Weaveworld

3

‘Where is it?’ was the only question he voiced, when they’d finished with their reunion. ‘Where’s it hidden?’

She went to the table and put Mimi’s book into his hands.

‘Here,’ she said.

He ran his palm over the binding, but declined to open it.

‘How did we do that?’ he said. He asked the question with such gravity; like a child.

‘In the Gyre,’ she said. ‘You and I. And the Loom.’

‘All of it?’ he said. ‘All of it, in here?’

‘I don’t know,’ she told him in all honesty. ‘We’ll see.’

‘Now.’

‘No, Cal. You’re very weak still.’

‘I’ll be strong –’ he said simply, ‘ –once we open the book.’

She could not better such argument; instead she reached across and laid her hands on Mimi’s gift. As her fingers laced with his the lamp above their heads flickered and went out. Immersed in darkness they held the book between them, as she and Hobart had once held it. On that occasion it had been hatred that had fuelled the forces in the pages; this time it was joy.

They felt the book begin to tremble in their custody, growing warm. Then it flew out of their hands towards the window. The icy glass shattered and it disappeared, tumbling away into the darkness.

Cal got to his feet, and hobbled to the window; but before he’d reached it the pages rose, unbound, like birds in the night outside, like pigeons, the thoughts the Loom had inscribed between the lines spilling light and life. Then they swooped down again, and out of sight.

Cal turned away from the window.

‘The garden,’ he said.

His legs felt as though they were made of cotton-wool; he needed Suzanna’s support to get him to the door. Together they started down the flight.

Gluck had heard the sound of breaking glass, and was half way up the stairs to investigate, a mug of tea in his hand. He’d seen wonders in his time, but the sight of Cal, telling him to get outside, outside, left him open-mouthed. By the time he’d found a question to ask, Cal and Suzanna were already half way down the second flight of stairs. He followed; into the hallway, and through the kitchen to the back door. Suzanna was unbolting it, top and bottom.

Though there had been winter at the window, it was spring that awaited them on the threshold.

And in the garden itself, spreading even as they watched, the source of that season: the home of their joy forever; the place they’d fought and almost died to save:

The Fugue.

It was emerging from the book’s scattered pages in all its singular majesty, defying ice and darkness as it had defied so much else. The months it had spent amongst the tales in the book had not been wasted. It came with fresh mysteries and enchantments.

Here, in time, Suzanna would rediscover the Old Science, and with it heal ancient breaches. Here too, in some unimaginable year, Cal would go to live in a house on the borders of the Gyre, to which one day a young man would come whose history he knew. It was all ahead, all they’d dreamed together, all waiting to be born.

Even at that moment, in sleeping cities across the Isle, the refugees were waking and rising from their pillows, and throwing open the doors and windows, despite the cold, to meet the news the night was bringing them: that what could be imagined need never be lost. That even here, in the Kingdom, rapture might find a home.

After tonight there would be only one world, to live in and to dream; and Wonderland would never be more than a step away, a thought away.

Together Cal, Suzanna and Gluck left the house and went walking in that magic night.

Ahead, there were such sights unfolding: friends and places they’d feared gone forever coming to greet them, eager for shared rapture.

There was time for all their miracles now. For ghosts and transformations; for passion and ambiguity; for noon-day visions and midnight glory. Time in abundance.

For nothing ever begins.

And this story, having no beginning, will have no end.