In ‘Dawn of the Dance‘, Karen continues to relive the experiences of the young Lady Emerald. The Lady Emerald, then known as Dawn, was enjoying the attentions of a village lad, Shaun, at the Harvest Festival. We continue after she returned home…

Dawn opened her bedroom window and sat upon its wide ledge. She lifted her legs, and swiveled around to face toward the night. Dressed ready for bed, she casually arranged the skirt of her gown, before returning to brushing her long blonde hair. It calmed Dawn to feel the stillness of the valley when the village was asleep, though tonight was different, as the sound of the festival still drifted to the outlying houses. She hummed to herself, along with the music. Sometimes it was hard to go to sleep. The lulling rhythm of the brush strokes helped, and her mind had already taken flight, first gliding across the valley basin and now soaring higher, ready to dive to places that lay within imagination, and not long outside of a day’s coach ride. Soon she would leave, she told herself. Her teachers were sure of it. She was clever and hardworking; they would help her secure a place at a university, in one of the cities. Once there, Dawn would study science, like her mother had before. There her mind would really be free.

Something rustled behind the hedgerow. In the city, animals acted like people, but in the countryside they still ran wild. But nocturnal animals did not concern Dawn, and this sounded like no animal. Wary of being watched, Dawn climbed back inside, and ducked beneath the window ledge. Then she popped her head back up again, to discretely peek at who was outside. As she looked out from her hiding place, another looked up from his. Realizing the futility of the situation, Shaun stood up, waved, and seeing no reply, he steadily made his way around the hedge, over the fence, and across the meadow until he was beneath Dawn’s window. “I know you’re up there. I didn’t mean any harm. You left so early; I was hoping to talk some more,” said Shaun, in that peculiar kind of whisper that people use when wanting to be heard at a distance. Dawn raised her head a little higher, asking “is that you, Shaun?” though she knew it was. She was fully leaning out of the window before she received a reply. “It is,” he said simply. “What are you doing here?” Dawn was wary that her father might catch them, though usually he was a sound sleeper.
“You left so early. We’d only just started to talk, and I wanted to continue. I was going to call for you at your window, but then I saw you were already sitting there.”
“Yes, here I am, at my bedroom window,” said Dawn, feeling the conversation was stuck on the obvious.
“I came to talk, but when I saw you, I didn’t want to disturb you. The moon silver, your hair golden, I was…”
Dawn giggled. “Did you think of that whilst crouching behind the hedge?”
“Seeing you at your window,” Shaun continued, unruffled, “was like seeing the sun rise…” but then he had to chuckle at himself, and Dawn laughed along.
“How long were you behind that hedge, composing your poetry?”
“About ten minutes.”
“Maybe you needed another hour or two back there.”
Dawn’s barbed words did not wound Shaun, because they were sweetly spoken. He responded with equal jest: “I could go back to the hall. There’s still plenty in there.”
Dawn felt saddened at the thought of being excluded from the festivities. Other young men and women danced on, whilst she prepared for bed. “Maybe you should go back. You don’t want to miss the fun.”
“It’s better here.”
“Is it? Why is that? Were you hoping to catch me confiding my secrets to whatever creature was listening; perhaps a barn owl, or a field mouse? And maybe they’d school me on…” She had meant to say ‘the mysteries of young men’ but she realized how that would sound, and stopped herself. “Anyway, you’ll not find it better here if my father catches you, so don’t speak so loud.”
“If he found me here, would he try to kill me?”
“No, but he’d certainly shout at you, and then he’d talk to your father tomorrow. Though maybe he wouldn’t bother with your father, and he’d just punish me instead.”
“That would be unfair. You’re the innocent party.”
“I agree. I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“Nobody’s in the wrong here. I just came to talk. Does your father have objections to my family? We’re not the richest, but we’re honest enough.”
“I’m sure your family is no worse than others. He’d be the same with any lad that dared talk to me this way.”
“And you? Do you object?”
“It’s never happened before. They say you should try everything once.”
“That’s not an objection.”
“No. It’s provisional acceptance,” and Dawn climbed back up on to the ledge, reassuming her seated position. “I’ve not finished brushing my hair, so we might as well chat whilst I do.”

Though Dawn’s house had just two stories, it had been built tall, and she sat at least eight feet above the level of Shaun’s head. This physical divide was comforting, and encouraged them both to talk more freely than they otherwise would. As the gap was too great to traverse bodily, unless Dawn got a notion to risk leaping to the ground, their minds compensated by coming closer together. They both felt inclined to say things that they would otherwise have censored.
“Your hair’s beautiful…” said Shaun.
“… like golden rays of sun?” rejoined Dawn.
“Like the beauty of words that I can’t summon. The beauty’s in you, not in my description of you.”
“So the beauty’s the same, no matter how it’s described?”
“Yes.”
“But, Shaun, my hair is on the top of my head, not inside it. How do you know if I’m beautiful inside?”
“From your manner.”
“From my manner when dancing?”
“From your manner whenever I’ve seen you.”

Dawn was ill-prepared for the battery of flattery that Shaun had mercilessly aimed at her. She felt her defences collapsing. She toyed with the sensation, but it left her anxious too. Momentarily unsure of what to say, she looked away. On the other hand, she desperately wanted to hear more. Dawn sat on a pivot. At one moment she imagined herself diving under her covers. At the next moment, she saw herself dropping from the ledge to the ground, to be closer to Shaun. She vacillated within, but sat perfectly still, apart from the motion of each hairbrush stroke. The pause in conversation had become excruciating, so she looked back to Shaun, as if willing him to speak more. He did.
“Dawn, I’d like it if you came out more often, came to join us when we’re doing things.”
“Like what, fishing?”
“Fishing, yes, or just eating in company, or when there’s games to be played. We don’t see much of you. I’d like to see more of you.”
“That would be nice. But you know I plan to leave the village in the coming months?” It was true, and she said it without hesitation, but once said she felt it was a miserably discouraging thing to say to Shaun.
“I heard that you would leave. You’re smart enough to go to better places. But your father’s smart too; you could learn with him.”
“There’s nothing I want to learn from him,” said Dawn, coldly.
“It doesn’t matter if you’re going soon. I’d just like to know you more, before you do.”
“Do you walk?”
“Of course. I walked here.”
“Then walk from here, with me, tomorrow. No, let’s not meet here. I’ll meet you on the lane that leads West of here and heads up the hill. Father encourages my walks, saying they’re good exercise. We’ll meet at the junction, just out of sight of here.”
“What time?”
“Three o’clock. But now go.” She told him to go, though she did not really want him to leave.
“Okay, until tomorrow.” Shaun walked away, a little reluctantly, but happy he would see Dawn tomorrow. She hesitantly waved, her brush in her hand, as he crossed the fence and walked back beyond the hedgerow. And as she did, she bit her lip, knowing what danger she had manufactured for them both.

In ‘Falling Into Emerald Memories‘ we explored an episode of Karen Zipslicer’s adventure where she uses a machine to relive the memories of the Lady Emerald. This installment continues the theme, with Karen moving on to explore more of the Lady Emerald’s memories.

“Go-away, go-away, time to leave Shaun,
We must not be seen together.

Hide-away, hide-away, hide yourself Dawn,
A maiden, you will be forever.

Run-away, run-away, love is foregone,
It’s been many a year since I’ve seen her.

Wash-away, wash-away, history’s done,
Now I drink the milk of amnesia.”

