Dear me, you really are taking all that to heart, aren’t you? There is a vast difference between being able to think for oneself and ignoring all advice and help offered.
“You aren’t offering help. You’re being deliberately difficult.”
That’s true. There’s also a difference between being able to think for oneself and asking for help when necessary. Even the most difficult people sometimes have something important to add.
“Do you have something important to add?”
No. I was just reminding you, since you seem to be inclined to take my words to heart lately. I thought I’d take advantage of that.
“I was thinking,” Annabel told him repressively. “Now I have to start from the start again. I’m trying to figure out if it’s the notebook or the pencil that’s magical. Can’t you tell?”
Blackfoot licked one of his paws and passed it over his face. Don’t you think Peter would have told you already if either of them were magical? More importantly, do you really think he would have given you that notebook if he thought it had even the slightest suspicion of magic about it?
“That’s a good point,” said Annabel, sitting down cross-legged beside Blackfoot. After some thought, she added: “Well, if he was trying to look after me, he might have given me something with a spell in it. He remembers to try and look after me sometimes.”
That must be a great comfort to you. There’s no need to be so hopeful about it: the notebook has absolutely no magic in it. It’s a notebook, nothing more.
“It must be the pencil, then,” Annabel said. “Are you sure you can’t see anything different about it?”
If the boy didn’t see anything different about it, why would I?
“That’s not an answer–” began Annabel crossly, but a flicker in the window across the room caught her eye. The Caliphan was in the window again, pretending not to look at them. Even more crossly, she called across the room: “It’s no use looking at me! I’m not going to draw you anymore, so might as well stop looking through the windows!”
I’m sure he’s abashed, said Blackfoot. Or I’m sure he would be if he could hear you. What are you planning on doing now?
“I–” began Annabel, and stopped. Lately, Blackfoot had been asking her what to do instead of telling her what to do, and that feeling was just as uncomfortable and unfamiliar as the feeling of being a part of the magic instead of an onlooker. “Well, I suppose I’d better try and find out which one of my things is making the castle come back when I draw. Then I’ll probably want some lunch.”
Worthy goals. I do wonder how you’re planning on doing it, however.
“I suppose I’ll draw something on a piece of paper with my pencil. Then I’ll find another pencil and draw something into my sketchbook. Whichever one comes through overnight is the one that’s doing it.”
What if they both come through overnight?
“Then I’ll just worry about lunch, clever clogs.”
Annabel climbed to her feet, ignoring the Caliphan, who was still moving about in the window, and sorted through the things on the desk. There were quite a few loose papers there, all of them scribbled on at least one side, so she took the least-scribbled one and found another pencil that was still sharp enough to use.
“This will do,” she said. She took the small satchel from the chair-back as well, and slipped it over her shoulders. She had been right when she drew it: it was just the right size to hold her sketchbook, pencil, and a sandwich or two. “What should I draw, then?”
I find myself wondering if it’s wise to take things from the castle wizard’s quarters, said Blackfoot, watching her with his tail flicking.
“Why? He’s not coming back.”
Ah. Well. But who knows, after all?
Annabel thought that he glanced slightly toward the window that still showed a shallow reflection of the Caliphan. “What? Him? You think he might be the castle wizard? Is that why he’s still hanging around the castle like a ghost?”
Yet again, I find myself wondering why it is that you imagine I’m likely to know?
“Then you shouldn’t always act like you know everything,” Annabel said pettishly. “I drew this satchel in particularly. I thought it would be useful.”
I see, Blackfoot said mildly. Although, no, I don’t! In that case, whose is the satchel? Was it originally part of the castle? Or is it simply something you’ve created?
Annabel shrugged. “Don’t know. Actually, I don’t care because I’m tired of having to hold things. Why didn’t they put pockets in this dress?”
They possibly couldn’t fit any between the frills and tucks, Blackfoot suggested. I’m sure there are other frocks with pockets. Frocks that aren’t quite as…red…as that one.
