Miss Digby, Serendipity, and Denis talked. They went over the details of the disappearances again, and then they made more cups of tea and turned up the volume on the radio for the next news update. Tuesday looked out the window and noticed what a very lovely day it was outside. It occurred to her that she would much prefer to be taking Baxterr for a walk than sitting about in the kitchen and wishing she had not been forbidden to write. She jumped up.
“I’m taking Baxterr to the park,” she declared.
“Shall I come too?” Denis offered.
“Or all of us?” Serendipity suggested.
“No, it’s fine. Really, you all keep on with your … plans.” Tuesday waved her hands around vaguely. “We need a walk, don’t we, Baxterr?”
Baxterr had already trotted off to retrieve his leash from the hall table. He was an eminently sensible dog, who never embarrassed himself by appearing overexcited at the delightful prospect of going for a walk. He waited patiently by the front door as Tuesday fixed his lead to his collar and took her bright red jacket from the hallstand. Before she left, she ran quickly upstairs to snatch up an opened letter from a drawer in her desk.
Coming back downstairs, she heard her mother telling Miss Digby, “Of course she’ll be fine. Baxterr is wonderful. And much fiercer than you’d think.”
“Back soon,” Tuesday called out, and then she closed the front door behind her. Tuesday had no reason or desire to lie to her parents, and yet those two words proved to be entirely untrue.
* * *
It was a perfect day to be walking with a dog in City Park, and Tuesday was far from the only person to be doing it. She was amused by how much some of the human beings around her resembled the dogs at their sides. Tuesday wondered whether anybody would think she and Baxterr were particularly alike. Certainly they both had hair of almost every shade of gold and brown, though Baxterr’s eyes were golden-brown while Tuesday’s were blue-green. Tuesday thought that if she did look like her dog, then there was no nicer dog to look like than Baxterr.
Not far from the fountain at the center of City Park was a stand of public telephones. Each telephone was fixed on a short pillar inside an ornate wrought-iron sculpture that protected it from the wind and rain. One of the sculptures was a mermaid with long curling tresses, and the next was a lion with its mouth fixed in a fearsome roar. The phones within each of these were in use, but the third phone, the one encased by a sculpture of a prancing horse, was free.
Tuesday fished out the letter she had tucked into her pocket. It was from one of the world’s most famous young writers, Blake Luckhurst, and she smiled as she thought of him and of the adventures they’d had together. Blake had published his first book when he was only twelve, and there were action figures of his characters, and the first film of his books was about to premiere on big screens around the world. All this had gone to his head, and he had a dreadful habit of teasing Tuesday, but despite all of that, she liked him.
Tuesday entered the shelter of the horse, put a coin in the slot of the telephone, and dialed the number Blake had written at the top of his letter. The phone rang two times, three times, four, and as she waited for him to pick up, she scanned the words he had written.
Madness here with interviews. I’m just so famous. Talk to me if you’re going there. (This word was underlined several times.) I am going there again very soon. It could be cool to hang out. Maybe. Say hello to Baxterr.
Yours, Blake Luckhurst the Glorious.
“It’s your money. Talk fast,” said a voice on the other end of the phone.
“Blake, is that you?” said Tuesday.
“Maybe,” came the voice.
“It’s Tuesday.”
“I don’t think so,” he said.
“Really, it’s Tuesday,” she repeated.
“No, today is definitely Sunday,” he said.
“Stop it,” Tuesday said.
“Okay,” Blake said.
“Have you heard about J. D. Jones and Flynn McMurtry and all the others? What on earth is going on? Do you know?”
“Yeah, no. Weird, hey? I haven’t been there in weeks. The new book is causing chaos. You would think, being a writer, that people might leave you alone to write, but instead they want to put makeup on you and drag you in front of a camera and ask you questions—”
“Which you love—”
“Which sells books. Especially when you’re as good-looking as I am.”
“Really,” Tuesday said.
“That’s right, getting more handsome every day. So how’s the book coming along? Is it finished?”
“Of course not,” said Tuesday. “I’ve only just started. How do you manage to do it so quickly?”
“Natural genius,” he said. “But listen. Don’t be going there anytime soon, okay? It’s not safe.”
“Why? What’s gone wrong?” Tuesday asked. And as she said this, she heard someone calling her name. She spun about expecting to see a friend. But she saw nobody that she knew.
Blake said, “Just stay home, paint your toenails, okay?”
And while Tuesday was busily wondering why Blake was talking about toenails, Baxterr barked. He stood very upright, with his tail wagging, as though he could hear someone calling his name too.
Again it happened. Someone was definitely calling her name. And then Tuesday heard a voice yell “Doggo!” and from the look on Baxterr’s face, Tuesday was certain that he thought the call was for him. Tuesday peered at the people strolling across the large square and throwing coins into the fountain. She couldn’t see anybody familiar, even though the voice had sounded so close.
And then something in the sky caught her attention. There was something high above the fountain, coming toward her in a streak of silver—and Baxterr was watching it too and barking excitedly. Maybe it was a thread of water catching the light? Or maybe … maybe it was actual thread. Tuesday felt the skin on the back of her neck prickling.
“Um, Blake, is it possible for a story to come and get you?”
“Sure. Happens to me all the time. I’m dead asleep and then I’m yanked awake and dragged into some war zone—”
It was thread, and it was diving toward Tuesday, coming closer and closer. She reached her hand out to catch it, fascinated. It landed in her palm, wrapping swiftly around her wrist and looping through her fingers. As it did so, she felt a fizzy sensation in her hands and feet. She knew she shouldn’t be doing this. She knew she ought to push the sparkling thread away, but she didn’t. Instead she let it gently and persistently tug her away from where she stood.
“I think I’m going,” Tuesday said to Blake as first one foot, then the other, lifted off the ground. “I think I’m going there!”
“What? Now? No, you can’t … Wait!”
“Bye, Blake!” she called out, then dropped the receiver. She called urgently to Baxterr, and he leapt into her arms, and the thread pulled them high up into the air, away from the phone box and the fountain, right out of City Park and into the sky. Nobody noticed—nobody except a small boy in a stroller, who would one day be a writer himself. He pointed and called out to them, but Tuesday couldn’t hear what he said because they were above the trees, above the mirrored lake, and going higher still.
Tuesday could see Brown Street and the roof of her own home far below her. She felt a twinge of guilt that she was doing precisely the thing she was not supposed to do. She had allowed herself to be completely swept up. A story had come to get her, and she had simply taken flight.