Every person has two sides: an inside and an outside. Not every person can recognize that truth. Some conscious minds cannot be reconciled to the inconsistencies they contain. Some people can accept the many truths of who they are; others cannot. The Lady Emerald was one person who could. She knew the truth of herself, and the truth of other people. Knowledge was mastery, ignorance was slavery. This was her maxim. She had once been a slave; she was now a master. She was a master, not a mistress, and others were slave to her. Most were imprisoned by their appetites; they longed to taste a fruit that only existed in their imagination. The Lady Emerald served them the garnish of an impossibly elusive and undefined freedom. A few showed more spirit, but she mastered them too. That might require a brutal touch at first, but once they were anaesthetized, they also learned to comply with her will.

The Lady Emerald knew herself inside and out, and was untroubled by the inconsistencies she found between her two sides. She had no reason to be troubled by them. What had started accidental had become deliberate. The face she showed the world had been her greatest invention. The truth inside was her motivation. She pitied those who wrongly thought themselves to be consistent, who could not conscience the difference between their inner and outer selves. They were living a fantasy. But they were not to be pitied. She had no desire to wake them from their ignorant bliss. Knowledge would set their brains alight, causing untold pain for them and everyone around them. This Lady Emerald would let people be. Indulging their natural inclinations was better than forcing the squalid truth upon them. Better still, it was what they wanted. There was nothing to gain by illuminating the misery of common life. She wanted to let the masses live and die in a comforting darkness. The darker it was, the better for them, because their imaginations would fill the space around them more effectively than any manufactured good. Better to encourage the cheap joy of delusion than ignite an uncontrollable fire of dissatisfaction.

The Lady Emerald had not always been the Lady Emerald. Karen now appreciated that, perhaps more than anyone else ever had. The Lady Emerald had once been a green-eyed girl looking out at a valley from inside her father’s laboratory. That girl was calm on the outside, screaming and crying inside. Her eyes shined like lasers, lighting her way. She shone outward; no-one could look in. Karen had now been that girl too, had experienced her suffering. She had sat in her place, and felt as she did.

They had both been Dawn, a green-eyed girl with sunny blonde hair and a look of distracted sadness in her thin, pale face. Karen had visited Dawn like a weekend tourist. The Lady Emerald had grown from Dawn like a tree from a sapling. Those experiences had changed them both.

Karen slipped from the chair where Dawn, the green-eyed girl, sat. The hours, the days, spent in that room were more than she could bear. No; they were more than Karen wanted to bear. Karen had passed through them like a guest being shown around a stranger’s house. Karen was a visitor. Dawn had actually lived there. Karen gratefully slipped away from Dawn’s memory, leaving it behind. Dawn desperately slipped from Dawn’s body, leaving it behind. Karen descended through the chair, through the floor, through the earth. Dawn’s soul ran, through the door, across the meadow, over the stile, down the road, then another road, up the mountainside, scrabbling to get to that place, that one place above all others.

Inside out. To know somebody inside-out. To be known inside-out. To know someone is to truly love them. To know them too well is to destroy them. It consumes the divide between inside and out. Closeness becomes annihilation. To step inside another person’s secrets, to unwrap their hiding places, was to burgle a soul, leaving the body empty. There are places in every mind where no one should dwell. The green-eyed Dawn had been loved to death, laid bare by her father’s intrusions. Her father knew her, through and through. Dawn had been charted, documented, recorded, and reported, until her every last refuge had been evacuated. Dawn last lived upon the mountain, alone. That was her resting place. In her father’s laboratory, the green-eyed girl died, and her remnants hardened into something new, something yet to have a name. It was cold but beautiful in its hardness, transparent yet refractive. In that room, the pressures of a man’s methodical searching coalesced something rare and terrible. Dawn was crushed, leaving an emerald kernel behind.

Karen was falling again, but not like before. This time she fell without concern, without emotion. Her emotions were purged when she decoupled from Dawn’s memory. She fell silently. This time, as Karen fell, she saw that lights twinkled in the darkness. They seemed very far away. She had not noticed them before. Were they stars? She looked at one, and as she did, she heard its song. In the void around Karen, there danced whispers of conversation and beautiful chords without a tune. They twirled around her, waltzed with her. She listened; she had the sense of a conversation between Dawn and a man. Karen could almost imagine them together. She listened more, and as she did, she was falling towards the star. The chords combined and strung themselves into melody. The song grew louder, and swallowed her. Karen fell into the star and back into Dawn, but this time it was an older Dawn. This Dawn was walking along the footpath toward the village. To her left, her father strode alongside her. Ahead lay the village hall, from where the music played, a mix of fiddle and accordion, and sometimes a piano. The village was celebrating the Harvest Festival, and everyone from the village would be there.

They had arrived relatively late in the day. Families with younger children had been playing and eating and socializing for hours already. Dawn’s father had preferred to tinker with the equipment in his laboratory, though this was an excuse. In reality he was uncomfortable in large crowds. It suited him to wait until he could be sure that some of his older friends would already be sitting quietly to one side of proceedings, and he would join them. Dawn had to wait until her father was ready for them to leave together, though she did so without complaint. In recent years she had adopted more of the traits of her father, and had also become nervous in company. She was more at ease with the younger children; once inside the hall she immediately took the opportunity to join her closest friend Edith, overseeing those children who had been put down to nap in an annex. This ritual of the village’s events allowed the kids to tire themselves out during the day, leaving their parents free to mix with the other adults in the evening. Edith hovered by the doorway to the annex, able to see if any children were restless but still free to chat to anyone who wandered her way. Dawn stood with her. She asked Edith how the children had been, though Edith had little to say about them. Edith talked instead about the games and dancing earlier in the day, gently scolding Dawn for not joining in. Occasionally a parent would step by to look in on their kids, though there was rarely a need for them to do so.

With two young ladies to oversee the children, Edith grew a little restless. She knew that Dawn was shy, and did not want to leave her alone. On the other hand, she wanted to mix in the company, and to feel the sway of her dress as she moved in time to the music. Dawn knew this, and volunteered to stand alone, but Edith politely refused. Edith was energetic in her protestations that they would share the child minding duties. Her raised voice offered an excuse for Tim, a lad of her age standing within earshot, to come over and interrupt. His older friend, Shaun, came in tow.
“Do you want to dance, Edith?” asked Tim, plainly and directly.
“Can’t you see I’m looking after the children?” responded Edith, but her flirtatious manner belied her words.
Tim faced Dawn and was equally direct in asking her: “you wouldn’t mind if I took Edith away for a single dance, would you?” He had a knack of saying what he wanted in such a way that no-one could refuse him. Tim would smile broadly and look people confidently in the eyes, two traits that Dawn observed but could not emulate. Speechless for a little while, she first shook her head and then, realizing the ambiguity of what she had done, she clarified: “No, no, I don’t mind. You go ahead.”
“Edith,” and Tim held out his hand for Dawn’s. She had to go now, and Edith play-acted a hint of reluctance, though inside she felt none. She put her hand in Tim’s, and he led her away. Tim’s friend Shaun, who was a couple of years older than Tim though much quieter in nature, had looked on impassively. As neither of them were talkative, Dawn knew little of Shaun, though she had inevitably encountered him many times over the years. Both of them had grown up in the village, but a passing acquaintance had never granted an occasion for them to speak one-on-one. Now, seemingly by accident, Shaun was left alone with Dawn. A moment went by as he watched Tim and Edith walk away, and then he turned back to Dawn and spoke with an unexpected air of authority.
“They’ll be gone for more than one dance. See how he clasps her hand in the dancer’s embrace? I shouldn’t be surprised if the fingers of those hands are embraced by rings before too long.”
Dawn was stirred by the fluency of Shaun’s speech, though she could not match it. “Aye, you’re right,” and then she hesitated and falteringly added: “but maybe they shouldn’t rush their…” she groped for the right word, “courtship.”
“I don’t know. Their courtship has lasted a good while already, and it should progress towards a conclusion.”

