‘What I’ve thought is that there must be someone keeping an eye on how all this fits together and holding everything steady. We never run across one another. My story never runs into anyone else’s. The only time us writers ever see one another is here, in the Library. Out there … well, it’s our all own, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ said Tuesday, remembering vividly how very alone she had felt when she had discovered this on her first visit. ‘So who is this someone who keeps the worlds apart?’
‘I don’t rightly know, young lady. For a long time I figured it was Madame Librarian, but clearly that isn’t so.’
Tuesday nodded, thinking she was willing to bet that the person’s name started with G.
‘I’ve come to think,’ Silver said, ‘that it’s a sort of partnership – between the worlds and the stories. Makes sense, hmm? Madame Librarian is in charge of the books, and the writers. But I’d bet a whole herd of cattle that someone else takes care of the rest.’
‘How could they possibly manage every world that every writer creates?’ Tuesday asked.
‘Well, they’d need help, wouldn’t they? They’d need some sort of magical powers, or a machine. Something that could let them see into all the worlds, keep everything sorted and separate. Maybe they even have a way to move between worlds.’
‘Move between worlds?’ Tuesday repeated. The idea was fascinating.
‘Yes. There aren’t many creatures that can do it,’ said Silver Nightly. ‘They have to have a little magic. Dragons, for instance. Though from my understanding they’re hard to train.’
‘You mean this someone might have a dragon? Maybe they are a dragon.’
‘Possibly. But I doubt it. I think they’re like the Librarian. I mean human, of a sort – a very long-lived sort. My sense is that Madame Librarian has been here a good many years.’
Tuesday ate the last of the chilli beans and wiped out her bowl with the bread, all the time thinking as she chewed. She wanted to share the contents of the note with Silver Nightly but thought that, as it was private, and addressed to the Librarian, she’d better not. Still, she wondered aloud, ‘What’s gone wrong? Why isn’t this person doing their job?’
‘Perhaps they can’t,’ Silver said. ‘Perhaps they’re dead. Hard to do your job when you’re dead. Or feeling poorly. Whichever way, you only have to look about us to see that something that was working fine is pretty much broke. Worlds have been crashing into each other, and into this here balcony, too. I don’t much like to think about what’s going to happen if things get any worse.’
‘Where do you think this someone lives?’ Tuesday asked.
‘Ah, well, that’s the great mystery. I have a feeling that our Madame Librarian is going to ask something mighty big of you, my girl.’
‘What?’
‘Maybe she intends for you to go find this somebody.’
‘Why me? Why not you?’
Silver Nightly said gently, ‘Oh, I think this particular situation calls for a young mind of particular imaginative abilities. Someone who can think up just about anything. The thing about getting older is that my mind isn’t as nimble as it once was. I love being here more than anything in the world. Since my wife died, why, I spend every moment here I can. But I tend to solve things the same way, time after time. And I don’t have a dog like yours.’
‘Like mine?’
Although they were quite alone on the balcony, Silver dropped his voice. ‘I’ve been wondering about your dog ever since I saw him here the first time. In all my years, and one hundred and four and a half novels, I have never seen a writer able to bring a pet here. Until recently, I have always had a dog, but no matter how much they might have liked to, none of my dogs ever managed to come here with me. I have friends who have dogs who never leave their sides. Lay under their desks as they write, sleep on their beds at night, and not one of them has ever accompanied them here. A lady crime writer I know has a parrot that’s two hundred and seven and has belonged to four generations of writers. Even so, it has never, not once, come here with her. So what I’ve been thinking is maybe your dog isn’t like other dogs.’
Tuesday blushed.
‘Pretty rare in my experience to find a dog that can travel between worlds, yes?’
‘Maybe,’ said Tuesday.
‘I think that’s why Madame Librarian might be considering sending you on this mission. You keep that in mind,’ said Silver Nightly. ‘And keep your dog close by you.’
Tuesday nodded. She felt Baxterr lean briefly against her leg and sensed that he had heard and understood everything Silver Nightly had said.
Tuesday felt very grateful to Silver, but before she could say ‘thank you’, she saw something phenomenally large emerging from the mist beyond the damaged balcony. Without quite meaning to, she screamed.
