“All right,” I said. Since it did seem urgent, I went over to the nice wooden door in the long side of the house.
I had meant to knock, but the door opened inward under my fist. “Hallo?” I called out. No one answered, so I went cautiously into the dusky corridor inside. It smelled wonderfully of new wood, and it was very warm and quiet. There was a door to my right. “Hallo?” I said, and I opened it and looked in.
There was an empty ultramodern kitchen in there. This smelled of new bread and coffee, which, since I could still taste nipling inside myself, made me feel slightly ill. I shut that door and went on to the next one, straight ahead.
I opened that door on a blaze of sunset from big windows looking over the waters and on a splendid smell of leather, wood, and clean carpet. This room was a long, low, elegant living room—really beautiful, just the kind of room I’d like for myself—full of interesting comfortable sofas, low tables that caught the light, a long shelf of books, nice cushions, and almost no ornaments. Lovely. But there was no one in there either.
The corridor turned a corner then and ran through the middle of the house, with light coming in through slit-shaped windows in the roof. My feet went splonch, splonch, splonch on polished wooden floor as I walked down to the next door—broom cupboard—and the next, a very nice bathroom that was so up-to-date I didn’t understand most of the fitments. The next door was on the other side. I opened it, and it was pitch black inside. And I don’t think I could have gone inside it even with the scornful cat after me. Keep Out! it said, like a smell boiling out of the darkness. Somehow, I knew it was Romanov’s workroom. I knew I had no business going in there. I backed off quickly and shut the door on the darkness.
That left just the one door, facing me at the end of the corridor. By this time I was fairly sure Romanov was out, away in some other world, but I opened the door just to check.
There was a big, graceful bedroom beyond, where everything was square and white. Thin white curtains blew inward from the window just beyond the square white bed. Clothes had been dropped on the white carpet, a leather jacket nearest to the door, a shirt beyond that, a pair of soft boots almost on the shirt, and socks after those. Then came underclothes, a towel, and a wallet, and these led to suede trousers not quite draped over the white chair beside the bed. By the time my eyes had been led to the bed, I realized that Romanov was in it, asleep. I could just see a pi
ece of his dark hair on the pillows.
I was horribly embarrassed and nearly backed straight out. You could see that Romanov had come home tired out and just thrown off his clothes and fallen into bed. I couldn’t go and shake him awake and say, “I’m sorry, I’ve got a starving elephant outside.” Could I? But that made me think of poor Mini standing outside in a crowd of hungry hens. I did know elephants needed a lot of food. I didn’t know when she’d last had any.
All right, I thought. And if he turns me into a frog, I suppose she’ll have to eat the trees. I swallowed, all the same, as I stepped over the suede jacket and on past the line of clothes. I leaned over the bed. I put out a finger, but I didn’t quite dare touch the hump that was probably Romanov’s shoulder. Turn me into anything you like, but please don’t kill me! I thought.
“Er, excuse me,” I said.
Romanov rolled over. I jerked back. We stared at one another. He looked a bit more than just tired to me. He looked ill. An unhealthy sort of smell came off him. “Oh, not you again!” he said, thick and groaning.
“Are you all right?” I said.
“A touch of flu, I think,” he said. “What are you doing here?”
“I came here with a starving elephant,” I said. “Is it all right if I let her eat the trees?”
“No!” he groaned. He pushed his hand across his zigzag of a face, obviously trying to pull himself together. “An elephant? Seriously?”
“Yes,” I said. “I met her stuck in those dark paths. Her name’s Mini. I think her circus got hit by a tornado or something.”
“Oh, God!” He held both hands to his face. “Just assure me you’re not another of these bad dreams, will you?”
“I’m real,” I said. “Honestly. So’s the elephant.”
“You keep turning up in my dreams with a parcel of children,” he said.
When Dad had flu last Christmas, he kept calling people in to tell them about the latest weird dream he’d had. I understood that. “That was flu,” I said. “This is me for real. Have you got anything I can give Mini to eat?”
“I’ve no idea what elephants eat,” he said, and then pulled himself together again. “All right. Third shed along at this end of the house. Ask for elephant food while you’re opening the door.”
“Thanks,” I said. “And your hens?”
“Bin of corn in the same shed,” he said. “One bucketful poured on the ground.”
“What about the goat?” I asked. “She need milking?”
I was not happy about that idea, and I was very relieved when he said, “Helga? No, she’s dry at the moment. Just find her some sweet corn.”
“And, er,” I said, coming to the dreaded part, “what about your big cat?”
“In the forest over on the mainland,” he said. “Takes care of herself.”
I felt such a gush of relief at this that I went all considerate and helpful. I get like this with Dad, too, when he says I can have a day off school. “How about you? Can I get you anything? I know how to cook pasta.”
Romanov shuddered. “No. I’ll be fine. All I need is some sleep,” he said, and he rolled over and pulled the covers across his face.