In a bower seat in an otherwise empty garden, Tess was sitting cross-legged. In her lap was her borrowed copy of The Secret Garden and she looked to be reading it. Her eyes were tracing the lines and her hand occasionally turned a page, but she hadn’t taken anything in for the last chapter or two.
It was strange; when she was supposed to be thinking about the object, the book proved a huge distraction, but whenever she tried to read the book, all she could think about was the object. She’d spent hours in the old chapel the previous day examining the small metal object in as much detail as she could manage in the dim light, but she’d discovered nothing. She’d been sure that finding the space to think freely would lead immediately to a breakthrough, but it seemed things weren’t going to be as easy as that.
She sighed. Dear Wilf, she wrote, in her mind. Today was just as boring as yesterday, and that was every bit as boring as the day before. I wish I’d never come here. I wish I’d never left you. I wish—
“Nice day for it,” came Mr. Cleat’s voice, intruding on her thoughts.
Tess scrambled to undo her folded legs and sit more properly, dropping her book in the process, and Mr. Cleat laughed. He bent to pick it up, wiping a little loose soil from its cover.
“Ah. The Secret Garden,” he said, handing it back to her. “One of my favorites too. This was mine, as a boy.”
“Yes,” said Tess, who could hardly admit to being halfway through it with no knowledge at all of what it was about. “It’s, um…very good.” She settled herself on the seat and Mr. Cleat nudged in beside her.
“Can I ask what drew you to it?” He turned to her with a strange look in his eye, like he wanted to laugh but didn’t want to offend her and was doing his best to hide it.
Tess shrugged. “No real reason. I liked the picture of the girl on the cover and I like gardens…” Her voice trailed off and she couldn’t help but feel silly.
“Don’t go digging up my flower beds looking for buried keys now,” he said with a note of good-natured teasing in his voice. Tess smiled but looked away as quickly as she could. Her gaze fell on Mr. Cleat’s hand, outstretched on his knee. His ring with its mysterious engraved initials glinted up at her from his smallest finger.
“I’ve seen you observing this before,” Mr. Cleat said, lifting his hand. “Sadly it doesn’t come off anymore, or I’d let you take a closer look.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” Tess replied, feeling her face grow hot. She and Mr. Cleat hadn’t really spoken since he’d told her she couldn’t visit Ackerbee’s and something inside her was still bruised from that encounter. She hoped he’d be going soon.
“Can you make out the letters?” he asked, holding his hand toward her. He nudged the ring with his thumb, from behind. “They’re a capital I and H, linked together.”
“Yes, I see,” said Tess, glancing politely. “Someone’s initials?”
“A lost love?” Mr. Cleat said with a chuckle. “Nothing so poetic, I’m afraid. They are the initials of a club of which I’m a member. I was a founding member, in fact.”
“Oh?” Tess said, hoping she sounded interested.
“It stands for the Interdimensional Harmonics Society,” Mr. Cleat continued, despite Tess not having asked him to. “Have you heard of it?”
Something uncomfortable prickled behind Tess’s ear and it took her a moment to realize it was just Violet. “Um,” she began. “No, I’m afraid not.” She allowed Violet to crawl onto her hand before depositing the spider on top of her head.
“It’s a science, I suppose,” Mr. Cleat said, pausing only briefly as he watched Violet’s movements, as though unsure whether she was going to fling herself at him, fangs bared, or not. Once it seemed clear the only thing Violet was hunting was a comfortable place to nap, he relaxed. “A type of experimental research,” he continued. “Into alternate realities.”
Tess felt like someone had sucked all the air out of the garden. Her ears began to ring, faintly at first but rapidly growing louder. “I—I beg your pardon?” she managed to say. Her heart started a rapid thunk-thunk-thunk as she tried to stay calm.
“I know it seems nonsensical,” Mr. Cleat said with a chuckle. “Alternate realities? Who could possibly have any interest in such a dusty theory? Yet it seems there’s life in the old dog yet. Our membership numbers hold steady, year on year. We’re hoping 1941 will be our best year to date.” He waggled his ring-bearing finger in front of his eye, as though trying to make the letters dance. “But why am I boring you with all this?” He placed his palms flat on his thighs, getting ready to push himself into a standing position. “I should leave you to your reading.” He nodded at the book and gave Tess a quick smile.
“No—wait!” Tess said as Mr. Cleat began to rise. He turned back to her, looking surprised. “I am interested. What does it mean, alternate realities?” She blinked and tried to look simply curious, instead of bristling and on her guard.
“Well,” Mr. Cleat began, sinking back into the bower seat. “It’s a bit complicated.” He looked down at his own hands, locking his fingers tightly together as he spoke. “I suppose you could say there are lots of theories around the idea of alternate realities—some people think there are universes wrapped up together like balls of string, and some scientists postulate that universes fit together something like a jigsaw puzzle, only in dimensions we can’t even conceive of. Many people feel the realities work like a spider’s web: a disturbance at one point leads to tremors being felt in many other places, just as a spider knows when a fly gets stuck in its trap.”
He paused, as if thinking. “But the theory we prefer in the Society is the one that imagines the layers of reality like a stack of paper, each sheet with a tiny cushion of air between the page above it and below it, so that the sheets are all close by one another, but none are actually touching. Does that make sense?” He glanced at her and she tried to cover her fear with her growing interest.
