In the hospital corridor, through a window on the third floor, Serendipity Smith gazed out over the glittering lights of the city. It had been a good day, medically speaking. In the morning, Denis had been unhooked from his breathing machine, and much to everyone’s relief, he had—after a short heart-stopping moment—breathed on his own. But still he had not woken up.
It was late Friday night, and the city pulsed ever so slightly to a beat that Serendipity could not hear. Out there, she knew, there were couples sitting down to dinner in restaurants, families filing out of cinemas with new stories still big in their minds, and people dancing to music so loud that they forgot all their cares. Across town, at Brown Street, she could imagine Miss Digby and Blake at the kitchen table, playing their hundredth game of Scrabble in order to pass the time.
“It’s been too long,” she whispered to Tuesday.
“Too long,” she whispered to Denis as she returned to his room.
She closed her eyes and wished, but when she opened them again, nothing had changed. Perhaps, she thought, it was time to do more than simply wish. There was a pen dangling from the clipboard at the foot of Denis’s bed. There wasn’t much paper about, but Serendipity supposed she could use the backs of the medical charts for her purposes. Once more she glanced out the window. Someone had to go. No matter how risky or dangerous it was. Someone had to go there and bring Tuesday home. She bit the end of the ballpoint pen and thought. Then, using the bed as a desk, she touched the nib down on the page. Without warning, without opening his eyes, Denis reached out and grabbed her hand.
“She’s lost to us,” he said in a hoarse voice. “She’s never coming home.”
Serendipity stared at him, her heart racing.
“Denis?” she said. “Denis, speak to me!”
But Denis did not speak again.
Serendipity ran out into the corridor and called to a passing nurse.
“He spoke!” she said. “He spoke!”
The nurse hurried in and checked the monitors, and then shook her head.
“They do that sometimes. It’s random brain activity. It doesn’t mean much. He is still in a coma.”
“He could wake up at any time, though.”
“Yes, he could,” the nurse said. “Sometimes they do.”
When the nurse returned two hours later to check Denis’s blood pressure and temperature, she found Serendipity curled up on the bed beside him, her head on his shoulder, her arm across his body.
“Mrs. McGillycuddy, you’ll have to move,” the nurse said.
“I can’t,” Serendipity said, stirring groggily. “I could never leave him.”
“Into the chair with you,” said the nurse. “Here’s your blanket.”
* * *
In the bathroom at Brown Street early on Saturday morning, Blake Luckhurst ran his fingers through his hair and eyed himself in the mirror. He squared his shoulders, angled his jaw, and gave his reflection a steely glance.
“Serendipity,” he said to his reflection. “Somebody has to go, and that someone needs to be me.”
“But, Blake,” he replied in a parody of Serendipity’s voice, “you can’t. You mustn’t. It’s too dangerous.”
Blake rehearsed the conversation again as he sat down and rather awkwardly tied the laces of his boots.
“Serendipity, you must remember I am not simply Blake Luckhurst, author. I am, in this instance, Blake Luckhurst, action hero.”
He wondered briefly what sort of action he would face, then he strode from the bathroom down the stairs and said good-bye to Miss Digby, who was sorting paperwork in the kitchen.
“Blake, I think I should mention that your T-shirt is not only the wrong way around, but inside out,” said Miss Digby, following him along the hallway.
“Thank you, Miss Digby, but none of that matters,” Blake replied, waving his hands in a theatrical gesture and closing the door behind him.
* * *
The gray-faced and disheveled woman in the chair was the antithesis of the very tall, glamorous, and colorful Serendipity Smith the public knew. Blake was still a little discomfited to remember she really was the Serendipity Smith, world’s most famous author. Tired as she was, Serendipity managed a smile when Blake arrived. She introduced him to Denis, who was, Blake observed, showing no sign of waking from his coma.
Serendipity related what had happened in the night.
“I was thinking that I have to go, I have to go and bring Tuesday home, but I can’t leave him, Blake. I can’t.”
“Serendipity, I have come to an important decision,” Blake began. “And these recent developments assure me that it is time for action. So I propose—and please, do not try to stop me—that I begin a story and transport myself there to do whatever it takes to ensure Tuesday does actually return home safely.”
Serendipity blinked. “Blake. That’s all very noble, but what if something happens to you?”
