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  Maybe the sitting room. Why did he think he’d seen a pile of paper there? He padded to the sitting room, moving more quietly now that he wasn’t so sure of his escape. When he saw the magazine rack there, beside the sofa, he realized what pile of paper he must have been thinking of. By the faint, blue-tinged light of the moon, he could tell that it was empty now. He scanned the room, looking for anywhere that Kit might have disposed of the wrapping paper. Nothing. Not a recycle bin or wastepaper basket, not the crumpled ball of brown paper that Norman now desperately needed.

  His eyes tracked back to the fireplace. No one had used it since they arrived here, but now the fire shield had been moved aside and the grate was open. When he knelt in front he could feel no heat, but he could tell from the smell that there had been a fire there very recently. A small pile of black ashes was left on the hearth. Only fingernail-sized scraps of paper remained. They would be useless for writing on, but all the same he plucked one out using the tips of his fingers. It crumbled to ashes the moment he touched it. Uncle Kit had closed the escape route. He was trapped.

  Walking in Circles

  It wasn’t the easiest of sleeps. Visions of San Savino ablaze tortured him all night. It was as if he were still there, held captive in Black John’s tent, watching helplessly while the siege engines lurched and hurled their fiery missiles into the undefended town. His dreams were filled with the sounds of whistling arrows and barked orders. He dreamt that Jerome was calling out to him from the library as the flames engulfed his hideout. It was one of those dreams where you try to speak but can’t. He wanted to shout, to tell Jerome to get out, to tell him that he was coming back to save him, but somehow his voice wouldn’t rise above a whisper.

  In the morning his sheets were wrapped tightly around him as if he’d been rolled up in them. He didn’t wake up rested, but he did wake up determined. Kit was not going to get away with this! His crazy uncle might be able to hide all the paper in the house, but he couldn’t keep Norman from leaving.

  There wasn’t much in the kitchen worth taking, but Norman filled the canvas knapsack he’d borrowed from George Kelmsworth with granola bars and bottled water. It was warm out, but he kept George’s sweater in there too. It made him feel better having something from inside a book. It reassured him that it was all still possible.

  He had no idea how far he would have to go or how long he would be away. The nearest village was Summerside. His mother had taken him to the bookstore there. His pockets were weighed down with all the British money he was able to scrounge from around the house, mostly one- and twenty-pence pieces, and a few one- and two-pound coins. Uncle Kit had even hidden all the paper money. Norman hoped the coins in his pocket were enough to buy a book at the bookshop in Summerside. Something from the Undergrowth series would be perfect, but even a pad of paper would do.

  Dora caught him just as he was sneaking out the kitchen door.

  “Where are you going?” she asked absently as she opened the freezer and reached for the ice cream.

  “For a walk,” he replied cagily. He couldn’t risk her ratting him out to Kit.

  “Can I come?”

  “Nope,” he replied curtly. He’d learned long ago not to give excuses or reasons. It only gave her something to argue against.

  Dora wasn’t even bothering to get a bowl. She scooped ice cream directly from the tub. “You know, Raritan and I could catch up to you if we wanted to,” she taunted.

  He tried not to look worried, but a moment of doubt kept him there at the door. If Dora brought her pet unicorn to Summerside, things could get out of control. It was on his tongue to warn her, but he remembered his rule: Don’t tell Dora not to do something. He managed a casual shrug. “Whatever,” he said, and then ducked out the back door before she got even more curious.

  He almost ran into Raritan as he fled. The unicorn stood on the garden path, much closer to the house than he’d been last night. Norman gasped and tripped as he stopped himself short. “Jeez, listen at doors much?” he asked, trying to cover up his embarrassment. As usual there was no reply from Raritan. If possible, the unicorn seemed even taller this morning, more imposing. Norman tried to stare him down, but he couldn’t hold the gaze of those unblinking eyes.

  “Still no sign of my friend Malcolm, huh? About this high.” He held his hand down around his knee. “Wicked bow shot, kind of a smart aleck?”

  Raritan blinked a long blink as if considering the question, but Norman didn’t really expect a reply. He was just being a smart aleck himself.

