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 spiderwebs, and Vivienne was careful not to disturb them as she squeezed past.
“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.” Vivienne laughed, 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 and 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, and leather pouches, pods, and gourds of all shapes and sizes. Outside, the night birds had started to call to one another 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.
“No fire, unfortunately,” Vivienne said. “It’s not safe for the ferns. But we can still have a picnic. And if we get cold, we can jump back into the pool again.”
And so, with their blankets about them and the dappling light of the lantern playing over the inside of Vivienne’s bower, the two girls ate slippery bits of fish, put jam onto dry biscuits with cheese, chewed on dried fruit, and gnawed on the spicy, peppery jerky, sharing it all with Baxterr. He turned his nose up at the fish, and the pepper on the jerky made him sneeze, which reminded the girls of the day they’d all met. They talked of that adventure, and Vivienne told stories from the time when the Winged Dogs flew in the skies above the Peppermint Forest, and Tuesday told Vivienne about the amazing fish she’d seen when she’d been snorkeling on her holiday in the Pacific Ocean. Baxterr listened and lay on his back and allowed both girls to scratch him on the tummy.
“We should sleep,” Vivienne said. “Tomorrow we have a long and difficult journey.”
She yawned, found her pillow, and lay down, and Tuesday did the same. Baxterr crawled in beside Tuesday, his yawn accompanied by a faint whine. Vivienne jumped up and blew out the lantern flame, plunging the whole bower into blackness. Tuesday’s thoughts turned to all that lay before them.
“When we get to the City of Clocks, we’ll be searching for a door,” she said to Vivienne in the darkness. “I think it could be any door. And Baxterr will help. That’s all I know.”
“That’s not very useful,” said Vivienne.
“I know,” said Tuesday.
“Still, it wouldn’t be an adventure if we knew what was going to happen,” Vivienne said.
Tuesday pulled the brown blanket up to her chin and thought. It seemed she had always known about Vivienne’s tree house, and she had actually been to her cave near the Cliffs of Cartavia. From reading her mother’s books, Tuesday also knew about Vivienne’s hammock house in a giant sky flower in the Oasis of Evermore, and about her bolt-hole in the trunk of a heartwood tree in the Eldritch Forest. But Tuesday had never read about this bower. She wondered if her mother even knew it was here.
“Vivienne, exactly how many homes do you have?” Tuesday asked.
“Seven,” said Vivienne matter-of-factly. And then, thinking of the damage to her new tree house, corrected herself. “No, wait, six. Why is it always my favorite homes that get ruined?”
“Will you build another tree house?” Tuesday asked.
“Definitely,” said Vivienne. “And my next one will be so strong that absolutely nothing will break it apart. Not pirates, not falling dogs, nothing! It will be the strongest and most beautiful tree house in the world. So there.”
Tuesday laughed and held her dog close to her in the dark, enjoying the warmth and the slightly damp doggy smell of his fur. She felt very happy. She loved being here—here in this world, here with Vivienne Small again—but she also felt guilty for enjoying herself quite this much when she knew that Denis and Serendipity were at home waiting for her to return. Probably they were frantic with worry. Even if they had guessed that a story had come to get her, they would still be concerned, thinking that she could end up in Malta or somewhere south of Cape Town. Just before she fell into sleep, Tuesday imagined her parents sitting up together at the kitchen table at Brown Street.
“I’m all right, and I’ll be home as soon as I can,” she thought, and she tried to send that thought all the way home to Brown Street like a falling star.
* * *
But Denis McGillycuddy and Serendipity Smith were not sitting at the kitchen table at Brown Street. They were not at home. Instead, they were at the City Hospital, Denis looking nothing like himself. Serendipity sat with her elbows on the white sheet of the bed, holding one of his hands and willing him to be okay.
Denis had come to the hospital by ambulance, and Serendipity had followed in a yellow taxi, urging the driver to go faster and faster through the quiet Sunday-night streets of the city. Denis had been rushed into various rooms with large machines that photographed his brain, tested all sorts of levels, and provided every kind of measurement. He did not wake. Serendipity had filled in forms, given a medical history, then another one, told of everything that had happened, then told it again, until she wished she had written it down in the first place and could hand a copy to each new doctor, rather than having to tell it over and over. In the early hours of the morning, Denis’s head had been shaved, and he had been taken into surgery and returned with a very large bandage on his head. There were tubes coming out from under those bandages. He was connected to screens that beeped, bags of fluid that dripped, and a machine that breathed for him at regular intervals. Serendipity was told he would not wake until his brain was feeling better.