The thing coming towards them was a huge globe, like a cross between a planet and the largest soap bubble you’ve ever seen. Its surface was transparent, glistening with a rainbow-coloured sheen, but inside she glimpsed yellow fields and a farm or two and threatening storm clouds. Baxterr barked at it furiously.
‘Under here! Quick!’ Silver cried, and he pushed both Tuesday and Baxterr underneath the marble seat upon which they had been sitting. Then he wedged himself in front of them to protect them. ‘Brace!’
Then came the impact, and it felt the way Tuesday imagined an earthquake would feel. The Library shuddered and rocked. Screams and groans came from the writers inside the dining room. Saucepans hit the floor. Plates and bowls smashed. And from deeper within the Library, Tuesday heard the sound of books falling from great heights, off their shelves and onto the floor.
‘Going to be a mighty effort to get them back into alphabetical order,’ Silver whispered to Tuesday in the sudden, eerie silence that followed.
Silver stood up, brushing dust off his arms and shoulders, and Tuesday watched as chunks of the balcony fell off into space.
‘Silver! Silver!’ called the Librarian, hurrying through the French doors and out onto the balcony. ‘You’re needed inside. Poor Cordwell has become utterly hysterical. Will you see to him for me? Thank you, thank you. There’s a good fellow. Now, I must find Tuesday and that dog of hers. I need them right away. Right away!’
‘They’re just under here, Madame L,’ Silver said. To Tuesday and Baxterr, still under the bench seat, he said, ‘I have to be going. You two take care, and remember all I’ve said.’
‘We will,’ said Tuesday. ‘Goodbye, Silver.’
‘How’s about we don’t say “goodbye”? Only “so long”,’ he said, with a warm twinkle in his eyes. And then he was gone.
Tuesday scrambled out from under the bench. The Librarian was more dishevelled than ever.
‘Oh, thank the letters of the alphabet! There you are, Tuesday McGillycuddy,’ said the Librarian. ‘And your dog?’
‘Ruff,’ said Baxterr, appearing from behind Tuesday’s legs.
‘Good. Yes, very good.’
The Librarian inhaled deeply. She held out to Tuesday a small scroll of paper, sealed with a blob of purple wax and imprinted with the image of a lion.
‘I do not like to commission stories,’ she said, tapping the scroll of paper on the palm of her hand. ‘I have always prided myself on letting writers have their heads entirely, but in this case, Tuesday, I have no choice. No choice at all. Will you accept my commission?’
‘I … I don’t know. I’m not sure. What—’
The Librarian cleared her throat and it came out sounding like a slightly menacing growl.
‘A few moments ago you said you would be willing to do anything – anything! – in the service of this place. Did you not?’
‘Yes, yes I did say that,’ Tuesday said in a small voice.
‘Thank you. Now, what I need you to do is to write one of the most important stories of all time. Do you understand me, Tuesday McGillycuddy?’
Tuesday’s heart was beating faster than she had ever known it to go. Her parent
s would be wild with worry as it was, and it seemed she was not going home any time soon.
‘The story I need from you is a story about a man,’ the Librarian continued, ‘who dwells in that space between worlds. He is a very, very old man. He is not known to many, but those who do know him call him the Gardener.’
‘He’s “G”, from the note?’ Tuesday said. ‘It was his dog?’
‘Quite so,’ said the Librarian briskly.
‘He keeps the worlds apart?’ Tuesday asked.
‘Up to this point, he has,’ the Librarian said, ‘and a great deal more. However, as you can see, he needs some assistance. I do not especially like to give clues. I like to let writers work things out for themselves, but as you can see, time is of the essence. Are you listening? Tuesday? Baxterr?’
‘Yes, I’m listening,’ said Tuesday.
‘Ruff,’ agreed Baxterr, his tail wagging.
‘In the world of Vivienne Small, you will find a way to him in the City of Clocks,’ said the Librarian.
‘The Gardener?’
‘Yes. Mind, you will have to keep your wits about you,’ said the Librarian, hurrying on with her instructions. ‘There will be a door.’
