"I’ve been sent to call for the man behind the desk,” he declared cautiously.
“I am he.”
Gerard nodded and swallowed. He waited. He waited a bit more, and the old man seemed disinclined to say anything else so Gerard felt obligated to prompt him.
“I was given this paper by a girl in the street…it says to come to this address?” Gerard felt rather foolish. He wondered if someone hadn’t played a joke on him.
The man behind the desk looked at Gerard expectantly. Gerard looked expectantly back. Neither knew what the other was expecting.
Finally, to break the silence, Gerard decided to ask. “Is there—well, am I—I mean, what is it that you want?” he finished rather lamely.
The old man frowned. “The paper, of course.”
Gerard, thoroughly puzzled and in no state to be making contradictions, handed over the address and message. After scanning over it quickly, the old man folded it up and passed it back. “All seems to be in order. Follow me, then, boy.”
He hopped down from behind the desk and suddenly disappeared. Gerard, swinging his head wildly again before remembering his previous injury, wondered where he went. Then,
Gerard realized the old man hadn’t vanished at all. He was standing directly in front of Gerard. However, his legs were minuscule. The old man’s head barely cleared Gerard’s waist.
Realizing that his mouth was hanging open rudely, Gerard shut it but immediately after his eyes began to pop. He blinked rapidly and his mouth fell open again. The old man raised his eyebrows and turned on his heel.
“This way, then, if you please.”
Gerard followed behind, winding through the shelves into the back of the shop. It stretched much further than one would think. After a minute or so of weaving through the frankly dangerous heaps on either side of them, they stopped in front of an unexceptional stack of books. The old man slid the uneven pile over a bit and opened the door behind it. The door was about four feet tall and Gerard had to duck to enter. They passed into a small room which was, unsurprisingly, crowded with more books. The old man lit a gas lamp and hung it on a peg. He set about making tea. Gerard took in the fireplace in one corner, containing a few faintly glowing
ashes, two mismatched and battered armchairs, a rickety three-legged table, and an elaborate and ill-fitting painting of a stiff-postured young woman in front of a plain gray background. Her mousy brown hair was pulled back into a tight bun, she had small round glasses perched on the end of her nose, and she wore a simple maroon dress with a corset. Her eyes seemed to follow Gerard as he lumbered uneasily into the centre of the room.
The old man finished brewing the tea and loaded it up onto a tray with a plate of stale biscuits. He gestured for Gerard to sit in one of the armchairs and then thrust the tray into his hands. Clambering up onto the table, which rocked threateningly under him, he reached out to touch the painting’s golden frame. Suddenly, the woman sprang to life.
“About time! I heard the bell nearly a half hour ago! Do you think it’s fun to wear a corset for a half hour? Because it’s not.” Here, she stopped, and ducked out of the frame. Gerard’s stale biscuit was crumbling out of his mouth and his teacup hung in midair halfway between the saucer and the half-chewed biscuit.
“I am sorry, Delia,” called the old man.
“As you should be!” piped the woman. The sound of ruffling fabric and clothing dropping to the floor reached their ears. “I’ll have a hair-pin headache for hours, and every time I wear this dratted wig my hair smells like mothballs for the rest of the day.”
Delia straightened up and came back into view. She looked entirely different. Without the disguise, she appeared much younger—in fact, she looked only a year or two more than Gerard. The wig had been hiding her bubblegum pink hair, cut just under her ears. Removing the pearly glasses revealed light brown eyes. She wore a fitted navy blue tee-shirt with stars
sprinkled across it.
“And who’s this young lad, eh?” She said, grinning jovially down at Gerard.
Gerard gaped.
“This here is—hmm, I don’t think I asked you your name, boy.”
Gerard failed to answer coherently and continued to gape. Delia began to look a bit uncomfortable.
“Erm—is he alright?”
The old man shook him. “What’s your name, boy?”
Gerard attempted to briefly pull himself together. “Gerard,” he mumbled.
“Well, Gerard! Looks like we’ve got some business together!” Delia said brightly. “Let’s see, you have a paper, yes?”
Gerard nodded dumbly.
“Good. Well, unfold it, and read to me what it says.”
He pulled it out of his pocket. Again, he gaped. Somehow, the paper’s message had changed. It no longer read the address of the shop, but gave rather puzzling directions.
“It—it has another address.”
“Yes. What is it?”
“It’s not a normal sort of address.”
Delia tutted impatiently. “But what does it say?”
“1112 Windell Crossing, Alloby, Kalleschin.”
“Right. Of course.” She looked to the old man, who said, “Sounds about right.” Delia nodded. “You’re a bit short, here, step up onto the table—yes, just like that—and take my hand.” Delia extended her hand in the painting.
With knees a bit weaker than they had been before due to the wobbly nature of the table, Gerard hesitated. “Er, excuse me?” Had he misheard her? “You’re in a painting.”
The old man huffed, acting as if Gerard’s statement had been remarkably foolish. “Yes, that’s what she said. Take her hand. And put that teacup down, will you?”