Dawn stood mute. She lacked an easy way with words, and she was ill-equipped to rejoin Shaun’s exposition. His voice was deep and had a pleasing lilt; his family had moved to the village whilst he was a boy, and he retained some of the accent of his birthplace. She had not known him to talk so freely before. Dawn felt nervous and tongue-tied. This was not the kind of conversation that suited her. They were both looking at Edith and Tim circling the village hall. Neither danced well, though from their expressions they were not self-conscious. This afforded their movements a happy easiness that was pleasing to the eye.
“I’ll look in on the kids,” said Dawn, looking to break the silence and extract herself from the moment.
“You don’t need to look in on them,” responded Shaun. “We can see they’re all perfectly fine from where we’re standing,” and with this he looked into the annex, which was dimly lit but evidently at peace with the resting breath of two dozen sleeping children. His look directed Dawn to look, and her nervous ruse to distance herself from Shaun was undone. She realized that she had no good excuse to run from Shaun. Some time passed, awkwardly. Dawn could not match Shaun’s gaze; he was looking at her, whilst she looked to her feet.
“Your shoes are pretty; they should also be taken for a tour around the hall.”
“I’m not much of a dancer,” this was an unusual admission for Dawn, as she thought to herself immediately afterward. Whilst it was true, she rarely deprecated herself, for fear it would encourage others to mock her too.
“Even so, you put them on for a reason. Silver shoes are made to be seen.”

Shaun’s words were gently spoken yet assured. She listened to them and looked to her shoes, then looked up to her interlocutor, then down again, and back again. He kept talking; he had a soothing manner. Before long, she was looking more to Shaun, meeting his gaze with her own, with only the occasional glance away. His disposition calmed her. Dawn wore silvery slippers. The slippers were sequined, and they the more they moved, the more they were guaranteed to reflect winks of light into the eyes of any onlooker. They were not suited to any purpose but being noticed. It mattered to Dawn that Shaun had noticed them, and that he wanted to do something about it.
“We can’t leave the kids unsupervised.”
“No. But I can ask that you dance with me when there’s somebody to replace you.”
With this last sentence, Dawn unconsciously looked about the room for Edith, or somebody else that might take her place. Shaun noticed this, but suppressed the temptation to tease her about it. Instead he commented that her slippers, though in a good state of repair, looked old.
“They were my mother’s,” answered Dawn. “I found them again after going through a trunk of her old things.” Dawn had few strong memories of her mother, who had died when she was still young. Because there was little she could say about her, Dawn never liked to talk about her. Going through her trunk had been a revelation. Mother and daughter wore the same sizes, and Dawn found she liked her mother’s precious finery. Though Dawn’s father had always been keen that his girl should dress prettily, her mother’s clothes were those of a woman, not a girl. They were beautiful and elegant, and they stirred something within Dawn.

Shaun felt equally uncomfortable at the mention of Dawn’s mother; he wanted to change the subject but was not immediately able to think of an alternative topic. Before he did, he spied his younger brother, Aidan, walking back from the toilets.
“It’s your turn to look after the children, Aidan.” Aidan was caught by surprise, but there was nothing to gain from arguing with Shaun when he was in the mood to command. Shaun forcibly escorted him, with one hand on his shoulder, towards Dawn and the annex. When there, Shaun swapped his brother for Dawn, taking her hand, and leading her to the dance floor.

The Karen-inside-Dawn felt her heart skip. Like Dawn, she had never danced like this. Shaun was deliberate and simple in his movements, but he possessed a good sense of rhythm. The woman in his arms was happy to follow his lead. Shaun did not speak much, and that suited Dawn, who needed to keep her mind on her footwork. With one hand on his broad shoulder, and the other held tightly within his, she was content to follow the band’s tune, and his pace. Around the room they went, and Dawn forgot all about the other villagers. She knew they were there, peripherally, but only peripherally. As her silver-slippered feet grew increasingly accustomed to the dance steps, Dawn started to enjoy an unfamiliar ease with herself. She was losing herself in the music, and the moment, and Shaun. Clapping the band between each song, neither dance partner gave any signal of wanting a break. At the first note of the next song, they resumed their embrace and continued as before, turning small circles within a great circle, orbiting the room. Karen, like Dawn, also lost track of the time spent dancing. Maybe the pair had danced for eight or nine songs; maybe they had danced a dozen or more. Karen felt the stillness within Dawn. The stillness complemented her revolution about the dance floor. A previously unknown peace had descended upon her; but then another person’s hand descended upon her shoulder.
“It’s time to go,” announced Dawn’s father.
“But it’s still early yet,” Dawn felt none of her usual inhibition in stating this fact. If they left now, they would be the first to leave the gathering.
“I’m not used to being challenged by you,” said Dawn’s father.
Dawn looked to Shaun, but his face was impassive. She hunted for affection in his eyes, but was unsure if it was there, or if it was just imagined. Shaun had released her the moment that her father had intervened. He looked on at Dawn and her father, turning himself into a silent witness, all his previous authority revoked. And then, when she had almost lost hope in him, Shaun spoke up, and directly to her father.
“If you would like, I will escort Dawn safely home after a few more dances.”
“Thank you, young man, but it’s my role to take Dawn home. Now’s the time we should be heading back.” Dawn’s father had no need to raise his voice; Shaun’s confidence could not override her father’s assertiveness. She briefly thanked Shaun for the dance, and bid him goodbye. Obediently linking arms with her father, they left together.

Neither Dawn nor her father spoke on the way home. The moon was full and reddish-warm, lighting their way, and Dawn would look to it for consolation. It was the harvest moon, hanging low and large in the sky. Though she looked up at it, her father paid no heed to her. He just marched straight ahead, taking them back to their home on the edge of the village. The sound of the music ebbed behind them as they got further away, though the air was still night and the melodies faintly carried all the way to their front door. Dawn’s father spoke up only once. As they crossed the sloping field that led to their home, in the distance they saw an owl swoop down for its prey. Dawn’s father commented: “nature is cruel, my dear, nature is cruel.” She took no notice.

Recently I have spent a lot more time working on Karen Zipslicer’s adventures in Lundern, and I took to writing them as a correctly ordered sequence of chapters, allowing the story to unfold naturally. However, this morning I woke up and was inspired to write a dramatic incident that takes place towards the end of Karen’s story. So you could call this a spoiler alert. Or maybe it is a nonsense alert, because this chapter will not make any sense without the context of the chapters that would come before it. Either way, I like it, and wanted to share it anyway.

Once you get beyond a certain age, any decent children’s story (though I am not so confident this is a children’s story, more like a story for neo-adults) will contain some genuinely dark elements. This would be the dark sub-story in Karen Zipslicer’s adventure. If you like your stories covered in powdered sugar and pixie dust, you had best stop reading now.

It began with falling.

An endless falling, in a black void.

With no sense of time, into a space without limit, she fell. She knew it was falling because of the direction of the wind, because she touched nothing, but travelled downward. There was nothing real but the brush of air against skin. She knew it was falling because she felt it as falling. Her senses were blind, her emotions acute.

And so she fell, for an indescribable time. Hers was the journey of the dream-flyer, except always down, toward no perceptible ground. Downward, as if in some impossibly wide and bottomless well. She shouted something, she was not sure what. There was no echo. She heard no sound at all. Whatever she shouted, it was lost in the expanse, or perhaps it hung in the air above her as she plummeted down, seemingly ever down.

