“Into what?”
“Other things. I don’t want to have to draw you a picture.” Roland shuddered. “And if I did, I’d need a lot of red and purple crayon. Then they get dragged off and left for the dromes.” He shook his head. “Listen, dreams are real here. Really real. When you’re inside them you’re not…exactly here. The nightmares are real, too. You can die.”
This doesn’t feel real, Tiffany told herself. This feels like a dream. I could almost wake up from it.
I must always remember what’s real.
She looked down at her faded blue dress, with the bad stitching around the hem caused by it being let out and taken in as its various owners had grown. That was real.
And she was real. Cheese was real. Somewhere not far away was a world of green turf under a blue sky, and that was real.
The Nac Mac Feegle were real, and once again she wished they were here. There was something about the way they shouted “Crivens!” and attacked everything in sight that was so very comforting.
Roland was probably real.
Almost everything else was really a dream, in a robber world that lived off the real worlds and where time nearly stood still and horrible things could happen at any moment. I don’t want to know anything more about it, she decided. I just want to get my brother and go home, while I’m still angry.
Because when I stop being angry, that’ll be the time to get frightened again, and I’ll be really frightened this time. Too frightened to think. As frightened as Sneebs. And I must think….
“The first dream I fell into was like one of mine,” she said. “I’ve had dreams where I wake up and I’m still asleep. But the ballroom, I’ve never—”
“Oh, that was one of mine,” said Roland. “From when I was young. I woke up one night and went down to the big hall and there were all these people with masks on, dancing. It was just so…bright.” He looked wistful for a moment. “That was when my mother was still alive.”
“This one’s a picture from a book I’ve got,” said Tiffany. “She must have got that from me—”
“No, she often uses it,” said Roland. “She likes it. She picks up dreams from everywhere. She collects them.”
Tiffany stood and picked up the frying pan again. “I’m going to see the Queen,” she said.
“Don’t,” said Roland. “You’re the only other real person here except Sneebs, and he’s not very good company.”
“I’m going to get my brother and go home,” said Tiffany flatly.
“I’m not going to come with you, then,” said Roland. “I don’t want to see what she turns you into.”
Tiffany stepped out into the heavy, shadowless light and followed the path up the slope. Giant grasses arched overhead. Here and there more strangely dressed, strangely shaped people turned to watch her but then acted as though she was just a passing wanderer, of no interest whatsoever.
She glanced behind her. In the distance the nut cracker had found a bigger hammer and was getting ready to strike.
“Wanna wanna wanna sweetie!”
Tiffany’s head shot around like a weathercock in a tornado. She ran along the path, head down, ready to swing the pan at anything that stood in her way, and burst through a clump of grass into a space lined with daisies. It could well have been a bower. She didn’t bother to check.
Wentworth was sitting on a large, flat stone, surrounded by sweets. Many of them were bigger than he was. Smaller ones were in piles, large ones lay like logs. And they were in every color sweets can be, such as Not-Really-Raspberry Red, Fake-Lemon Yellow, Curiously-Chemical Orange, Some-Kind-of-Acidy Green, and Who-Knows-What Blue.
Tears were falling off his chin in blobs. Since they were landing among the sweets, serious stickiness was already taking place.
Wentworth howled. His mouth was a big red tunnel with the wobbly thing that no one knows the name of bouncing up and down in the back of his throat. He stopped crying only when it was time to either breathe in or die, and even then it was only for one huge sucking moment before the howl came back again.
Tiffany knew what the problem was immediately. She’d seen it before, at birthday parties. Her brother was suffering from tragic sweet deprivation. Yes, he was surrounded by sweets. But the moment he took any sweet at all, said his sugar-addled brain, that meant he was not taking all the rest. And there were so many sweets he’d never be able to eat them all. It was too much to cope with. The only solution was to burst into tears.
The only solution at home was to put a bucket over his head until he calmed down, and to take almost all the sweets away. He could deal with a few handfuls at a time.
Tiffany dropped the pan and swept him up in her arms. “It’s Tiffy,” she whispered. “And we’re going home.”
And this is where I meet the Queen, she thought. But there was no scream of rage, no explosion of magic…nothing.
There was just the buzz of bees in the distance, and the sound of wind in the grass, and the gulping of Wentworth, who was too shocked to cry.