‘His door?’
‘You will know it when you see it.’
‘Will I need a key?’ Tuesday asked.
The Librarian paused. ‘Baxterr will be … essential. When you find the Gardener, you must give him this message.’
She placed the scroll of paper into Tuesday’s hand, which she held on to for a moment. A troubled expression passed over her face, but she shook it away.
‘It will, of course, be up to you to tell the Gardener about his dog. Naturally, it will devastate him. And then, what you must do is help him,’ the Librarian said.
‘Help him? How?’ Tuesday asked, wondering what on earth she could do to help someone, who was either very old or very sick, keep all the story worlds from crashing into each other.
The Librarian glared at her, her eyes a deep and serious shade of purple.
‘How much assistance do you require with this story of yours? Hmm? For goodness’ sake, girl, use your imagination! Imagine! Is that not what we do here?’
‘I’m not a real … I mean, I’m only a beginner. I mean, what about the writers inside? There must be hundreds of them. Why not one of them? Why me?’
‘Because this is the story that came to get you, Tuesday McGillycuddy. The dog travelled with its message through the world of Vivienne Small, and when the dog fell, a story was born, and that story came to find you, and no one but you. And that means that this story is yours to tell,’ the Librarian said.
Baxterr wagged his tail and barked, as though in complete agreement with the Librarian.
‘Hold on. You’ve forgotten Vivienne Small!’ Tuesday protested. ‘We’ve left her out the front by the lions. Vivienne has to come too.’
‘Yes, yes, I’m sure she has a part to play,’ the Librarian said. ‘She’s exactly where you left her. Follow the balcony around to the front path. Now go, Tuesday. And tell him …Yes, tell him …’ Here the Librarian hesitated for a long moment and then she said, ‘Oh, never mind. Give him my note. When he reads it, he will know what to do.’
The Librarian’s face was both fierce and gentle at once.
‘Make your story strong, make your story true,’ she said. ‘And please, please, Tuesday, dear, give careful thought to how it ends. Or yours could be the very last story … ever.’
Chapter Twelve
As the Librarian had promised, Vivienne Small stood quite unhurt and unchanged, as if frozen in time. Tuesday’s head ached slightly from all the new information that had been shoved into it. The Gardener, a door, the City of Clocks, Silver Nightly’s advice, the Librarian’s message, Cordwell Jefferson’s missing foot … how would she explain it all to Vivienne? Baxterr bounded ahead to sniff at Vivienne. Tuesday took a deep breath and reached out to touch Vivienne’s cheek. Instantly Vivienne said, ‘—seeing things? I can’t see any lions.’
It was strange to see her friend suddenly spring back to life, and for a moment Tuesday stared at Vivienne, startled.
‘What?’ said Vivienne indignantly. ‘So show me them. Your lions.’
It appeared that although Tuesday had been gone for an hour or more, not a single moment had passed for Vivienne.
‘We can forget the lions,’ said Tuesday with as much confidence as she could muster. ‘I think we’ll find what we’re looking for in the City of Clocks. Do you know it?’
‘Of course,’ said Vivienne, ‘It’s one of the most beautiful cities in the world.’
‘Well, that’s where we have to go. The Winged Dog belonged to a man called the Gardener – the “G” in the letter. He lives, I think, in the City of Clocks.’
Vivienne was perplexed. ‘You think?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Is it far?’
‘Five days on foot, at least, from the Peppermint Forest,’ said Vivienne. ‘We could shorten the journey by crossing the hills to the Mabanquo River. It’s a long day’s walk, but we could camp out and start early tomorrow.’
Vivienne took out her compass, but the hands only whirred around and wouldn’t settle on any direction. Baxterr whined and gave a little shrug with the folded edge of his furred wings.
‘No, doggo, we can’t fly,’ said Vivienne. ‘We do not want you up in the sky with those vercaka about.’
‘How would we get down the river?’ Tuesday asked. ‘Is there a ferry?’
‘There is on the Rythwyck, but not on the Mabanquo,’ Vivienne said, frowning. ‘With a bit of luck, though …’
She threw her satchel to the ground and began searching through its many buckled pockets. She tossed out packages of food, and then, more gently, she removed several leather pouches.