“Please do not try to stop me, Serendipity. My mind is made up. What matters most is that you are here for Mr. McGillycuddy—and that Tuesday comes home.”
Serendipity put her arms around Blake and hugged him.
“Thank you, Blake,” she said. “I am sure if anyone can bring Tuesday home safely, it will be you.”
And with that, Blake turned on his heels. Tossing his backpack over one shoulder, he hurried out of the hospital and to City Park. It was a blustery day. Blake sat on a bench, took out a notebook and a chewed pen. He realized Serendipity had not tried to stop him. In fact, she apparently had complete faith in his ability to bring Tuesday home. Well, he wouldn’t disappoint her. Within a few moments of writing, he had liftoff and was arcing across the city sky, invisible to all below him, following a silver thread.
* * *
The tree was delighted to see Blake hurtling toward it. All week it had felt rumblings from deep in the earth below, and this was very disturbing, for trees do not like change. Also, writers had been few and far between, and the tree had been lonely.
So Blake’s arrival, accomplished by his familiar midair forward roll to a standing finish, delighted the tree. It rustled its leaves in a hearty welcome.
“Adventure, of course,” Blake said, and bowed deeply to the tree. “Hero by the name of, well … Blake Luckhurst, actually.”
The tree rustled its leaves again.
“I’m guessing a helicopter is out of the question?” Blake asked.
The tree did not respond.
“Horse?” suggested Blake.
The tree shimmered its leaves and a small white goat appeared from behind its ancient trunk. The goat stared at Blake through its amber eyes and gave a high-pitched maaaaaaa.
“Ha, ha. Very funny,” Blake said.
The goat gamboled away and began munching on the lush green grass of the hillside. Then from behind him, Blake heard a low whickering noise. He turned to see a magnificent white horse, saddled and waiting.
“Nice,” he said to the tree. “I am always, forever, at your service.”
Then, in true hero style, Blake mounted the horse in a single, coordinated movement and galloped off through the mist toward the Library.
* * *
Cantering up the stairs, Blake observed the extensive damage that had been done to the Library’s stonework and balconies. He glanced up at the gigantic word—IMAGINE—carved above the entrance and was relieved to see it was still intact. He was no stranger to chaos; all his novels relied on it.
He left the horse to take a drink at the fountain and walked toward the entrance, pushed open the huge doors, and strode inside. He could hear that the dining room was packed with writers, and all of them conversing noisily. But louder still was the argument that was going on in the Librarian’s study. Blake approached the slightly open door.
He heard the Librarian in her unmistakeable voice saying, “She said she would do anything. Anything! So I took her at her word.”
“She’s a child,” said a deep, gnarly voice with a distinctive twang.
“Well, we were all children once,” said the Librarian.
“She has the right to grow up, doesn’t she? Before such things are asked of her? What about the things she’ll never do if you leave her there? Never finish school. Never have her first dance. Never fall in love.”
“Well, we might be sparing her there,” said the Librarian drily. “And you act as if this is something I can fix, Silver Nightly. Well, I cannot. She went of her own free will. I cannot undo what has been done.”
Blake pushed open the door. “Hello, Madame Librarian. Mr. Nightly. I am Blake Luckhurst.”
He reached out and shook hands firmly with the older writer.
“Pleased to meet you, son,” Silver said.
“You two wouldn’t happen to be talking about Tuesday McGillycuddy, would you?” Blake asked.
The Librarian was distinctly uneasy, and Blake noticed her stained purple tracksuit and untidy hair. On her desk was a messy circle of crumpled tissues. He noticed her eyes were red-rimmed and her cheeks puffy as if she had been crying. Then he noticed stains on the couch that might have been blood. Through the study’s french doors, Blake saw that most of the balcony railing was missing. Beyond it, a huge globe loomed in the mist.
“What the hell is that?”
“Mr. Luckhurst! Language, please. We are a writer, and we have vocabulary. But to answer your question, that is a world that recently collided with my library.”
“A what?” asked Blake.
“A world. And it’s happening all over,” said Silver Nightly. “Worlds crashing into one another and throwing us writers to goodness knows where in the process. It’s chaos, and I’d say you’re a fool to be coming here, except that you have the look of a man on a mission.”
“I am here to rescue Tuesday McGillycuddy,” Blake said.
“Oh, not you too,” grumbled the Librarian.
“Her mother is very worried,” Blake said. “Her father is in a coma. I have to get her home.”
