CHAPTER SIXTY SIX

  Jane sank and, weirdly, even though gravity in this small world of Paris had less force than the gravity of Earth, she descended quickly, water rushing through her hair, her feet pointed down like spears. The water was freezing, but it felt light, as though it consisted of water and air frothed together. Suddenly the water went dark. Jane descended into the cone of the extinct volcano.

  Inside her head, behind her forehead Jane felt something soft and gentle, like a flow of warm honey. A voice came into her mind. The voice was gentle, and high, and imperious. Jane recognised the voice of Princess Trinket.

  ‘You made it.’

  ‘No thanks to you,’ Jane thought.

  Somehow Trinket ‘heard’ the thought. It must have been one of the functions of the machine where Trinket was seated. The machine must give the person seated the ability to both hear the thoughts, and speak into the thoughts of the citizens of Paris.

  ‘I couldn’t risk you or Tom revealing the secrets of Elion to the people of Paris,’ said Trinket.

  ‘I don’t know the secrets of Elion.’

  ‘I couldn’t take the risk.’

  ‘Your not a good Thrip.’

  ‘I am neither good nor bad. But I am powerful. Sitting in the machine, I am supremely powerful.’

  It was then that Jane felt the warmth of Trinket’s presence spread through her entire brain. She could feel Trinket smiling. And she could feel something else that was like a feeling version of goodness.

  Then Trinket faded.

  The water wavered into darkness.

  Jane suddenly felt as hot as a desert. Sweat slipped from her chest, and from her armpits, and from her forehead. Sweat ran down the back of her neck. Her stomach became slimy. Her eyes stung.

  She wasn’t in the water anymore.

  She heard a loud pop, then a whistling sound. For one terrible second there was a pain so unbearable that Jane wanted to die immediately. Only the pain passed as quickly as it arrived.

  Then … nothing.

  Suddenly Jane was standing in pitch darkness, with solid ground beneath her feet.

  ‘Tom?’

  Her voice sounded like a mouse in a closet.

  She heard a small rustling sound.

  ‘I’m right here,’ said Tom.

  ‘Are we back in the Catacombs?’ Jane asked. She had a creeping feeling of silent children waiting for her in the blackness.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  ‘No. We are in the tunnel beneath Winter Clove hill.’

  Jane turned but couldn’t see anything. Could they really be back on Earth? She put her hands out and felt a wall made of metal, with small dents like the metal had been beaten by a hammer.

  Just then a vertical slither of light appeared. A door had been pulled ajar. Light flooded into the darkness. Jane blinked. Standing in the rectangle of light was the old priest - the one who had sent Jane into the tiny world of Paris several days earlier. Father George. He still wore his liturgical vestments.

  Jane realised she was in the booth that she had been in three days ago, the booth that had shrunk her down to a size that meant she could go into the tiny world.

  Tom walked forward and stooped as though he was going to kiss the priest’s hand but the priest jerked his hand away and said, ‘Absolutely not.’

  Just then Jane noticed the weight of the book hanging from her shoulder. The Wyld Book of Secrets had expanded in size, from the size it had been in the tiny world of Paris to the much larger size that it needed to be on Earth. It felt twice as heavy as it had felt in Paris. Gravity had changed.

  The priest stepped back and Jane and Tom went out from the booth into the hard light of the machine room - the original machine room, in Miller’s crypt, under Winter Clove hill. As Jane stepped into the light, the priest saw the satchell that held the book, and a grin broke across his face.

  ‘Bless you, bless you,’ he said to Jane. ‘I have dreamed of this moment.’

  He looked at Tom.

  ‘Bless you both.’

  ‘It took some work,’ said Tom.

  The priest stepped around Jane and shut the door into the booth. He locked it by spinning a large metal wheel that made a gentle clicking sound as it spun.

  Jane looked at the world of Paris laying beneath the plexi-glass dome, in the centre of the large machine, with the tubes and the hissing and the copper pipes. Jane leaned over and looked through the perspex into the strange miniature world. The metal track that arched over the top of the dome was bereft of the miniature sun. It was night in Paris. There was a moonlight on the track, casting a gentle blue light.

  ‘The world of Paris,’ said the priest.

  Tom sidled up beside Jane, and leaned over the dome. He spoke with a mouthful of whispered awe.

  ‘It is beautiful.’

  ‘How … How did we ?’ Jane wasn’t sure of the question she was trying to ask.

  ‘How did you shrink to fit into the world?’

  ‘That is one question,’ said Jane

  The old priest shook his head and started gesturing at the machine that surrounded him, then he shook his head again and said, ‘When you leave the tunnels you will be met by sister Agnus. She will have a driver who is also a polymath with knowledge of the physics of the shrinking. Ask the driver for the explanation. He lives by knowledge while I live by faith.’

  Jane put her hands on the side of the dome and leaned over. She wondered if she would recognise any landmarks, but the dome was dark and she could see nothing more than the silver sides of clouds reflecting the moon.

  The priest gave Jane’s shoulder a squeeze.

  ‘You have the birthright,’ he said. ‘Only you can read the book.’

  Jane stood, straightened herself, and nodded. She felt the weight of the book hanging from her shoulder. She sensed distance. She sensed ancient epochs. She sensed incredible, potent power.

  ‘I will take the responsibility seriously,’ she said.

  ‘Why is the book so important?’ asked Tom.

  ‘I don’t have time to explain. You are still in danger … both of you.’ The priest was blinking and he had his hands up in a way of ushering the two away from the miniature world, ushering them toward the door.

  ‘I thought my role had finished,’ said Tom.

  ‘It has, but the people on Earth who know of the book, and the people who know of the world of Paris, would assassinate you to keep you from talking about your experience.’

  ‘Which people?’

  Just then a red light began to flash. The light was mounted on a tin plate with the words ‘triggered warning’ written underneath. A shriek came from a loudspeaker mounted beside the light.

  The priest looked up, and for a moment he appeared terrified. He hugged himself, his fingers folded under his armpits.

  ‘You must hurry,’ he said. ‘You must leave now.’