‘I never leave home without it,’ she muttered. ‘Shouldn’t pack in a rush … but surely I wouldn’t have …’
At last, from a pouch of faded red leather, she pulled out a small glass bottle containing a miniature red-hulled sailing boat.
Tuesday grinned. ‘Vivacious!’
‘Where there’s a river, there’s a way,’ crowed Vivienne. ‘But first a camping spot before it gets dark.’
‘Where did you have in mind?’ Tuesday asked.
‘I won’t know until we get out of this mist and I can tell exactly where we are,’ Vivienne said.
‘Well, then,’ said Tuesday, ‘doggo, lead the way.’
Baxterr barked happily and bounded away, the mist parting as he went. Tuesday and Vivienne followed in his wake, Vivienne telling Tuesday in more detail about the strange people from another world who had come into the forest on things that were like large dragonflies, hunting the vercaka. In almost no time, the sky had cleared and the sun was shining low on the horizon, turning the hills to silver.
‘Which way?’ asked Tuesday as they reached a path that forked to the left.
‘Actually,’ said Vivienne, ‘straight ahead.’
Tuesday looked down into a deep gully thick with ferns and flowering vines that climbed all over curious, spiky trees. ‘Really?’
Vivienne grinned. ‘Of course.’
The two girls and Baxterr clambered down into the gully as the sun set behind them and evening laid its cloak across the land. In the gully the gloom was deep. From time to time there were spider webs, and Vivienne was careful not to disturb them as she squeezed passed.
‘Do you have any idea how much work it is for a spider to build one of those?’ Vivienne said.
At last they pushed their way into a clearing and Tuesday stared. The dim glade was circled by towering ferns. The fronds almost touched in the middle, making a bower high above the girls’ heads. In the middle of this was a pool and the surface of it was steaming. Around it were mossy rocks and a huge tree, covered in yellow flowers, that bent almost to the water’s surface.
‘Wow!’ said Tuesday.
‘Last one in’s a rotten egg,’ laughed Vivienne, and
in a moment she had stripped off her clothes and thrown herself into the water.
Tuesday hurriedly followed her, tossing her shoes and clothes in all directions and then gingerly feeling her way into the water. It was deliciously warm and smelled slightly of vanilla. Baxterr hesitated, sniffing the water.
‘It’s the flowers, Baxterr,’ said Vivienne. ‘It’s the best smell in the world.’
Baxterr had a modest dip and then shook himself and lay down on the mossy area beside the pool and proceeded to sleep after his long walk. The girls floated and chatted until Tuesday’s fingers had gone wrinkly, and Vivienne at last said, ‘I’m starving.’
They dried themselves as best they could and Vivienne led them away from the pool behind the great tree.
‘This is the not the best equipped of my homes,’ Vivienne said, as she drew back a curtain of foliage. ‘I don’t often come here.’
It was entirely dark. After a moment, Vivienne located a tinderbox, struck a match and lit the lantern that hung from a hook above. Now Tuesday could see that they were in a circular dwelling made of giant living ferns, their fronds arching to make a roof. The floor was dried moss. The trunk of one giant fern was covered in hooks, and from them hung a spare bow, a quiver of Vivienne’s turquoise-feathered arrows, leather pouches, and pods and gourds of all shapes and sizes. Outside, the night birds had started to call to each other and rustle around in the fern foliage, making Baxterr prick up his ears, peer about vigilantly and give the occasional growl.
Vivienne brushed back a pile of dead fronds and pulled out a battered wooden chest with a large rusted padlock that she unlocked with a key that hung on a length of leather about her neck.
‘Here we go.’ She opened the chest and passed Tuesday a jar of pickled fish, a jar of jam, a tin of dried biscuits and some twists of pepper-sprinkled jerky. To this she added food parcels from her satchel containing two sorts of cheese, a bag of nuts and slivers of dried pikwan. She divided all this up, setting aside enough for the following day. Then, from deeper inside the trunk, Vivienne drew out two thick brown blankets, and a pair of pillows that felt as if they were stuffed with down.
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