Celeste stayed in bed three days. She slept. When not asleep she watched a wintry sun that could hardly be bothered to rise. It felt to Celeste that the world was frozen, time was frozen, winter had kidnapped the light. Perhaps this is what it’s like in the gutter of time she thought, for it was without doubt a different world from the one she was meant to be in. Here the sun had lost all its power and everyone she loved and cared for was lost in dreams, waiting for spring to come. If it ever happened, they would wake and this world of ice and glass, of forgotten memories and unknown events, would melt away.
She pulled the covers up to her chin so that the cold couldn’t get in and let her mind wander back to the cave. The man in the emerald green suit had pointed upwards with his quill and she had looked past the sleepers, past the crystal galleon chandelier to a black ceiling of glacial sea. She tried to remember more and couldn’t, though something came to her: a memory of being on a ship. There had been no wind, no sun and outside she could hear the moans of the sea freezing. But it was gone, nothing more than a pinprick of light in the darkness of so much forgotten.
Every morning, before Peter and Viggo went to work, Peter would make sure the stove was well stoked and would leave Celeste with breakfast; a thick slice of black bread spread with home-made jam. She lay on the soft pillows listening as they got ready to leave. She would hear the front door closing, sleepily aware that it was still dark outside and the pale snow looked pink against the morning grey sky. The sun hardly had the strength to shine before it was snuffed out completely.
Dr Marks came regularly to check on her and tell her she was improving and Mrs Marks swore by the healing powers of mittens and her chicken soup, which she brought in a bowl at midday. What Celeste liked best was time on her own, the comfort of the ticking clock in the other room, its cuckoo chirping on the hour; the sounds of carriages and people wafting up from the street below. She made the patchwork quilt into a landscape of houses and fields. Viggo had left her his tin soldiers, which she marched up its hills and down its dales. There were books to read and, when she was tired, she stared out of the window at the snow and waited for Maria. This was when they could be together, talking and trying to remember.
‘What did you see in the cave?’ asked Celeste.
Maria thought for a moment, ‘It was mostly too dark to see anything but once, when the man in the emerald green suit called me back, he lit some of his precious candles so I could see him count his ledgers. And then I saw a blue eye and part of the head of a great white bird – its wings cloaked the cave.’
‘What kind of bird was it?’
‘I think it was an albatross.’
‘Of course,’ said Celeste, ‘just like the fairy tale. I don’t know how I forgot that. Can the great bird speak?’
‘No,’ said Maria.
‘How do you know?’
‘That’s a good question. I don’t know, but I never heard it make any sound. I don’t know why it was there or where it went when it wasn’t. The man in the emerald green suit muttered to himself while he counted. He said the great white bird is a soul-hunter. He said that when he has written the last word on the last day that’s when he will turn over a new leaf and start again. He didn’t say when the day is, and I don’t know how to find out.’
‘Our parents are there, aren’t they?’
‘Yes, they’re asleep and so is the prince and everyone else who was on board. None of the sleepers knows what’s happening. We’re the only players. That’s what’s so frightening.’
‘It is, but we have each other,’ said Celeste.
On her own one day, Celeste gingerly got out of bed and tried to walk. It was harder than she thought, and her legs were weak. The cold air nibbled at her ankles, for the stove, the fiery beast, had lost its heat. She soon found she couldn’t stand unaided and held tight to the back of a chair. From there she set off, a step at a time across the room, only to collapse in a heap. She was trying to get up when she saw Maria’s reflection in the mirror.
As she crawled back to her bed, Celeste said, ‘I have remembered the three things the man in the emerald green suit asked for. Even though he said that he didn’t answer questions he did. He said, “One is the song of a bird who can’t sing, two is a play too small for actors, three is a light that blinds the seeing.”’
‘A song,’ said Maria, ‘that might be easy. The rest is as hard as carving an elephant from a grain of sand.’
‘I thought it was rice, not sand,’ said Celeste. ‘Wasn’t it a family saying?’
‘Anna says it,’ said Maria.
‘Do you remember anything more about what happened before?’ asked Celeste.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Maria. ‘But we both seem to know the theatre well. I could dance, that much is true. I loved the lessons, I felt full of energy. It was as if my legs were made of rubber – there was bounce in me. I could jump higher than Camille. That all seems real, unlike the rest – the attic room, the dome. I don’t remember them, they feel untrue.’
‘Yes, but I mean before – what do you remember?’
‘A ship and the sound of the sea freezing,’ said Maria. ‘The crew were worried about the weather. It was… I don’t know when. I see the edge of it, it glimmers and still I can’t pinpoint the time. I see you and you are dressed up. We are…’ She stopped.
‘Yes?’ said Celeste. ‘Go on.’
Maria shook her head.
‘This must be the place where the past meets the present,’ she said.
‘It’s impossible – we will never find it if we can’t even remember where we were or what we were doing,’ said Celeste.
Maria said suddenly, ‘It’s important that Hildegard isn’t sent away.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I heard her sing when I was working for her mother. She has a voice that once you hear you can’t forget. More important still is that you stay here in C—, near the opera house. You mustn’t leave. I think if you do the game is over.’
And she disappeared. This had been happening more often. She would leave without finishing what she was saying. It was as if someone was pulling her back. Back to where?
‘Wait,’ said Celeste, ‘don’t go, please. What do you mean?’
‘Celeste, we’re home. Are you all right?’ came Peter’s voice from the hall. Coats and hats were removed and snowy boots stamped.
Viggo came into the room bringing winter with him. He opened the stove door and piled in firewood.
‘It’s freezing in here,’ he said. ‘Who were you talking to?’