“Dang…,” said Silver Nightly, shaking his head.
“You cannot take her home, Blake Luckhurst,” said the Librarian, raising herself up to her full, diminutive height. “Neither of you can. Nor would she agree to go. She’s staying here. She has made a choice to stay here forever.”
“But that’s impossible!” exclaimed Blake.
“Unfortunately, it’s not,” said Silver Nightly. “Though what Madame Librarian is failing to disclose is that she created this here problem. She sent Tuesday on a mission to write a story to stop the worlds colliding.”
“And why are they colliding?” Blake asked, glancing again at the surreal image of the world hanging outside the Library.
“Because of someone called the Gardener. He has, only a short while ago, passed away,” said Silver Nightly, causing the Librarian to reach for more tissues and again wipe her eyes. “Young Tuesday was tidily set up to become his successor.”
“His successor!” exclaimed Blake.
“Someone has to do it,” cried the Librarian, impassioned. “There must be a Gardener. The last Gardener could never have died if Tuesday had not fully accepted her fate.”
“Fate?” Blake asked. “You mean she was meant to be this? Chosen at birth or something?”
“No, Blake, it was a little more practical than that, actually,” the Librarian said. “Tuesday came to me with a story already begun and a Winged Dog by her side. A Gardener must have a creature that can travel between worlds. There was no one else. In that sense, perhaps it was fate. Certainly that is how most of us find our most important adventures, wouldn’t you say?
“Without a Gardener, all this would end. The only reason you and every other writer can come here is because the Gardener tends to these worlds. Tuesday is doing you all the greatest service. You only have to look around, or hear the stories in the dining room, to understand the chaos, the utter chaos, of a world without her.”
“Tuesday’s too young to have to take on all that,” Blake said.
“My point exactly,” said Silver.
“Do you know how young I was?” said the Librarian mildly. “The Gardener was a writer, like both of you. I watched him come and go. He was older than me, but only by a few years. In fact, sometimes you remind me of him, Blake. Of course he wasn’t nearly so famous as you think you are, but he had ambition. And he loved it here. He came more and more often. There was a time of chaos, much like this, with the passing of the previous Gardener. Garnet took over. He sacrificed his writing career so that all of this is here for all of you. Such a long time has passed, and now he is gone. We wrote to each other, of course. His dog carried our letters, and I sent him books. Sometimes, he would send me a plant. But we could never … and we will never … oh, what have I done to that girl?”
She stopped and stared again at the broken balcony.
“Blake Luckhurst, did you bring a white horse?” she asked in a much more familiar imperious tone.
Blake looked out the window and grimaced. “Yes, Madame Librarian,” he said proudly.
“That’s a fine horse,” said Silver Nightly.
“Perhaps, but of absolutely no use to you,” said the Librarian.
“Use for what?” asked Silver.
“For reaching Tuesday,” said the Librarian.
“You mean, there is a way?”
“There may be. How are you both with heights?”
“Heights?” asked Blake.
The Librarian moved to the edge of her rug and began to roll it up. Silver and Blake rushed to help her pull it back to reveal polished floorboards and a trapdoor. The Librarian indicated the handle, and Blake heaved the door open. Beneath them was nothing but a dark sky, swirling with worlds of every color and design.
“Where is she, exactly, in all of that?” Blake asked.
“Right at the very bottom, naturally,” the Librarian said.
“And how do you propose that we get there?” Silver asked.
“Blake, go into the book room and bring my platform. You remember the one?” the Librarian asked.
“How could I ever forget?” Blake replied, remembering the day the Librarian had first showed him the Library, zooming up and down aisles and taking corners at hair-raising speeds. He had been intimidated by her ever since.
“Not that dang flying thing,” Silver said.
The Librarian smiled for the first time that day.
“So we are going to rescue Tuesday?” Silver asked her, as Blake disappeared momentarily.
“We are simply going to visit,” said the Librarian.
When Blake returned, he was dragging the platform behind him.
“Mind the floorboards, Blake!” said the Librarian. “I forgot. It takes a special touch to make it glide.”
In a moment, the Librarian had locked her office door and the three of them were on the platform hovering above the open trapdoor.
“I’m not sure I’m going to like this,” said Blake, forgetting for a moment to be heroic. And then they dropped into darkness between millions of floating worlds.