And she still felt she was falling, even when her feet touched solid ground. She had never been falling. She had always been falling. The falling was the loss of something she never had. The falling was the shadow of a joy she had never experienced. Someone had chipped off the top of her head like a boiled egg, and had consumed its contents. All that was left was a fragile, hollow shell. A surface outside, an empty inside.

Karen cried. Not a cry of physical suffering or of childish anxieties. She cried with an anguish of years she could not understand, years she had never lived. The tears streamed but could not release the pressure on the dam, holding back the reservoir of suffering. The waves of misery pounded her, overcame her. She fell to her knees. Perhaps she was screaming; the noises she made defied description. On all fours, wretched like a sickly spluttering dog, her fingernails clawed into the wooden floorboards. Between gasps and howls, the emotion poured down remorselessly, poured down on her and down from her, through her, downward. Prostrate, she was begging in her mind, begging for it to stop but without any hope that it would. Her hands and knees were glued immobile, but her body writhed, possessed with a hulking torment that split her insides, that burst at the confines of her lean frame.

Prostrate on the floor, she was tumbling downward. She fell in her mind to places where no-one should go.

A very sharp intake of breath, involuntary. Lungs filled, chest expanded. Quiet, for a moment. Not peace, but equilibrium. Karen felt the wooden boards with her hands again. She was in the Lady Emerald’s laboratory. She had put on the device. These feelings, these imaginings were part hers, part not hers. Reality. Remember reality, she told herself. This was the Lady Emerald’s laboratory. This was the floor of the Lady Emeralds’ laboratory. Not falling. Her heart steadied and she let out a long sigh. Then another sharp intake of breath. Repressurizing her system. Regaining control. Her face was sticky from tears. She rolled over, sitting on the floor, with her legs stretched out in front of her. She dragged herself a few inches across the floor, to rest her back against the broad leg of a workbench. Some sense of peace. Eyes looking but not seeing. She was in the Lady Emerald’s laboratory.

Karen did not comprehend. As her thought processes came back online, comprehension was restored in faltering steps. The device. She had put on the device. And now she was sitting on the floor of the laboratory, with no device. Just sitting, back where she had been. What had fallen? Where had that sadness come from? She had expected the device to play her memories. She expected them to be played out like a film reel inside her eyes. Instead there had been a storm of emotion, crashing down upon her. And now she was back, back where it had begun, and none the wiser.

But she was not back where she had begun. With her back against that workbench, she looked at her feet again. She was not wearing those magnificent red boots made by Winton. She was not wearing her beloved Heelys or any other footwear she had seen before. These were not her shoes. These were not her feet. Not her legs, nor her arms. She put her arms around herself, hugging, squeezing herself. This was not her. And then, tentatively, she raised a finger to her face, and placed it on her forehead, half touching her eyebrow. She traced the line of her eyebrow, then around and underneath her eye. She rode the bridge of her nose, then down its side, brushing past her nostril, to her mouth. There her finger lingered, pressed across her lips. This was not Karen. This was not her face, nor her body. But it was Karen. This was not Karen and it was Karen. This was a laboratory, but not the laboratory of the Lady Emerald.

Up, she got. She looked around for a mirror. There was none. Karen remonstrated with herself: why would there be? This was a laboratory, not a dressing room. Whilst the palace’s opulent exterior was covered in mirrored finery, she was inside a place of work. But this was not the laboratory of the palace. The Lady Emerald’s laboratory had a magnificent view from its lofty tower. The view from this laboratory was also beautiful, its own way, but it was from a ground floor, and it looked on to a valley like none that Karen had seen in Lundern. Karen stepped towards the window; it was a little dirty, so she swung it open to better admire the surroundings. This was a village, congregated on one side of a river that snaked through the valley. A long and sloping meadow of lush green grass separated this house from the next cottage over. A footpath meandered over the uneven land, stretching from the house leftwards, a minor artery leading to the village’s heart. This house was slightly elevated and aloof when compared to its peers; the village was low-lying and generally flat. Smoke rose from some of the chimneys, but the air was fresh and not too brisk. It was afternoon in early springtime. Karen looked upon the scene. Most of all, Karen saw the sky. Truly, and clearly, she could see the blue sky, peppered with clouds of varying shades of white and, more in the distance, some of grey. Karen had not seen the sky in Lundern. She reached for the window handle, in order to pull it closed again. As she did, there was an accident of light and angles, and Karen saw herself reflected in the pane. Saw herself, and not herself, for she was not herself. She was a girl, some other girl, about the same age as Karen, but this girl was very fair-haired and her eyes were a striking green. Karen looked sadly at this reflection of another girl. The girl in the reflection looked sad to her.

A man came into view, walking on the footpath. He was fair-haired too, and sported a beard. It was her father. It was not Karen’s father but it was this blonde girl’s father. Karen knew this, without knowing how. He walked steadily, a measured gait, with a stick to help him balance though he did not seem to need it. As he came closer, he looked at Karen, or rather at the blonde girl that was his daughter. He looked at her, without expression. There was no wave. He walked up to the house, and inside. Karen remained in the laboratory. She had thought of fleeing, like a burglar flees the scene of his crime, but there was no reason to flee. This was her father’s house. She belonged to here. The blonde girl’s father was out of sight, but she could hear him moving about the place. Eventually he would come to his laboratory. She dreaded him. Karen thought about her own dad, her real dad, and James. She wanted to be with them. James had cried when she saw him last. Big girls don’t cry. She wanted to go home but there was no way. No escape. No hope of escape. She was forgetting about any place but here. Karen could not tell if these feelings belonged to her or the blonde girl, but she shuddered when the door handle turned. Here was the father, his face placid. He stroked his beard with his hand. He spoke. “Good girl. I like it when you’re here, waiting for me to begin. Good girl.” The words of praise welled up inside the girl like a fist punching its way out of her stomach. Punch. Karen wondered if she would be sick. Punch. But somehow the girl had got used to this. Somehow her mind was drifting away, disconnecting from the here and now. But whilst Karen felt that about the girl, she could not leave the laboratory. She was stuck in the intensity of this moment, this grotesquely serene moment of foreboding.

