At no stage, I must be clear, did I ever even hint to Henry what I was up to. Quite apart from the clichéd responses I would get — derived no doubt from the trashy novels and films that he liked to consume while no one was looking — there wasn’t much chance he would understand. Equally, there was the slight possibility that he might be offended that I had helped myself to the contents of his head without asking.
Even worse, he might believe me and demand to go and see for himself. Not many people, I suppose, have even the remotest chance of seeing their literary creation in the flesh. Henry is convinced that Shakespeare knew his Rosalind personally in some guise, but that is quite rare. I am sure Dickens would have jumped at the chance of some time in the pub with Mr Pickwick. No doubt Jane Austen would have got on like a house on fire with Mr Darcy, and what about Bram Stoker spending an evening chatting away to Count Dracula over a cup of cocoa? The dangers of Henry’s imagination ending up inside itself are so evident they hardly need to be stated. Henry would know everything about the world he was in; his thoughts and Anterwold would be the same. He would be, in effect, a god. No; better he did not know.
The first thing I had to do was to head to Henry’s house and get all the information I could — check on the stability of the whole thing, see how big it had become, do basic tests for growth and resilience. Once that was done, I could perhaps start thinking about who I might persuade to go through and search for Rosie if she didn’t return. For the longer she stayed there, the stronger Anterwold would become. To anthropomorphise again, it would start getting ideas above its station; it would start sending out feelers to try and connect with its past and future, adjusting each to justify and confirm its existence.
I apologise; that’s not what it would do. That suggests a degree of eventfulness, of discrete existence which is not real. It is just that I do not know how to express it in any more accurate a fashion. To put it as crudely as possible, the longer it continued, the more it would try to shunt my future (or past, or wherever it was) out of the way and take its place. I was fairly confident this would not happen but it worried me, because then everything would be down to probability. As I had no idea what Henry’s universe was, then I could not calculate whether it was more or less likely than my reality.
The one thing I hoped was that his house would be empty when I arrived, as I was anxious to have an uninterrupted hour in his cellar. It was about lunchtime, and the middle of the week, so I didn’t think Henry would be there. I parked in a side street nearby, walked round and, unfortunately, spotted his bike outside the front door. What a nuisance. Lovely man. But not at the moment.
23
Rosie was led through the final door — she was convinced they had gone round in circles, they had passed through so many rooms — and into a huge hall. There was a large fireplace; the windows were not merely open, they seemed to have been actually removed so that it was light and airy, with what could only be described as a throne on a plinth at the far end. The servants halted at a little wooden balustrade that ran across the room with only a small gap. Rosie stopped as well, but one inclined his head to show that she was meant to go through. She did so — feeling nervous, as if she was being ushered into some form of court room — and the servants began stamping their feet on the broad wooden planks of the floor.
She was clearly meant to continue, so she started walking again. They started clapping, adding to the noise. She kept going, and they started shouting, ululating like African tribesmen she had seen once on television. From outside, she could hear others as well, joining in the noise, all shouting and stamping as loudly as they could.
Then — silence. Rosie was now confused and alarmed. A door opened and a woman walked — glided really — through it, and placed her hands together against her mouth, and bowed to her.
‘Greetings to you, and peace be with you through all your days, traveller,’ she said in a melodious voice which was so quiet Rosie could hardly make it out. ‘You are welcome to the hospitality of my house, as welcome as if it were your own. May you be comfortable and happy here.’
Rosie realised that this was a very formal, polite sort of greeting which presumably required an equally formal and polite reply. She didn’t know what it was, but ‘Hello’ didn’t seem right.
‘I thank you for your great kindness,’ she said, hoping this would do for a start, ‘and for the hospitality of your great house. May it know peace and happiness all the days it stands.’
Not bad. Not bad at all. It was evidently not what she ought to have said — the slightly perplexed look on the woman’s face showed that very clearly — but it seemed to be acceptable, if unorthodox.
The woman clapped her hands and immediately the others in the room began filing out. The last one closed the great doors, leaving them alone.
‘Good,’ she said in a warm voice. ‘Now come with me. You need some care and attention before the Festivity begins.’
She came close to Rosie and studied her carefully with her deep blue eyes. Rosie did the same in return. She was a beautiful woman, with a delicate face and a way of standing that — to Rosie — made her seem like a queen with her long fair hair under a tiara of glittering stones. She was dressed all in white with a blue sash around her waist. She wore no shoes, but had a ring of gold on every toe. Rosie thought that looked rather good.
‘Forgive me for asking,’ she said, ‘but who are you?’
‘I am called Catherine, widow of Thenald, Lord and Lady both of the domain of Willdon,’ she replied. ‘Although the conventions of etiquette insist that I am never introduced to anyone.’
‘Why not?’
She thought. ‘Probably because I should not need to be.’
‘You’re the one Jay is so frightened of?’
‘I very much hope so,’ she said with a light laugh.
‘I don’t see what he has done which is so terrible.’
‘Ah, but you seem to know very little. Young Jay has disobeyed the direct command of his master. He has trespassed on my lands and ventured unbidden into the Shrine of the Leader. For the first he could be dismissed from his calling, for the second he could become my property, and his children and his children’s children, for seventy and seven harvests. For the last, he could be cast out of human society for ever.’
‘That’s ridiculous.’
‘It is. His master will scold him, then forgive him. As for the second, it is a law which has not been enforced in my time and I do not intend to revive it for Master Jay. Nonetheless, he has not covered himself in glory.’
‘He’ll be all right, then?’
‘Oh, certainly. Apart from burning ears, he will be returned to you in almost perfect condition. Now, through this door here...’
Lady Catherine led Rosie through a door into a much smaller room which was lined with the most curious shelves the girl had ever seen: lots of square wooden boxes filled with rolls of paper. It smelt of wax and dust and flowers. It was a bit like an office, like her father’s little study, except that it had big windows that opened directly onto the courtyard beyond and was bathed in light, while her father’s was always dark and smelled of stale pipe smoke. ‘What a nice room,’ she said.
‘Thank you. It is where the story of Willdon is kept.’
She said this in a way which weighed the words down with meaning, although Rosie didn’t see what the meaning was. It didn’t seem that serious a business, after all, to have stories. But she nodded as though she understood, and tried to look impressed.