  “No?” he said, shaking his head. “Well, thanks for all your help. It’s been nice chatting.” He turned and stomped away.

  When he looked back Raritan was still watching him. The unicorn would see him go around the front of the house. If Raritan told Kit that he’d gone by the road instead of the back path, his uncle would guess where he was heading. But there was no point asking the unicorn to keep quiet about it. Keeping quiet was, thankfully, the only thing the animal did naturally.

  Norman trod as lightly as he could on the gravel driveway. Malcolm could have done the whole getaway noiselessly, but Norman was a little more heavy-footed. When he reached the road without anyone calling him back, he took one brief look back towards the house, then broke into a run, pelting down the road in the direction, he hoped, of Summerside.

  At the start, he was pretty confident of his sense of direction. The fields on either side of the road looked familiar. The low rock walls looked familiar. Even the hay bales looked familiar. But as he slowed to a walk to catch his breath, he realized that all fields, all rock walls and all hay bales look pretty much the same. The road wound away from the house, never in a straight line and never flat. Hills, walls and high hedgerows seemed always to obscure his view, so it was difficult to get a bearing and he became less and less sure he was going in the right direction.

  He’d figured that if he followed the road, he would arrive in Summerside eventually, but after an hour he was less certain. When the road just stopped in the middle of a hayfield, he realized he’d missed a turn. It took him twenty minutes to track back to the fork he’d missed, and he followed that again for another forty-five. It was nearly noon and he’d eaten all his granola bars and had started looking for houses. At worst he could ask for directions; at best he could ask for a few pieces of paper. That wasn’t too weird, was it? People asked for a cup of sugar from their neighbours all the time.

  What was weird, now that he considered it, was that he hadn’t seen a single house or cottage, or even any sheep or cows. Norman didn’t think he’d ever driven for more than five minutes in England without seeing a sheep or a cow, and there were houses everywhere … usually. He was getting that queasy feeling that something was more deeply wrong than he’d first guessed when he arrived at the second dead end. But this wasn’t just an empty field at the end of the road. A few feet beyond, the asphalt fell away completely. There was nothing but sky. It was as if the world just ended there.

  Norman inched slowly forward until he could see over the edge. What he saw made him dizzy with vertigo. He was on the edge of a huge cliff. The drop was almost vertical. Many, many feet below, the sea crashed against the rocks, but from this height, Norman could barely distinguish the sound of the waves from the sound of the wind across the fields. Something felt wrong about this. Norman knew England was an island, but this cliff didn’t seem right. It just felt as if it didn’t belong there. He was certain that the Shrubberies was more than a few hours’ walk from the sea.

  It was dawning on him that Kit might have changed more than the occupancy of the Shrubberies. Doubling back again, he gave the stone walls and empty fields a closer look. They looked normal, unremarkably normal, but maybe that was the point. Maybe they were supposed to look real. Norman was beginning to wonder if this wasn’t the real England or the real Shrubberies. His sense of direction wasn’t that bad. He ought to have at least seen Summerside from one of the rises on the road, but the hedges and walls were
always in the way. He ought to have passed at least one house or one person in half a day of walking, but the country seemed remarkably empty today.

  The further he walked, the more convinced he was that this wasn’t the real England and the real Shrubberies but a book set in England and the Shrubberies. How else could he explain why the countryside was so empty and all the roads went nowhere? Uncle Kit wasn’t a magician. He couldn’t actually distort the earth, or at least Norman hoped he couldn’t.

  It was almost better, he decided. If this was all just another book, Kit’s meddling might not be so bad. It might mean that back in the real world, Norman’s mom and dad were going about their business as usual, and there was no unicorn in their backyard. But in another way, it was worse. If this place was a book, then Kit had more control over it. He couldn’t get rid of all the paper in the world, but he might be able to banish all the paper from a book.

  The nature of Kit’s bookweird powers was still a bit of a mystery. His uncle seemed jealous of Norman’s ability to get into a book just by eating his way in. Kit’s own ingress required props and memorization, but his uncle had been at this much longer and seemed to understand it better. Norman had thought he’d reached some sort of agreement with him back at Kelmsworth—that Kit had learned his lesson about messing with other people’s books and other people’s lives—but it seemed now that he didn’t know any other way to live.