“I don’t want other frocks. I want this one.”
Blackfoot sighed. One day, Nan, you and I will have a discussion about the concept of elegant simplicity.
“Yes,” agreed Annabel, with a distinct lack of enthusiasm, “but right now I want to know what I should draw. It’ll take all night to come in, but at least it’ll be something to go by. I know! I’ll draw you in a little cat friend!”
That was at the same time incredibly condescending and utterly terrifying, said Blackfoot. In other words: please don’t! I can only imagine that it will work, given this morning’s events, and I wouldn’t like to know what happens when a living thing is drawn into the castle by you or anyone else.
Annabel, who was already sketching out skerry-fleece arm warmers for the easy chair in her sketchbook, stopped to think about that. “Well, it would depend, wouldn’t it?”
On what would it depend? Blackfoot’s voice was curious, which was somewhat gratifying. Annabel had expected him to be his usual sarcastic and dismissive self: she hadn’t expected him to sound quite so…interested. Or so alert, for that matter.
She gestured vaguely with the borrowed pencil. “Won’t it depend on whether or not I’m drawing back real things? I mean, if I’m just drawing them into existence from nothing, then maybe I wouldn’t like to draw an animal. What if its mind didn’t come with the drawing, or if it came through with a tiger mind instead? But if I’m drawing things back here that were already part of the castle or in the castle, it doesn’t matter much, does it? So long as I draw their outsides properly, I mean.”
That, said Blackfoot slowly, is something to which I would very much like to know the answer.
“Oh,” Annabel said, taken aback. “I thought you’d know. All right, all right!” she added hastily, as she saw the gleam in his eyes, “I know: why should you know?”
On the contrary, Nan, said Blackfoot, with a wealth of rueful laughter to his voice, it is undoubtedly something that I should know, and I very much regret that I don’t know it.
Annabel closed her sketchbook and put down the borrowed pencil. As pencils went, it was perfectly normal, but she was so used to the feeling of her own little nubby pencil that she found working with anything else oddly unsatisfying. “Anyway, I’m sure we can find out.”
Are you? It must be pleasant to be so certain.
“It is,” Annabel said serenely, well aware that he was teasing her. She made a swift outline on the pilfered paper with her pencil nub: a small, ornate cup that should sit on the narrow mantelpiece, always teetering within an inch of falling. “Tomorrow, when we’re sure how it works, we can try other things.”
Very well, Blackfoot agreed, his ears pricking up in interest as she finished the last strokes of the drawing. Then what now? If we have to wait until tomorrow for one or both of these things to show up–
“Both?” said Annabel in dismay. “What do you mean, both? They won’t both show up, will they?”
I suppose it depends upon whether or not your theory is correct, said Blackfoot. Don’t look so horrified, Nan! I’m only teasing. I’m certain that only one of them will turn up: after all, we’ve already established that you’ve no magic of your own, now haven’t we?
“Yes,” Annabel
agreed, glaring at him. She packed the two pencils and her sketchbook into her satchel with the scrap of paper, still glaring at him, but Blackfoot only twitched his gaze away and looked back toward the door into the hallway.
Well, then, how will we spend the rest of the day?
“Trying to find Peter again, I suppose.”
A very worthy cause, I’m sure, Nan, but that boy knows how to look after himself. His ability to land on his feet is only slightly less certain than Mordion’s. Or a cat’s.
“I don’t care,” said Annabel obstinately. She was as well aware as Blackfoot that Peter had a way of turning up safe and sound when he was least expected to do so. She was also quite well aware that Peter had an overweening sense of his own cleverness, and she’d had to rescue him more than once from the consequences of the same.
The castle is more dangerous now, Nan. We’ll have to be careful where we go.
“So long as Mordion hasn’t taken over the kitchen, it’s all right,” Annabel said. “Well, I want lunch, so he’d better not have.”