Gerard stiffly dropped the teacup, (his brain needing an extra moment to remind his hand of the simple motion, unfortunately overlooking that the task was to set it safely down rather than simply release it), which spilled tea over the books covering the floor. The old man grunted in irritation and went to go clean it up.
Delia stared at Gerard. “Come on mate, my arm’s getting tired. We’ve got things to do, people to see. I won’t kill you.”
Gerard felt as though this was not in any way a conventional or even slightly comforting thing to say to someone. He looked back nervously at the old man, who straightened up (although it made little difference in his height). “Good luck, Gerard.”
Thoughts swirling in his head, he tentatively reached out. His hand slipped through the canvas like it was a veil of thin silk and grasped Delia’s. She gave a small smile, and yanked him through the painting.
Gerard wondered if he wasn’t delusional after all.
books. The old man slid the uneven pile over a bit and opened the door behind it. The door was about four feet tall and Gerard had to duck to enter. They passed into a small room which was, unsurprisingly, crowded with more books. The old man lit a gas lamp and hung it on a peg. He set about making tea. Gerard took in the fireplace in one corner, containing a few faintly glowing
ashes, two mismatched and battered armchairs, a rickety three-legged table, and an elaborate and ill-fitting painting of a stiff-postured young woman in front of a plain gray background. Her mousy brown hair was pulled back into a tight bun, she had small round glasses perched on the end of her nose, and she wore a simple maroon dress with a corset. Her eyes seemed to follow Gerard as he lumbered uneasily into the centre of the room.
The old man finished brewing the tea and loaded it up onto a tray with a plate of stale biscuits. He gestured for Gerard to sit in one of the armchairs and then thrust the tray into his hands. Clambering up onto the table, which rocked threateningly under him, he reached out to touch the painting’s golden frame. Suddenly, the woman sprang to life.
“About time! I heard the bell nearly a half hour ago! Do you think it’s fun to wear a corset for a half hour? Because it’s not.” Here, she stopped, and ducked out of the frame. Gerard’s stale biscuit was crumbling out of his mouth and his teacup hung in midair halfway between the saucer and the half-chewed biscuit.
“I am sorry, Delia,” called the old man.
“As you should be!” piped the woman. The sound of ruffling fabric and clothing dropping to the floor reached their ears. “I’ll have a hair-pin headache for hours, and every time I wear this dratted wig my hair smells like mothballs for the rest of the day.”
Delia straightened up and came back into view. She looked entirely different. Without the disguise, she appeared much younger—in fact, she looked only a year or two more than Gerard.
(cont'd)
hair, cut just under her ears. Removing the pearly glasses revealed light brown eyes.
(cont. )
d gaped.
“This here is—hmm, I don’t think I asked you your name, boy.”
Gerard failed to answer coherently and continued to gape. Delia began to look a bit uncomfortable.
“Erm—is he alright?”
The old man shook him. “What’s your name, boy?”
Gerard attempted to briefly pull himself together. “Gerard,” he mumbled.
“Well, Gerard! Looks like we’ve got some business together!” Delia said brightly. “Let’s see, you have a paper, yes?”
Gerard nodded dumbly.
“Good. Well, unfold it, and read to me what it says.”
He pulled it out of his pocket. Again, he gaped. Somehow, the paper’s message had changed. It no longer read the address of the shop, but gave rather puzzling directions.
“It—it has another address.”
“Yes. What is it?”
“It’s not a normal sort of address.”
Delia tutted impatiently. “But what does it say?”
“1112 Windell Crossing, Alloby, Kalleschin.”
“Right. Of course.” She looked to the old man, who said, “Sounds about right.” Delia nodded. “You’re a bit short, here, step up onto the table—yes, just like that—and take my hand.” Delia extended her hand in the painting.
With knees a bit weaker than they had been before due to the wobbly nature of the table, Gerard hesitated. “Er, excuse me?” Had he misheard her? “You’re in a painting.”
The old man huffed, acting as if Gerard’s statement had been remarkably foolish. “Yes, that’s what she said. Take her hand. And put that teacup down, will you?”
Gerard stiffly dropped the teacup, (his brain needing an extra moment to remind his hand of the simple motion, unfortunately overlooking that the task was to set it safely down rather than simply release it), which spilled tea over the books covering the floor. The old man grunted in irritation and went to go clean it up.
Delia stared at Gerard. “Come on mate, my arm’s getting tired. We’ve got things to do, people to see. I won’t kill you.”
Gerard felt as though this was not in any way a conventional or even slightly comforting thing to say to someone. He looked back nervously at the old man, who straightened up (although it made little difference in his height). “Good luck, Gerard.”
Thoughts swirling in his head, he tentatively reached out. His hand slipped through the canvas like it was a veil of thin silk and grasped Delia’s. She gave a small smile, and yanked him through the painting.
Gerard wondered if he wasn’t delusional after all.