The Realms Thereunder

3

She lay in bed, tired, weak, and confused. Her body felt . . . wrong. It was almost too much of an effort to move. So many things felt . . . wrong. It was hard to think. There was something important she had to do. She had to rescue someone? Who? Herself?

Professor Stowe-Felix-was sleeping next to her. She could see his back and arm-pale, flabby, and it disgusted her. Repulsed, but still with a tremendous effort of will, she pushed herself up and swung her feet out of bed-dizzy, and she wasn’t even standing up yet.

She pulled the covers off and hoisted herself to her feet. Gripping the side of the bed to steady herself, she made her way to the door. Catching sight of her reflection in a full-length mirror, she halted. She looked old. Much older than she used to look. Her face was gaunt and eyes sunken. Her lips were thinner-even her hair looked tired. It no longer displayed the black sheen that she was secretly proud of. She shut her eyes. This wasn’t her. She was someone else.

A soft squeal from the corner of the room made her jump. The baby. She needed to escape. Should she take that with her? It didn’t seem right to leave the child, and anyway, the crying might wake the professor.

Gathering strength from she didn’t know where, she crossed the room and took the baby from a small white cot. Holding it against herself, she rocked it gently and staggered out of the room.

She was in the hallway. The air was cold and through the window, she could see it was snowing. Should she make her escape now? In this weather?

She was so hungry. Instead of going out of the flat front door, she went into the kitchen.

The place was spotlessly clean. Still shouldering the child, she opened the refrigerator and recoiled. It was stocked with food, but everything was rotten or overgrown with mold. A head of lettuce had partially turned to sludge. Milk had separated in its plastic container that showed only a whitish-blue fuzz through its transparent lid. She swung the door closed. There must be something in the cupboards. She opened the one nearest to her-empty. The next was full of drinking glasses. Finally, in the third cupboard, she found some tinned food. She grabbed some baked beans down and put them on the counter. She put the baby on the centre of the kitchen table. Amused, bewildered, it gazed beatifically up at the ceiling.

She pulled open a drawer and grabbed a can opener. Working frantically, she managed to get the lid off of the tin.

It was empty. Or at least, not completely empty, for there were dried streaks of bean juice clinging to the sides of the tin, as if it had once contained beans, but a long time ago.

She reached for a can of pineapple slices and opened that. It was empty as well, except for the sickly sweet smell of old fruit.

This was too weird. She picked up the baby, turned to leave, and immediately halted. There was a small girl in the doorway.

“Mum? Is breakfast ready?”

“S-Sophia?” she stammered.

“Mum, I’m hungry,” the girl-she must be about seven years old-said primly.

“No time, come on, we’re leaving.”

“Where?”

Grabbing Sophia’s hand, she dragged the girl down the hallway and out of the door of the flat.

“Mummy,” the little girl said as they started down the stairs.

“I don’t want to go outside. It’s cold and snowy.”

“It’ll be fine,” Freya said, not at all convinced of this herself.

She felt the girl’s hand pull away from hers as they reached the bottom of the steps. “I have to put my wellies on.”

Freya tried the door handle, but it was locked. She pulled it harder and frantically looked around for the key. “Where is it? Where is it?” she muttered under her breath.

“It’s on the windowsill,” Sophia said, pointing.

Snatching up the key, she thrust it into the lock. It turned and in another moment, she had the door open. There was at least a foot of snow on the ground and she was barefoot, but she couldn’t stay any longer. She pulled the key out of the keyhole.

The baby started crying. “Come on,” Freya called over her shoulder.

“I need my coat.”

“No time!” she snapped.

“Freya, darling?” came a voice from above her. “What are you doing?”

“Come on,” she whispered, holding out her hand to Sophia.

“I don’t want to go!”

The baby howled.

“Freya, where are you going? Come up and have some breakfast.”

There was a rush of wind that slammed the door shut. Frantically, she flung it open again. Then with her foot outstretched to prevent the door from closing, she reached in and grabbed Sophia’s arm. She heaved herself through the doorway and into the snow-filled front yard.

Only there wasn’t any snow. And, suddenly, there wasn’t a Sophia anymore. She stumbled and fell. She found herself lying on . . . grass. In the whole garden, there wasn’t a flake of snow to be seen.

Freya looked down at herself and let out a long, strange cry of surprise and relief-she was dressed in the same pink blouse and jeans that she had been wearing when she first visited the Old Observatory.

Her head was clear now.

It hadn’t been years after all, it had been . . . what? Days? She started laughing-it was all a dream, or an illusion. There were no children-she was now just clutching a dirty tea towel against her shoulder. There was no important work she was doing, translating that strange gobbledegook. All of it, since she met that weird little group-the militant Gerrard Cross, the odd Leigh Sinton, the rotund Brent Wood. She paused. She had an aunt who used to live in a town called Brent Wood. And the Reverend Peter Borough?

Peterborough? And Felix. Felixstowe-that was a harbor town on the west coast. She’d caught a ferry there once. Those were names of towns, not people. But why? Were they illusions too? And her tutor . . . what did it mean?

Daniel. It had something to do with Daniel’s disappearance.

Freya heard her name being called from inside. Stowe’s legs could be seen at the top of the stairs. Scrambling to her feet, she flew to the door and pulled it closed. She still had the key, which she used to lock it.

Stowe’s shape appeared dark in the frosted glass and he gave it a bang with his fist. Then, swift as a thought, he turned and dashed back up the stairs.

Freya needed no further prompting. She spun around and, as fast as her weak and malnourished body could move, she pushed open the front gate and ran out into the street.