Despite the lightness of her retort, she was feeling more than slightly uneasy: the Caliphan was showing up far more often than he had to begin with—though how much of that was her own fault for having drawn him, she couldn’t say—and she’d seen him often enough in her nightmares and in the window glass to make her uneasy about his presence. He may not be the direct, sharp fear that Mordion was, but there was a subtle, creeping suggestion of fear to his presence. As if, thought Annabel, as if it wasn’t so much the Caliphan himself that was dangerous, as the fact that he was here.
She said as much to Blackfoot as she stood and brushed the dust off her skirts, and added reflectively: “I still want to know why he’s here. Actually, I want to know who he is, if he’s not the castle wizard. I want to know both.”
Worthy goals, agreed Blackfoot. Very well, Nan: if we’re going to look for Peter, where shall we start?
“That’s the problem,” Annabel said, her voice troubled. As they discussed her unexpected ability for drawing things into the castle, she had come to the conclusion that Blackfoot was right: it really was important to know what sort of things she could draw back into the castle. Because if Peter was still somewhere in the castle, technically, she could draw him back. At least, she was quite sure she could. “I think…no, I’m sure I could draw him back into one of the rooms, no matter how he disappeared. I’ve drawn him so often, and I know him so well. But what if I drew him back without his mind, or without the Peter bit of him?”
There was a pause long enough to suggest that Blackfoot had considered, and rejected, several sarcastic and uncomplimentary things to say about Peter’s Peter-ness, before he said, It might be a good idea to experiment by drawing back an animal, after all.
“Yes,” Annabel said. “I mean, he’s come back all right–” she pointed at the shadowy reflection of the Caliphan, “Anyway, I think so– he hasn’t come back all the way, but I haven’t been able to get his eyes right, yet. And it’s Peter. I don’t want to make any mistakes.”
Then we’ll think on it, said Blackfoot, and his voice was gentle. After lunch.
Annabel nodded, feeling a little bit better. “After lunch.”
After you, Nan, Blackfoot said politely, making her giggle, because he couldn’t open the door for himself, after all.
She opened the door for him and said, “Oh,” in a very small voice. “Blackfoot, I don’t think it should be like that.”
Up to the doorframe, everything was as it had been when they first entered the room. Beyond the doorframe…
“It’s like a moat,” Annabel said in fascination. Beyond the threshold there was a ragged gap that wasn’t quite space but wasn’t quite solid, either. It fluctuated from block to empty space, then to floorboards, too quickly to keep track of, and never solidly enough anything to risk stepping on. “The floor is quicksand!”
Nan, do you really think that now is the time to be giggling?
Annabel giggled again, but said: “Sorry. It’s just that it reminds me of a game Peter and I used to play when we were younger.”
Blackfoot made a pft kind of noise in her mind. I saw you playing that game two weeks ago. Younger indeed!
Annabel wasn’t sure what made her look around. It could have been the feeling of someone staring, but if so, there was no one staring at her: the Caliphan was right at the forefront of the window, his hands pressed against the window-frame and gazing at the floor outside in horror. She nudged Blackfoot gently with her toe and said, “Look. He can see us.”
It would appear so, agreed Blackfoot. All very interesting, of course, but the Caliphan being able to see us is neither here nor there: the important thing is how we’re going to get out of this little mess.
“Oh, that.”
Yes, Nan, that.
“Do you know,” said Annabel, who was still looking at the Caliphan, “I think he’s pointing at something.”
Nan–
“You should stop saying Nan at me all the time. I’ve been right a lot of times lately.”
There was a brief silence. That’s a fair point, said Blackfoot. But then, whose fault is that, Nan? I’m not used to you being so proactive and thoughtful. And there is a rather more current problem literally at our feet.
Annabel rolled her eyes. “You always have to– wait, he’s pointing at that cup.”
Ah, Blackfoot purred, his gaze darting around. Oh, now that is very useful to know.
“How can it be here already?” demanded Annabel, staring at the decorative cup she had drawn barely half an hour ago. “It always took longer than this before! The rooms– everything came back overnight. Didn’t it?”