Like a programmed machine, the girl strode away from the window, and to her allotted place, a straight-backed wooden chair across the other side of the room. Karen could feel the girl’s mind floating away, whilst hers was inextricably rooted in this laboratory. The girl was as expressionless as her father, though inside her emotions were seething. Four circular free-standing shelving units surrounded the chair. The girl was thinking of lessons at school, or the grass in the fields. Upon the shelves there were innumerable metal boxes, with appendages and dials that yielded no clue as to what purpose they served. Karen feared them. Many of the boxes were haphazardly wired to each other. The father weaved inside and outside the shelves, walking around, tinkering with the connections between some of the boxes. The girl was thinking of the winter snows that had melted, she was thinking of the water in the river. The girl’s father brought over a wide tray of the precious energy crystals, and methodically inserted them into his instruments. The girl thought of a road that winded toward a nearby mountain-top. The instruments hummed or crackled as they fed on their new crystals. She could walk up that road. Some dials momentarily danced across their displays, but then rested back at zero. She would walk up that road. The father held up a gum-shield and asked his daughter to open her mouth and bite upon it; she complied without resistance. When the road had taken her to its highest point before plunging down the other side, the girl would have to scramble the remainder of her way to that mountain top. From behind her, the father pulled out what looked like a combination of a fabric skull cap and a coat-wire crown. It was criss-crossed with a hundred silvery threads; they made the pattern of an especially complex spider’s web. To spend the day looking out across that majestic view of the valley beneath, that was a very fine way to spend the day. The father connected the skull-crown with a cable that ran to several machines on the shelves behind the girl, then he put it down again. Evidently, he had forgotten something. Karen had been looking back over her shoulder, trying to see what the girl’s father was doing, but the girl resisted the motion, relaxing the muscles in her neck and slipping into her imaginings. It was hard work to climb up that mountain-side; the girl was using her hands to cling to it and pull herself up. The girl’s golden tresses hid two shaven patches on either side of her head, located above and behind her ears. The father took a barber’s razor and scraped the stubble from both spots. He dabbed at them with a cotton ball dipped in alcohol. It was fine to be alone on that mountain, above it all, above everyone. The father gently placed the skull-crown on the girl’s head. Like the devices, the skull-crown hummed, though more gently. Karen could feel the hum, physically running through the girl. There were pads on either side of the skull-crown that aligned to the places where the girl was shaved. The father tightened the screws so that the pads pressed firm against the girl’s head. Karen shook the girl’s head; the skull-crown was on tight. From up there, the village houses all seemed small, so insignificant compared to the wonder of the natural terrain. “Don’t shake your head,” the father snapped, “be a good girl”. The hands that were both Karen’s and the girls gripped the arms of the chair tightly. The father reached up on one shelf, and pulled down two black cubes. You could look over to the next valley, and you knew there were other places you could go to, in order to be free. Each cube had a recess on one face, and a thick long lead emanating from the opposite face. The father turned the recessed side of each cube towards his daughter’s face, and pushed them hard over her eyes. Both Karen and the girl yelped as their head was pushed against the hard straight back of the chair, but the noise they made was suppressed by the gum-shield in their mouth. Nothing could hurt the girl, once she was upon that mountain top. It hurt to have the boxes pressed against her eyes, but the girl bit down on the gum-shield; Karen felt some relief come of it. As the solid boxes were pressed against her face, they gradually seemed to deform, or melt. You could see the smoke from the village chimneys, but you could also see far-off mountain-tops. Beyond them would be places where they would never find you. The black boxes stuck to the girl’s face and they flowed into her eyes. She could see through them, and see into them, at one and the same time. Nothing could hurt the girl, when she was looking down at all else below. The father picked up the leads running from each box, and screwed the other end into each eye glass of a machine that looked like a pair of binoculars. The wind blew hard at that unsheltered height, but it was a cleansing wind, that blew away the cobwebs that gathered indoors. From his pocket the father pulled out four more energy crystals; two each were placed into compartments on either side of the binoculars. As the last one was put in, all the dials on all the meters on all the shelves swung across their scales. They gyrated for a few seconds, then settled into their new readings. The machines buzzed loudly now, and Karen felt the humming of the skull-crown right down to her toes. Upon the mountain, the wind gusted, and caught the collar of the girl’s coat, which flapped into her face. She turned into the wind, facing against it, leaning into it, defying it to move her from this spot. The father turned to face his daughter and raised the binoculars to his eyes, looking at her, looking down those eye glasses and those long leads, looking through them, looking into her, looking through her green eyes into the heart of her. She would not be moved no matter how the wind blew; she was safe up there. As he held them to his own eyes, he adjusted the lenses on either side of his binoculars. She was alone, and free up there. And when he was quite ready, and no more preparation was needed, the father continued his research where he had left it the day before. Upon the mountain, above all others, she was free. And he did so by asking his daughter a simple question, that any parent might ask any child. He asked her:

“What did you learn at school today?”

On her first night in Lundern, Karen fell asleep in the attic of Winton, the cobbler. What would she discover on her first morning in Lundern?

Karen woke with a start. It was black. She did not know where she was. Worried, she sat up, and cracked her forehead against the low-hung ceiling. “Ow!” she squealed, and Karen lay straight back down again, vigorously rubbing her head with her hand. Karen was frightened, or would have been frightened, but for the distraction of pain. Was it still night time? Then the events of yesterday came back to her, in scrambled order. Cecilia the stork-obstetrician had taken her to Winton the cobbler. Winton had danced and sung in celebration of the arrival of his cat’s kittens. He let her stay in his son’s room. Karen had been stolen away by that ridiculous tube ride. This was Lundern, and it had wonky streets and talking animals. There was no way back, not anytime soon. Dad and James were… probably at home, or maybe looking for her. But they had not found her.

Glum. As Karen’s nervousness and her pain subsided, another emotion washed over her. Glum. That was the word for it. Karen was glum. She kept on with the anodyne rubbing of her head, though slowed it to a gentle massage. Karen was remembering where she was, or at least where she thought she was. Wherever she was, it was quite cold and perfectly dark. It was impossible for Karen to be sure about her current location, although she knew she was in bed. Wherever she was, Karen reasoned she was better off getting out of bed and on with things. Karen took her palliative hand from her forehead and reached up with it, towards the ceiling. She did not have to reach far. The ceiling sloped and she brushed her palm across it. She turned over and her fingers scouted the floor. Her folded clothes were within reach. She dragged them back under the blankets, and got dressed whilst keeping as warm as she could. Clothed, Karen reached up to the ceiling once again, and eased her way out of bed, standing as upright as she could within this angular attic. Now her stockinged feet turned hunters, inching their way forward, looking for her shoes. A little toe brushed a metal ring that jutted up from the floor. Karen pondered a moment, then knelt and took the ring in her hand. It turned anticlockwise, and a quarter turn was enough to release the hatch. She let the ring slip from her fingers, and the hatch swung down and open, at last allowing some light, and air, into the stuffy attic.

Turning back, Karen sought her shoes once more. It was still dark, but light enough for the task. Karen could dimly make out the bed, the walls, even the candle that she had forgotten about. She reached under the bed and felt on the floor all around her, but she could not locate her shoes. Shoes or no shoes, she was going to get on with her day, and with getting home to dad. Turning around to the hatch again, she was relieved to see the ladder was still beneath, so she cautiously stretched out one leg, and stepped down upon it. Karen was careful not to slip as she climbed down. The parlour was empty, as was the sherry bottle left in the middle of its table. Looking out of the window, Karen judged from the quality of the light that it was still early morning. Animals and people had begun to bustle backwards and forwards on the street below. Mostly they went on foot, though sometimes a horse carriage would go by. When she stepped out to the landing, a loud snoring emanated from the room next door to the parlour. Karen surmised that it was Winton’s bedroom. She was intent on progressing her day, but not keen to wake her host. The floors were bare and wooden. It occurred to Karen that there was something ridiculous about being shoeless in a shoemaker’s house, so she quietly descended to the shop-cum-workshop beneath, intending to borrow a pair for the moment.

Before Karen had reached the bottom of the stairs, she had found her missing Heelys. Spying them, she let out a little yelp of delight. One was held in a vice on a workbench, the sole facing upwards. The other was perched on the bench alongside. Winton’s spectacles lay on the bench, by Karen’s shoe. She scurried to the bench, happily retrieving her Heelys and putting them on. Though a little bit peeved that Winton had taken them without asking, Karen could see why they would interest a cobbler. As she slipped them on, Karen idly thought about trying on some of the cobbler’s work, stacked on the shelves around her. Winton evidently made them for all types of people. Some came in bright colours that caught the eye. Karen walked around the shelves and imagined herself wearing them. She looked past the silken ballet slippers, and elegant evening pairs with their high heels. Karen thought neither very suited to Lundern’s cobbled streets. A pair of bright red and very sturdy lace-up boots caught her eye more than the others. She held its sole to the sole of the Heely on her foot, comparing their length. They seemed to be the same length, though the materials could not have been more different. Whilst Karen’s Heelys were synthetic, the red boots were made solely of leather. People on the street were passing by in front of the shop window, so Karen furtively took the red boots behind the shop counter, where nobody could see what she was doing. There she slipped off her Heelys again, finished off the threading of the boot’s rainbow-patterned laces, and put them on. They were stiff, like the toughest new boots always are, but they felt good, and Karen danced an eccentric stomp, or stomped an eccentric dance, in delight.

