinctly hostile stare. He met her gaze, though it literally took his breath away.
‘I must take care of Tuesday,’ Colette said, spitting every syllable at him in her heavily accented voice. ‘I gave my word and I am always a woman of my word. I have to warn you that I lived for a time with a clan of Scandinavian hunters who have made an art form of the hypnosis of wolves. It works perfectly well on humans. So, Silver Nightly, I am going to the world of Vivienne Small! And nothing you can do will stop me.’
Silver Nightly fixed her with his own particular stare and said, ‘Ma’am, I need to warn you that I have lived with the Diné of Four Corners and they have a way of hypnotising snakes. It works equally well on humans, I can assure you. So you may try your Scandinavian mind-tricks, but I do not think you will gain the result you’re intending. In fact, you might find yourself trussed up here like a chicken ready for baking until Baxterr comes to find you.’
For a very, very long time, Silver Nightly and Colette Baden-Baden stood in grim concentration, staring into each other’s faces and doing all they could to overpower the mind of the other. Then, at long last, Silver Nightly began smiling, and then he chuckled, and Colette chuckled, and they both fell onto the couches and laughed like children who have eaten too much sugar. It was quite some time before they calmed down enough for either of them to speak.
Finally Silver Nightly said, ‘You’re a helluva woman, Colette. And I know you are hell-bent on getting to Tuesday, but Tuesday is in the middle of a story. She’s just doing what writers do every day. I don’t like it any more than you that Baxterr has summoned help. Or even that Apache has gone alone and the Winged Dogs are on the move. But there are things at work that are part of the mystery of creative thinking. Soon Tuesday’ll have a whole flock of help coming to her …’
‘A purpose,’ said Colette. ‘A purpose of Winged Dogs. I understand from Apache that this is the correct terminology.’
‘Ah,’ said Silver Nightly. ‘My, it’d be useful to have you visit more often. And quite colourful, I expect. Anyway, what I was about to say is: I’m going to make you an offer. You and I are going to fly there together. You are my visitor, and I am prepared to show you some sights. But we will not intervene in anything that is happening there, do you understand me?’
Colette Baden-Baden blinked and gave a brief nod.
‘But you are quite sure I will be able to gain access to the world?’ Colette asked. ‘I will not bounce off and require rescuing again?’
Silver Nightly scratched his cheek. ‘Let me think about that for a moment,’ he said.
He went to his hat stand and selected a pair of matching white cowboy hats. Returning, he handed one hat to Colette. ‘I think that should do,’ he said.
Colette stuffed her racoon hat in one of her large pockets and put the cowboy hat on. Silver Nightly donned the other. Together, they stepped aboard the platform and Colette steered them up into the sky and towards the world of Vivienne Small.
‘Colette, you never did tell me. How on earth did you get the Librarian to loan you this dang platform of hers?’ asked Silver Nightly.
‘Oh,’ said Colette with a small smile. ‘That is a story for another day.’
Silver Nightly raised an eyebrow. And she raised an eyebrow back.
‘Is the hat strictly necessary?’ Colette asked Silver Nightly, as they began to weave through the worlds towards the world of Vivienne Small.
‘Not at all,’ said Silver Nightly. ‘As the Gardener you get certain privileges. I can go anywhere, and take anyone I need to with me. But I lik
ed the idea of you wearing it.’
Colette continued to fly the platform, but if you’d checked, you’d have seen her eyes smiling.
Chapter Twenty–eight
Serendipity Smith slammed the door of the Librarian’s office and strode across the foyer. She was intending to return to the boatshed, but then she stopped in the middle of the wide expanse of floor.
‘This isn’t right,’ she muttered to herself. ‘Not right at all.’
Serendipity didn’t want to intervene in Tuesday’s story, but at the same time she had a dreadful feeling. She couldn’t shake it. The hair on her arms was up, and the skin on her back had gone cold.
Without quite even deciding to do it, she found herself slipping along a hallway and entering a room she had only visited once before, a very long time ago. Inside were shelves exactly like the shelves of the great book room, but the books in this room were quite different. These books were under construction. They were incomplete, unfinished, half done, a quarter done, almost done, or just beginning. But books they were. They shimmered and wobbled. They were diaphanous, pearlescent, watery, waxen. Many of them glowed, others were as translucent as water. Some of them were opaque, and the colour of butterfly wings. Some of them looked as if they would float away or melt if touched, and others vibrated as if they had a tiny beating heart inside them.
Serendipity walked along the rows until she got to M for McGillycuddy. She wasn’t at all sure this was a good idea, but at the same time, she felt she had very few options. It was clear that Tuesday was in the world of Vivienne Small. Their world. It would be terrible to disturb her if everything was fine, but Serendipity had learned over the years not to ignore her instincts. They were a far more reliable source of information than what appeared to be the facts. All her instincts were telling her to find her daughter.
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