Before leaving Brown Street, she had scrawled two hurried notes—one for the kitchen table and the other for Tuesday’s bed. They each gave a phone number and said: Call me immediately. Daddy in City Hospital. So every few minutes she went to the nurses’ desk. But no call had come from Tuesday.
“You really should go home, Mrs. McGillycuddy,” a kind nurse said to her.
Serendipity noticed that he was wearing rather worn tennis shoes threaded with purple laces. “He won’t wake before morning.”
“I can’t leave him,” said Serendipity.
“I understand,” said the nurse. “That chair reclines if you want to try to get some sleep. If you need anything, buzz me right away.”
At some point, Serendipity was aware of the same nurse tucking a blanket about her as she curled up in the recliner chair. She dozed, half conscious of staff coming and going, checking the monitors, replacing the drips, and checking Denis’s temperature. Denis slept on through all this and did not stir.
* * *
At nine in the morning, Serendipity made a call from the public phone in the hallway of the hospital.
“Hello?” said Miss Digby crisply.
“I’m at the hospital—” Serendipity began.
A note of panic came immediately into Miss Digby’s voice. “Why didn’t you call sooner? Is Tuesday all right?”
“No. Yes, but—” Serendipity began.
“What happened to her?”
“Not Tuesday. Denis,” said Serendipity, and her voice wavered. “You see, after you left us…”
Serendipity proceeded to relate to Miss Digby the series of events that had led to Denis being in the hospital and Serendipity spending the night beside him.
“But, if you’re at the hospital, where on earth is Tuesday?” Miss Digby asked.
This was, Serendipity had to admit, a very good question.
“Tuesday … is…” Serendipity faltered.
“At school?”
“Of course,” said Serendipity.
“Well,” said Miss Digby, “shall I meet her at the end of the day and bring her to you at the hospital?”
Miss Digby could be a little frosty with children. So Serendipity was quite touched to find her so concerned for Tuesday. But then, Miss Digby had always been good in an emergency. There had been many of them over the years, most of them involving canceled or delayed flights and the subsequent rescheduling of television shows, interviews, visits to schools, and book launches. There had been mix-ups with luggage or hotels, cars and trains, the odd flu, and a rare bout of food poisoning. In every instance, Miss Digby had been unflappable and efficient. So perhaps it wasn’t such a surprise that she was taking this particular emergency in her stride.
But if Miss Digby found that Tuesday was still missing … what then? Serendipity hadn’t the least idea what she would tell Miss Digby about where Tuesday had gone. Would Serendipity finally have to let Miss Digby in on what writers really did? She needed to buy Tuesday some time.
“No, no,” Serendipity said hastily. “No need for that. She’s very independent. Prefers to be alone. Especially after school. She often slips straight off into her room, and we don’t hear a peep out of her until dinnertime. You know how girls are at that age. And I’ll be home, anyway, by then.”
“I’ll come over,” said Miss Digby. “I’ll use the spare key. I’ll bring something to eat. That way you don’t have to worry about anything. You can spend the day with Denis, and we’ll see you when you get there.”
“Of course,” said Serendipity. “If she’s late, don’t worry about her. I mean, Tuesday may go to a friend’s—”
“On the first night of school?”
“Of course,” said Serendipity.
At last Serendipity managed to dismiss Miss Digby and hang up the phone.
“Lying’s not nearly so much fun without you,” she said to Denis.
She leaned over and kissed his cool, pale forehead beneath the bandages and murmured that she loved him. For a moment she half expected him to say, The Leith Police dismisseth us; the Leith police are thorough, which was one of his favorite tongue twisters, but he did nothing. Denis simply lay there quietly. Much too quietly.
“Please be all right,” Serendipity whispered to him. “I couldn’t bear anything to happen to you.”
Serendipity thought of Tuesday too. “And please come home soon,” she said silently to her daughter.
But of the two of them, Denis was the one she was more worried about.