Feeling hungry, Karen finished her tour of the property with the last remaining room. On the ground floor, behind the shop, Karen found the kitchen. It was larger than she had anticipated. Two iron doors in the walls opened to the baker’s ovens. Around its circumference, the kitchen wore a necklace of hanging pots, pans and utensils. But looking in the pantry, Karen found it unexpectedly bare. A half loaf of bread seemed stale, but it was still edible. A hunk of cheese smelled ripe, but sitting down to combine the two, Karen found her meal to be satisfactory, if a little dry. She took another big mouthful of bread and cheese. “Help yourself to my food, will you?” boomed Winton, who had stalked up behind Karen, as she sat with her back to the door. The surprise caused Karen to spray little morsels of bread and cheese about the place, though Winton had only meant a little harmless prankery. He immediately felt, and looked, sorry for giving Karen such a shock. When she had chewed and swallowed what food was still left in her mouth, Karen responded in kind. “Help yourself to my shoes, will you?”
“Yes, I’m sorry about that. I couldn’t get to sleep so I thought I’d take a look at how they were made. Coffee?” Winton had already lit the fire in the kitchen range and proceeded to boil a kettle. “Anyhow, it looks like I’m not the only one who helps themselves to shoes left lying around.”
“Yes, I’ll have some coffee,” Karen replied, ignoring Winton’s very pertinent jibe, before saying, “my shoes weren’t lying around. They were on the floor of my bedroom. But I suppose no harm was done.” Karen became more demure, realizing that she was depending on Winton not just for shelter, but for help with finding her way back home. She lifted up one boot, as if to examine it and show it off to Winton, “and I was just trying them on because they are so eye-catching.”
“I’m glad they caught somebody’s eye. I’ve had that pair on the shelves for a few years now. Nobody else wants to wear them.”
“Then let me walk around town and advertise them for you.”
“If you walk around town with them, I won’t be able to sell them second-hand… or rather second-foot. But I will let you wear them, if you let me take a closer look at those shoes of yours.”
“A closer look? You’ve seen them once already, so how close do you need to look?”
“Erm… I’d like to cut them open.”
“No!” insisted Karen, sternly.
“What if I just cut one open?”
“No. I need both.”
“I just want to see how they are made.”
“See as much as you like “” from the outside.”
The coffee was made and Winton poured two cups, “alright then, but at least let me examine your shoes as long as you are staying here.”
“I’m not staying here. Today I’m going to get on one of those airships and go home.” Once again Karen realized she was being a little bit too feisty, so she was quite a bit sweeter when she asked: “do you have milk and sugar?”
“No milk, but…” Winton paused, opening a cupboard, “no sugar either. Good luck with finding the passage you want, but it may be harder than you expect. I wish you a bon voyage, but you’re welcome to stay as long as you need to.”
“I’ll be on my way today.”
“I hope you are, but if you and those boots want to be on their merry way, first I need to take you somewhere.”

Despite a few frights along the way, Karen and Cecilia have walked the streets of Lundern to their destination, just before curfew is due to begin. Cecilia the stock-obstetrician still carries of her package of kittens to deliver. Karen is just keen to get inside.

Standing outside the front door of Cobbler & Cobbler, Karen and Cecilia were flooded with light from the first-floor window.
“Would you?” asked Cecilia, pointing at the bell-pull with her beak, whilst trying not to shake her package too vigorously. Cecilia’s hands were full, in a metaphorical sense.
“Sure,” and Karen took hold of the handle, and pulled down smartly, ringing a bell inside. Almost immediately, there was a rustling at the curtains of the first floor window. From behind them emerged a man in his forties, wearing tatty overalls. His face was unshaven, and he had rounded spectacles upon his nose. In the crook of his elbow he held a white cat, which miaowed excitedly. Seeing who was at the door, the man smiled broadly and shouted down, “we’ve been waiting for you, you’d better come in!” The curtains dropped back into place, and a moment later he and the cat were at the open door, beckoning Cecilia and Karen to enter: “quick, inside, it’s nearly nine o’clock!”

The door opened on to the shop itself. Cecilia stepped in, and Karen followed, a little uncertainly. The cobbler bolted the door behind them, several times over. From the light of the cobbler’s paraffin lamp, Karen saw the shop was cluttered with an array of tools, and surrounded by shelf upon shelf of finished and half-finished shoes. She stood behind Cecilia, feeling slightly shy, waiting to be introduced, but the cobbler turned away and walked back up his narrow stairs to the first floor room from which he had come. As he held the only source of light, Cecilia and Karen followed, without question or comment.

Karen was the last to go up the stairs. In the darkness left behind as the cobbler’s lamp rushed on ahead, Karen chose her steps carefully. As she ascended, she heard the cobbler and his cat talking to each other.
“Yes Agatha, I know. First let Cecilia warm herself in the best chair. It must have been getting cold outside.”
“You know I’ve been waiting so long, Winton.”
“Yes Agatha, I know.”
Their parlour was at the top of the steps. It was a small square room, large enough to seat four people comfortably, or maybe six people uncomfortably. The window was at the far side, the fireplace at the near side. The fire was outshone by a plethora of oil lamps and candles dotted around the edges of the room, on the mantle, and the shelves, and the windowsill. In the middle stood a circular table, and on the walls there were many black and white photographs in simple wooden frames. Cecilia placed her box on the table.
“Come, Cecilia, you have this seat here, by the fire,” insisted the cobbler. Karen surmised that the cobbler’s name was Winton. The cat, Agatha, leapt from Winton’s arm onto the tabletop. She pawed at the box, but was unable to open it. Agatha hailed the cobbler, “Winton, Winton!” and he acceded to her demand, reaching over Agatha to lift the top off the box. Agatha perched herself up and peered within, her nose pressed against the box’s side, gasping: “thank you Cecilia, they’re beautiful!” From Karen’s vantage point, she saw the kittens were still half-asleep. Winton gently tore through each edge of the box, in order to flatten it and better reveal its precious contents. As he did, Agatha stepped inside, nuzzling her three newborn kittens, and licking their faces. One of the kittens dozily protested, “aw, Mum…” and turned around in its bed of straw, without opening his eyes. Agatha purred and fussed on regardless. Without looking up, Agatha repeated: “thank you, thank you Cecilia, they are beautiful.”
“They should be. You’re their mother,” replied Cecilia.

As heart-warming as the scene was, Karen started to feel a little uncomfortable about her own situation. She remained in the corner of the room that lead to the stairway, neither introduced nor even noticed. Agatha circled her young and lay on her side, allowing them to feed on her milk, which they did instinctively. “We were held up,” commented Cecilia, “so it’s no surprise that they’re hungry.”
“We were worried for you. You only got here just before curfew,” said Winton.
With this, Cecilia looked up in Karen’s direction, “please let me introduce Miss Karen Zipslicer of… I’m sorry, was it Lon-don?”
“Yes, no, not exactly,” stammered Karen. It was always awkward to be the lone stranger amongst a group of established friends, especially when most attention was directed elsewhere. “I live outside of London.”
Winton smiled at Karen, “forgive our manners.” He stroked the back of Agatha’s head as Agatha’s children continued to feed. “We’ve been so looking forward to these little ones, we’ve not paid you any regard. I’m Winton, and this,” with his hand cushioning the back of Agatha’s neck, “is Agatha. I can’t introduce you to these three,” he said as he pointed to the kittens with his other hand, “as I don’t know their names yet.”
“Lemuel, Dorothy and Alice,” answered Agatha, without looking up from her young.
“I’m very pleased to meet you all,” said Karen. Karen was not very good at remembering names, so she repeated them around her head “” Winton, Agatha, Lemuel, Dorothy and Alice… Winton, Agatha, Lemuel…
“Karen’s a long way from home,” offered Cecilia, who had not expected Karen to be so pensive.
“How so? Didn’t you say you were from just outside Lundern? I admit I don’t know how anybody could live just outside Lundern, but I assume you’re from a nearby city?”
“The nearness of farness of Karen’s home is still in question. It’s called Lon-don. At the train station they said not many traveled that way, leaving Karen with no way back tonight.”
Winton smiled to himself and then at Agatha and her kittens, before turning back to Karen. “Has Cecilia recommended our spare room to you?” Karen was lost for words, so Winton continued, “it’s quite alright. I wouldn’t wish anybody to be caught out after curfew, and you wouldn’t be the first unexpected guest we’ve had. Tonight’s a night for rejoicing. We’ll be glad of one more for company. Make yourself at home.”