Perhaps. Or perhaps we simply weren’t around to see it happening. Perhaps we didn’t notice it. Or–
“Or–?” prompted Annabel.
Or, now that you know about it, the effect is swifter. Magic does like an audience, after all. I must say, Nan, you seem to be remarkably unconcerned for a girl surrounded by a floor shifting through time phases.
“Oh, is that what it is?” Annabel said, looking vaguely down at the shifting reality beyond the threshold. “I wondered about that. It’s not as bad as the squishy stuff, though.”
I’m not sure whether to deplore or commend your ignorance, remarked Blackfoot. Naturally, I’m glad that you’re not having hysterics, but I do think the situation merits a little more concern.
“Actually,” said Annabel, plumping herself back down on the floor and crossing her legs again, “I know what to do about this: it makes perfect sense. I think it’s because I didn’t draw right to the edges of the paper. It’s the only castle drawing I didn’t finish right to the edges. Mordion must have found out somehow, and he’s trying to cut us away from the castle through the blankness around the edges.”
That… Blackfoot’s voice trailed away and came back sounding a little more strained. That is not an improvement. If Mordion has as much control as that over the castle, we’re in a very sticky position, even if we do manage to escape the room.
“I don’t know about that,” Annabel said, flipping through the pages of her sketchbook, “but I do know that I can fix this. Especially now that it’s happening at once. We’ll figure out the rest later. After lunch, probably.”
Nan, I can’t help but feel that you’re not taking this situation seriously enough.
Annabel found her sketch of the wizard’s quarters and fished out her pencil nub. “Ha! That’s rich!”
This time, it was Blackfoot who laughed. Very well, Nan! I would like to point out, however, that we could simply try to leap the gap.
“You could,” she murmured, solidifying her shadowy lines into certain, blockwork uniformity and shading them right to the edges of the page. “There’s no way I’d make it.”
Hmm. Well, there’s something to that, after all: it’s not something I’d like to leave to chance. Perhaps we’ll be lucky enough to find another tunnel.
Annabel looked u
p in interest. “Perhaps we will. Will it be able to get through that…stuff, though? The tunnels that went through the dark bit were squashed and kept turning on themselves.”
Yes, said Blackfoot broodingly. Rather annoying, that. And we can’t forget that the walls you drew almost stopped them completely.
“So I should keep drawing,” nodded Annabel.
Blackfoot’s tail twitched from side to side as he sat beside her. Oh, undoubtedly. And yet, I have the desire to see which of them would win in this case.
“I wouldn’t bother, actually.”
What do you mean, ‘bother’?
“Well, I’ve finished,” Annabel said. “Look, the floor is going back to blockwork again.”
Bother, said Blackfoot. I suppose we have our answer, then, Nan. It’s certainly your pencil that does the magic.
“Yes.” Annabel looked down at the stubby little pencil that was still pinched in her fingers. She had the distinct desire to pitch the tiny thing through the nearest window, and hope that she never saw it again. On the other hand, her desire to stay alive was suggesting that it was best if she kept a rather tight grip on it. With Mordion gaining enough strength to affect the castle as much as he was, they would need every advantage just to stay safe.
She looked uncertainly at the now-steady floor and said: “Should we– I mean, is it safe to go now?”
Goodness knows, said Blackfoot cheerfully, but he stepped into the corridor without hesitation. The blockwork stood up to his weight, and Annabel shuffled after him, feeling a little more confident. It held up beneath her more significant weight, too. Shall we have lunch, Nan?
Annabel, who had instinctively turned to catch a last glimpse of the Caliphan before the door closed, said: “Oh. I suppose so.”
What else, then?
“Well…Peter.”
I hate to mention it, Nan, but you seem to have lost weight over the last few days. It might be just as well to make sure you eat.
“It doesn’t matter,” Annabel said, though she felt touched. Her stomach was doing odd little sparks and swirls, and she was quite certain that she wouldn’t be able to eat in any case. “I’ll eat after we get Peter back.”
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