  When the third road ended in yet another empty field, Norman stood and watched the grass for a long time before retracing his steps down the road. It was hot again by English standards and the coins in his pockets felt heavier all the time. He stopped by the wayside and relocated the money from his pockets to his knapsack, but that only reminded him that he’d eaten all his food. It would be time soon to think about giving up for the day. He hadn’t planned to be away anywhere near this long. If he didn’t find a house soon, he would have to return to the Shrubberies and try again another day.

  It was a relief when he came upon the train tracks. It was not that he expected a train to come along. Not a single car or truck had passed him all day, so why would trains be any different? No, by now Norman was certain that this was not the real world but some sort of strange, empty book without people in cars or on trains. It was probably a poem or something. That might be Kit’s worst trick yet, to trap him in a poem. Nothing ever happens in poems.

  The tracks at least told him that he was on a different road, since he hadn’t crossed any tracks that morning. They also gave him an idea. He hadn’t been able to see much earlier because of the walls and hedgerows that lined the winding roads, but there were no walls alongside the tracks. The rails ran along a high embankment that would provide a perfect lookout. With renewed enthusiasm, Norman hoisted his knapsack and set off down the tracks.

  To begin with, it wasn’t much different than being on the road—more empty fields and bits of forest—but as the tracks gradually climbed, he began to get a better view of the surrounding countryside. He came to the stop on top of a stone railway bridge and scanned the view. The hills did indeed stretch out as far as he could see. There was nothing like a village in sight. If there was a Summerside in this book, he was nowhere near it. Just one square of red stood out among the green of the hills and the yellow of the hayfields. Just one tile roof, glinting a little in the summer sunlight. The house below it was covered in ivy. From any other angle, it would have blended in with the woods. It was just one house, but it was all Norman needed—just one house with one piece of paper and he could get out of this.

  There was no point taking the road. That was his mistake all along. Kit had figured that Norman would make a break for it and had twisted the roads around like a maze. But Norman wasn’t going to let Kit determine his route any longer. From his vantage point on the embankment, he could see a narrow path along the edge of the hills. He leapt down from the embankment and set off along the path towards the house.

  He couldn’t say that he was happy—he was too tired to be happy—but he was relieved. This book made him nervous. It was too much like the real world. It made him wonder if he would be able to tell the real world if he saw it again. When he thought of this, it made him feel a little sick to the stomach. His mother had warned him that the bookweird was dangerous. Maybe this is what she meant. Maybe it made you so crazy that you could never tell what was real and what was made up. Maybe that was Kit’s problem. There was certainly something wrong with him.

  Norman had sworn to give up the bookweird, and it was Kit who’d drawn him back in. Norman had had no choice, really. His uncle had bookweirded Malcolm into Intrepid Amongst the Gypsies and left him to be captured by the Kelmsworth Poacher. He’d known that Norman would follow him into the book. It was a game for Kit, and he didn’t seem to get that Norman didn’t want to play anymore. Norman needed to settle things with his uncle if he was ever going to be done with the bookweird for good.

  Maybe it was the worry that distracted him, or maybe it was because everything had looked so familiar today, but he didn’t recognize the fields and paths he followed towards the red-roofed house in the distance. When he saw the unmistakable black shape of the unicorn standing at the edge of the field, however, he realized where he was. It wasn’t just any ivy-covered, red-roofed house—it was his house, the Shrubberies.

  Raritan wasn’t in his usual spot in the back garden. Instead, he stood on a small rise at the end of the neighbouring field, staring out as if on lookout. He looked for all the world as if he was waiting for Norman to return, as if he’d expected him to come back empty-handed and defeated.

  Norman didn’t even meet the unicorn’s eye as he trudged past him towards the back gate. Raritan let out a little whinny as the boy passed him, almost like a human’s exasperated sigh, but Norman refused to acknowledge him. Nobody likes to hear “I told you so,” not even from a unicorn. Raritan turned and followed Norman up the path to the garden gate, as if he had been waiting for him.