Karen felt relieved, and the edges of her mouth curled upwards as she returned Winton’s kindly gaze. She started to relax. Between the fire and the lamps and the candles, the room was very warm. Winton suddenly appreciated that point. He turned to Cecilia and asked, “may I take your cap?” but he cheekily lifted it from her head and placed it comically on his own, before she had a chance to utter a word. “And Karen, your hat and coat?” She hastily removed them and handed them over, glad to be rid of them in this pleasantly warm room. Winton left to hang up the clothes, but soon returned with a bottle, two glasses, and a saucer.
“Sit, sit,” directed Winton. Karen was still stood in the same corner of the room, partly blocking Winton’s entry. He nodded Karen towards the only spare chair in the room, in the far corner from where she stood. Karen hesitated to take it; there was nowhere left for Winton to sit, but the finality of his instruction permitted no dispute. She walked around the cats on the table and plonked herself down in the vacant seat. When Karen sat, she gently but unconsciously swung her legs forward and back, feeling a lot happier than before.
“Sherry?”
Cecilia said “yes” and Karen said “erm” at about the same time.
“I’ll take that as two yes’s. After all, Agatha can’t have even the smallest sip now that she’s nursing, and you don’t want me drinking alone,” grinned Winton. “Poor Agatha,” he said sweetly as he started to pour into one of the glasses perched on the table around her, “it looks like she’s reached the limit of her excitation after her long wait. Agatha’s eyes were heavy, and she purred deeply. The mother cat said nothing. Soon she would doze like her kittens. “So whilst we enjoy ourselves, we’d better not be too loud.”
“Just a small one for me,” asked Cecilia, referring to her drink.
“Too late, I’ve already poured yours!” joked Winton.
Karen had drunk alcohol before, but the situation made her feel uncomfortable. Not only was she expected to stay in this strange house in this strange place with this strange man, but now there was pressure on her to drink as well. She resolved to take the smallest sip, in order to be polite, but otherwise to drink no more. However, she need not have worried.
“I’m only kidding, Cecilia. I’ve poured you plenty into this saucer, to make it easier for you to drink. What you don’t have, I’ll finish for you,” and with this, Winton slid the saucer around to where Cecilia sat. “And your parents wouldn’t be happy if I let you have much more than a sip,” he said as he turned to Karen, “but you are old enough to have a little, especially as it’s a birthday party.”

Winton left the room to get himself a chair from downstairs. Cecilia lowered her head to her saucer, took a little sherry into her beak, then tilted her neck backwards to drink. “You humans don’t know how lucky you are,” she commented to Karen.
“Why’s that?”
“You’ve got hands. And lips. And opposable thumbs. And depth perception. They’re all very useful things.”
“We can’t fly.”
Cecilia silently reflected for a moment. “True, and your sense of smell isn’t very good either. But then, not being able to smell is actually a blessing in this city.”
During a moment when neither could think of something to say, Karen looked at the photographs on the wall between her and Cecilia. Her tension receding, Karen felt loose for the first time since arriving in Lundern. In this warm room, with its warm decoration, her worries melted out of mind, at least for the moment. Karen’s curiosity turned to other things than whether any given stranger might accost her unexpectedly. Her eyes dined on the images hanging on the walls. Many of the photographs showed Winton with a woman, and a boy. “Who are they?” asked Karen. Cecilia hesitated as Winton re-entered, carrying a stool.
“My wife and son,” said Winton plainly. “She died four years ago. And my son…” his voice trailed off.
“My mother died,” said Karen. She said it as a fact, but a moment later Karen realized how odd it was for her to blurt it out like that. She looked at her sherry, assuming it was to blame.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Winton. Between them, Agatha’s chest rose and fell as she slept soundly. “But I suppose it’s all part of life’s merry-go-round,” he added. “A toast!” and he raised his glass. Karen failed to react for a second, then realized she should stand and hold her glass aloft, just as Winton had. There was no expectation that Cecilia should do likewise. “To the Limahl, Alice and Dorothy, on their birthdays.”
“Lemuel,” corrected Karen. Her memory exercise had been successful.
“Pardon?”
“It’s Lemuel. You said Limahl.”
“You’re right. To Lemuel, Dorothy and Alice,” and Winton delicately chinked his glass against Karen’s, as they leaned across the table and the cats. Karen remembered her plan and took a tiny sip from her glass. Winton drank more and immediately topped his up.
Her courage returning, Karen asked: “is your son a cobbler too?”
“Excuse me?”
“Your sign says ‘cobbler and cobbler’. I wondered if maybe your son was a cobbler too.”
“No, he didn’t much care for nailing shoes together. I was sending him to school, for as long as I could afford.”
Cecilia looked over at Karen and said: “Winton’s boy, Ellis, hasn’t been home for a few months. We think maybe he got a job and hasn’t had the chance to visit since.”
Karen had no idea what to say next. Winton was the first to break the silence. “I’m the only cobbler round here, but I wasn’t the most popular kind of cobbler round here. My wife liked to bake; apple cobblers, blackberry cobblers, that kind of thing. Now they were very popular, so we sold them from the shop too,” and one corner of his mouth curled into a smile as he said this last sentence, though he lowered his eyes by bowing his head over his glass.

Karen felt awful. Her innocent queries had bore a hole so deep that everyone had fallen into its pit of misery. Winton, who had earlier been cheery, drank some more, and poured himself another drink with speaking. Karen supposed that Cecilia was morose too. Certainly Cecilia was quiet, though Karen had no way of interpreting a stork’s expression. At least Agatha and the kittens were happily asleep. Karen stopped swinging her legs, and she curled her feet around the inside of her chair legs, pinning herself in place.
“We searched for him, for Ellis,” said Winton, still staring down at his drink. “There was no sign of him in any of the poorhouses or sweatshops in this part of town, so that’s a good sign. He most probably found a way of paying his debts and has just been too busy to come by.”
Despite the distressing results so far, Karen could not help but ask another question: “did he have a lot of debts?”
Winton looked up and smiled. “You really aren’t from Lundern, are you? Everyone in this city has debts, or near enough everyone. Even these kittens have debts, unless Agatha’s able to make enough to pay them off.”
Karen’s face epitomized blank incomprehension. Cecilia spoke in her place: “being born isn’t cheap, nor is being delivered. Agatha’s lucky to have a good credit rating. She catches rats who thieve from the grain silos by the docks. It’s honest work, and she pays her bills.” Karen looked quizzically towards Winton, though Cecilia continued: “Tolls, taxes, things like that.”
“So you expect to get paid for delivering these kittens?”
“I’m on a salary,” explained Cecilia, “with the hospital. Agatha pays the hospital, not me, though I can’t deny that some fraction of what people pay the hospital must wind up in my paypacket.”
“She’s not from here, Cecilia,” interjected Winton. “Let her be,” and then, after slapping his hands on his knees and getting to his feet, “this is a party, so I’m going to have a dance. You sit there if you prefer, but you won’t stop me from having a little pleasure tonight.”