Mr. Cleat continued, seemingly oblivious. “And each sheet, potentially stretching to infinity in all directions, is a reality. A world, if you like. Just as this one is.” He released one hand and waved it around, taking in the house and garden. “Each sheet—or each reality—might be as different from one another as you and I are, or they might be almost exact copies of one another save for one tiny but crucial detail. Nobody really knows for certain.”
“But where did they all come from?” Tess asked. “The theories, I mean.”
“Idle curiosity mostly,” Mr. Cleat said with a half grin. “But interest in the concept of multiple realities began in earnest about thirty-three years ago, or thereabouts. Around 1908. I’m not old enough to remember the early days”—he cleared his throat—“but when I was about twelve, I took a more personal interest in it. My father—well, it was his interest really, and then it became mine.”
Tess frowned at him. “I don’t think I understand.”
Mr. Cleat began to explain, observing Tess closely as he spoke. “In 1908, in a distant part of the Rus Empire, a gigantic explosion occurred one quiet day completely out of the blue. It left no crater and thankfully claimed no lives because of the location’s remoteness. At first, nobody could explain it. Theories sprang up about what caused it almost straightaway, of course, each more outlandish than the last, but one—the one I believe to be true—was that the event was an echo of something that took place in another reality. Something so significant that it left ripples, or impressions, in the realities surrounding it.”
“Like a pencil nib leaving a mark on the page beneath it, if you lean too heavily,” Tess said before she could help herself. Mr. Cleat’s face brightened.
“Exactly so. Exactly so. I couldn’t have put it better myself,” he told her.
“And that was enough to make people think that there was more than one reality?” Tess sounded dubious.
“I think the idea had been floated before,” Mr. Cleat said. “But it became fashionable, I suppose, after that time.” He cleared his throat and looked at his hands again.
“So the different sheets of paper—the different realities,” Tess said, enthusiasm getting the better of her caution, “that’s the interdimensional bit.” She gave him a questioning look.
“Bingo,” replied Mr. Cleat, looking pleased. “That’s the interdimensional part—the different realities lying in layers, one on top of the other. We don’t know for certain how far they extend, how many there are or”—Mr. Cleat blinked and focused intently on Tess—“how to get from one to the other, or if that’s even something that can be done.”
Tess shrugged, looking away. “Seems like it’s impossible to know things like that,” she said.
“And that’s where the harmonics bit comes in,” Mr. Cleat said, his tone casual and bright again. “The Society I belong to believes that radiophone technology can be used to send messages between realities—that in essence we can ‘hear’ between worlds, if we listen carefully enough.” He paused, sitting back a little. “We came up with the name harmonics because we work with sound waves, and we’re experimenting all the time with frequencies, trying to find one that can cross the void between worlds. We’re certain it can be done.” He paused to clear his throat again. “Or we believe it can.”
Tess swallowed, her own throat suddenly sore, as though there were something in it that wanted to get out. “Do you mean there are people who don’t believe it?”
Mr. Cleat laughed but it was cold and humorless. “You could say so,” he said. “Most people think we’re crackpots, sitting around tables in silence, holding hands, listening. But we know we’re onto something.”
“I’m sure you are,” said Tess, hoping she sounded like she shared that opinion.
“At any rate,” Mr. Cleat said, color rising to his cheeks, “I really had better get going now. I’m off to a Society meeting, actually. We’re hoping to welcome our new members.” He got to his feet, settling his jacket as he found his feet. “I’ll be late home, so please let Old Nettleworth—whoops! I mean, Mrs. Thistleton, of course—know not to keep any dinner for me. I’ll eat at the club.” He gave Tess a conspiratorial wink.
“All—all right,” Tess responded, not sure what else to say.
“Do enjoy the book. I’d be very happy for you to keep it if you’d like to.” He gave her, and The Secret Garden, a strange sad smile. “My father gave it to me for my twelfth birthday. He died later that year, so it means rather a lot to me, you see,” he said, and then he was gone.
Tess watched him walk toward the house. As soon as he’d gone through the kitchen door and it had been closed behind him, she leaned her head against the bower and took several long shaky breaths. Violet clambered down to her comfort place, folding herself into the hollow of Tess’s throat, and Tess felt her pulse start to slow.
He knew. Or he suspected, at least. Tess still didn’t know what had led him to her, or how he’d known where to look for her, but she’d have to figure it out—and as quickly as she could. There was no way any of the discussion they’d just shared had been an innocent coincidence. Mr. Cleat had been sounding her out, trying to find a way in. Tess was almost glad she knew so little.
She kept her eyes on the house as she slipped her hand into her pocket. The object was there, along with Miss Ackerbee’s folded note, and her experiments notebook was stuck in too for good measure. She gripped the cool metal, and as soon as she was certain the coast was clear, she darted out of the bower seat and made a run for the gate.
She was already halfway across the field before she remembered she’d left Mr. Cleat’s book behind and she cursed herself. She hoped Mrs. Thistleton wouldn’t come looking for her in the garden, find the book in the bower seat and figure out that Tess was somewhere close by. She wouldn’t have put it past the woman to sit there, waiting, the book on her knee, for Tess to come back—and she could hardly explain what she was doing clambering back over the gate.
But since there was nothing she could do about it, Tess strode on, and soon she was through the trees and gone.