  Norman took his frustrations out on the garden gate, slamming it open aggressively. Then he stood aside and held it open for Raritan to go through. He glared at the unicorn now, almost daring the creature to say something. Raritan, who had no need for gates, was already rearing to leap the fence when Norman turned to him. He seemed to stop mid-leap and acknowledge the gesture with a twist of his horned forehead, before striding through the gate.

  Mollified a little by the unicorn’s polite gesture, Norman closed the gate a little more gently behind him. He really just wanted to go into the house. He was famished now and exhausted. He needed to lie down on the couch with whatever junk food Kit had stocked the pantry with.

  The unicorn stopped him with a little nicker, almost like a polite cough to catch his attention. Norman turned to stare at him. The frustration was clear on the boy’s face, but he said nothing.

  “Aren’t you going to ask me about your friend the talking stoat?”

  Norman lifted his hand from the doorknob and shook his head. He had been ready to call a truce with the unicorn, but he didn’t need to be teased like this. Raritan just stared back, however, his big brown eyes as inscrutable as ever.

  “Okay,” he said, exasperated, “let’s get this over with. Have you seen my friend Malcolm, king of the stoats? He’s about this high, and he doesn’t like to be made fun of either.”

  Raritan continued to stare. His eyes always seemed to be assessing the boy. Up close, his horn seemed to wave in judgment over Norman’s head.

  Norman closed his eyes briefly and shook his head. What was the point of this? He turned back to the door.

  “Rabbits,” Raritan murmured. His voice was low and secretive. It was almost like he didn’t really want to say it.

  “What?” Norman asked, not sure he’d heard right.

  “Rabbits,” Raritan repeated in his grumbling horse-whisper. “Not stoats but rabbits. Singing in the woods.”

  Norman couldn’t contain his surprise. “You heard rabbits singing? Where?”

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nbsp; Raritan backed up, drawing him away from the kitchen door, and continued in his reluctant tone. “You won’t harm them?” It was half a question, half an order.

  “Harm them?” Norman replied, offended. “Why would I hurt them?”

  Raritan turned his head and pointed his horn towards the window of Kit’s bedroom.

  Norman scowled. “I’m not like him.”

  Raritan exhaled a dismissive whinny. “Yes, you are.” He stomped a foot emphatically. Norman felt the vibrations through the ground. “Very like him. Meddlesome and dangerous.”

  Norman wasn’t going to stand there and take this. “I’m not anything like him! Kit messes up things for fun. He doesn’t care. I’m trying to help.” His voice squeaked in protest, but he didn’t like to be lumped in with his uncle. Calming himself, he asked, “What were they singing?” He’d heard singing himself yesterday by the footbridge. He’d told himself he was imagining it, but he had recognized the tune.

  He hummed the tune to himself again now, trying to remember where he’d heard it before. “Mmm … mm, mmm … the streets of Cuaderno.” It was there, on the tip of his mind. “Sound the trumpets from the towers of Logarno … mmm … mmm, mm … the tall ships in port.” He got louder as the words came back to him, realization coming as fast as the tune. “The Great Cities!” he almost shouted.

  Raritan actually shushed him.

  “It’s a song from The Great Cities of Undergrowth,” Norman insisted in a whisper. “I heard it the other day by the bridge. You have to take me to those rabbits.”

  Raritan gave him another of those long, evaluating unicorn looks, then nodded and tossed his head towards the back gate. Norman followed him back down the path. He suddenly wasn’t quite as tired anymore. Even his hunger could wait. The Great Cities were from the Undergrowth books—Malcolm’s world. Norman had assumed that he and Malcolm had been separated—that the stoat king had been sent back to Undergrowth and Norman to the Shrubberies—but if there were talking rabbits here, rabbits who sang songs about the Great Cities, didn’t that mean this was Undergrowth? Was it possible that Uncle Kit had managed to bring the Shrubberies to Undergrowth? It would explain the complete absence of people. It would mean that his friend was closer than he realized. But it would also mean that Kit was far more powerful than he thought, and that he was messing with Norman’s favourite book again.