Winton had finished several glasses of sherry, very quickly, and it showed. Seemingly forgetting about the sleeping kittens whose birthday he was celebrating, Winton clapped a beat above his head, albeit gently. He softly jigged around the table, in time to his claps, and hummed a sedate tune. Round he went, and again, careful not to brush against Karen or Cecilia as he went past. Occasionally a misplaced elbow would glance against a sideboard or wall, though never hard enough to cause him to spill his drink. Karen put down her glass and stood up too, slowly skipping around in the same direction as Winton, clicking her fingers, and swaying her hips in tempo with his beat. Winton’s hum turned into a murmur, and when Cecilia teasingly complained that the cats would not wake, Winton sweetly sang, prompting Cecilia to circle the table too, gaily waving her wings and smacking her beak in time.

“Warm welcome to all, warm welcome to all.
There’s no time to dance, after you fall.
Whether you’re in the sky, or in the ground.
Life’s no longer of use, if you’re not around.
So whilst you’re here, make yourself merry.
Dance for a while, and drink some more sherry.”

Winton sang his song four times over, before slumping into the chair where Cecilia sat, and grinning to himself.
“Ah, if you’ve taken my place, then it’s not my place to stay,” joked Cecilia.
“No please,” pleaded Winton, “don’t go so soon.”
“I must. I have my own nest to tend to, and a busy day tomorrow: fox cubs first thing, and a human baby in the afternoon.”
“Well, if you’ve got to go, you’ve got to go.”
“Thank you very much,” said Karen to Cecilia.
“No need for thanks, my dear. I was coming this way anyway. Don’t stay up too late “” you’ve got your own stuff and nonsense to make sense of tomorrow,” and with this Cecilia waved and started down the stairs with Winton following, holding a paraffin lamp aloft. Karen heard them on the steps when, half way down, Winton loudly remarked that they had forgotten Cecilia’s cap. He came back up the stairs again, and went into the back room, but as he returned to the stairs he popped his head into the parlour and told Karen: “help yourself to another little drop of sherry, if you like.”
Karen’s glass was empty, so she did pour herself a very little more, whilst she listened to Cecilia and Winton leaving. Pulling the curtains back, she saw Cecilia stand on the street, shake out her wings, then hop, skip and take to the air. Karen waved at Cecilia, but she was soon out of sight amidst the fog that clung to the rooftops. Upwards she turned, unable to catch sight of a single star in the sky, but then Winton was back in the parlour with her.
“That Cecilia’s a lovely gal,” said Winton, “you were lucky she found you.” Karen nodded but once again she could not think of what to say. Winton walked around to stroke Agatha, and no words were spoken, until he looked back over his shoulder and plainly stated: “you’ve got the same hazel eyes as my wife had.” Then he picked up Cecilia’s saucer and poured the remaining contents down his throat. Looking a little tired, he began to hum and waltz around the table again, whilst Karen snuggled into the best chair, by the embers of the dying fire.

“I wondered should I stay, or should I go,
The band had reached the last song of the show.
And then I saw you in the corner of the room,
Wearing your masquerade costume.

I had my first waltz with you,
From forty people at dance class.
I stepped upon your toe,
But that did not cause an impasse.

All the love we shared, was started there,
Though we only danced for a dare.
The love we had went on, and on and on,
Not unlike the words of this song.

I learned to waltz round with you,
My wallflower days were in the past.
You stepped upon my toe,
That’s when I knew it was meant to last.

It’s not over yet, the crowd shouts encore,
But I’m blistered, and your feet are sore.

La la la la la la la la la,
La la la la la la la la la.”

Karen was giggling with her hand over her mouth, trying not to wake the cats, who remained soundly asleep. “Funny, am I?” teased Winton, and he reached for Karen’s hand, lifting her from the chair. Winton twirled Karen around, leading her around the table as he completed his song.

“I had my last waltz with you,
We both of us had a good laugh.
Our toes are all so bruised,
Let’s go home and prepare a foot bath.

La la la la la la la la la.”

On the final la-la-la’s, Winton twirled Karen some more, so that she was pirouetting on the spot. Karen showed off, spinning on the wheels in her heels, even after Winton had let go. “What kind of shoes are those?” wondered Winton. Karen collapsed back into the best chair and held up the sole of her right foot, so Winton could see. “Wheels, in the heels?” continued Winton, “that’s an ingenious idea. I’ve never seen them before, are they common where you come from?”
“Not just common. They’re positively old-fashioned,” said Karen, a little glumly, though she was still in good spirits from the dancing.
The fire was nearly out, and Winton noticed that some of the candles had burned low. He started to blow them out and turn off the lamps. “There’s nothing old about you, Karen, not even your shoes or any other part of your fashion. You’re barely older than these kittens,” he teased, “but we’ll need to get you home tomorrow to your parents tomorrow… ” and then he corrected himself, “I’m sorry, to your father tomorrow. Come my dear, it must be your bedtime. I’m sure your father wouldn’t let you stay up this late, even for your own birthday.”
It was actually quite early, thought Karen. “My dad does let me stay up on special occasions.”
“Well, yes, but the birthday boys and girls are fast asleep, and it looks like they’re best not disturbed by our partying in their name. Once you’re in bed, I’ll put them in their basket.”
“Okay.”
“Come this way,” though Winton did not lead Karen far; he reached for a ladder from the hallway, then placed it against the wall, underneath a hatch in the ceiling.
“Up there?”
“That’s right. Follow me,” and Winton stepped carefully up the ladder, pushing up the hatch which his head. He then hoisted himself into the loft. Karen followed unsteadily. As she climbed the ladder, Winton lit a candle to illuminate the tiny and angular loft room.
“This was my son’s room. Just whistle if you need anything; my bedroom’s behind the parlour. Good night.” Winton left without waiting for thanks, but whilst he was halfway through the hatch, Karen remembered to give it.
“Thanks Winton. Good night. I don’t know where I’d have gone if, you know…”
“Hush, go to bed,” said Winton, “and put out the candle when you’re done.” And with that, he closed the hatch behind him.

There were no windows, and the roof of this room sloped inward in most directions. The floor was no more than two paces wide, and it was only barely long enough for someone to lie down. Even at its highest point, which was near the hatch, it was too low to stand up straight. Karen leaned with one elbow against the wall as she kicked aside her shoes. The bed was narrow and short, on legs cut into stumps, and squeezed so tight against the sloping roof that Karen would have no room to turn over in her sleep. She lay upon it as she pulled off her jeans and jumper. It was cold in this loft room, so Karen did not delay, climbing under the blankets and pulling them right over her head, just leaving a little space to stick her face out at the side. And only then she remembered to blow out the candle, which she had left lying on the floor next to the bed, so she stretched her neck out just far enough to do that, and then she tucked herself in like before. After that, she was asleep sooner than she might have expected.

And because she was asleep, and even snoring just a little, Karen did not notice when, a short while later, the hatch to the room lifted up again. From the opening, a hand reached into the room. It snaked its way inside, hunting its prey. The hand came in further, and further. It crept closer and closer towards Karen’s bed until, it found one, then the other quarry. Back it dragged them, whilst Karen was dead to the world. Out through the hatch went Karen’s shoes; this cobbler would have them examined further.