Words appeared next to the picture, written by some unseen hand. The words were in a strange alphabet that Arthur didn’t recognise, let alone have a chance of reading, but as the boy watched he saw that the earlier letters were changing into the normal alphabet and the words were rearranging themselves into English, though the type was still weird and old-fashioned. Every now and then a blot of ink would appear partway through a word, to be hastily wiped away. Then words stopped appearing, and Arthur started to read what was there.
The House was built from Nothing, and its foundations rest upon Nothing. Yet as Nothing is for ever and the House is but eternal, these foundations slowly sink into the Nothing from which the House was wrought, and Nothing so impinges upon the House. In the very deepest cellars, sinks and oubliettes of the House, it is possible to draw upon Nothing and shape it with one’s thought, should such thought be strong enough. Forbidden in custom, if not in law, it is too often essayed by those who should know better, though it is not the high treason of treating with the Nithlings, those self-willed things that occasionally emerge from Nothing, with scant regard for Time or reason.
A typical shaping of Nothing is the Fetcher, as illustrated. A Fetcher is a creature of very low degree, usually fashioned for a particular purpose. Though it is contrary to the Original Law, these creatures are now often employed in menial tasks beyond the House itself, in the Secondary Realms, for they are extremely durable and are less inimical to mortal life than most creatures of Nothing (or indeed those of higher orders from within the House). However, they are constrained by certain strictures, such as an inability to cross thresholds uninvited, and may be easily dispelled by salt or numerous other petty magics.
Perhaps one in a million Fetchers may find or be granted enlightenment beyond its station, and so gain employment in the House. For the most part, when their task is done, they are returned to the primordial Nothing from whence they came.
Fetchers should never be issued with wings or weapons, and must at all times be given clear direction.
Arthur thought again of that hideous face at the window, pressed against the glass, its wings fluttering furiously behind it. Somebody had ignored the advice about not giving Fetchers wings. Arthur would not be surprised if the ones waiting outside had weapons as well, though he didn’t want to think about what kind of weapons they might be given.
Arthur tried to turn the page of the Atlas to see if there was any more information, but the page wouldn’t turn. There were lots of other pages in the book, but they might as well have all been glued into a single mass. Arthur couldn’t even get his fingernail between the leaves of paper.
He gave up and looked out the window again and was surprised to see that the Fetchers had moved in the short space of time he’d been looking at the Atlas. They had formed into a ring on the road and were all looking up. A couple of cars had stopped because of them, but it was obvious the drivers couldn’t really see what was in their way. Arthur could distantly hear one of them shouting, the angry words faint through the double glazing, “Get that heap of junk outta here! I haven’t got all day!”
The Fetchers gazed up at the sky. Arthur looked too but didn’t see anything. Part of him didn’t want to see, because the fear was rising in him.
Don’t look, part of his mind said. If you don’t see trouble, it doesn’t exist.
But it does, thought Arthur, fighting down the fear. Keep breathing slowly. You have to confront your fears. Deal with them.
He kept looking, until an intense white light flashed just above the ring. Arthur shut his eyes and shielded his face. When he looked again, black spots danced everywhere in his vision and it took a few seconds for them to clear.
The empty space in the middle of the ring was no longer empty. A man had appeared there. Or not really a man, since he had huge feathery wings spreading from his shoulders. Arthur kept blinking, trying to focus. The wings were sort of white, but dappled with something dark and unpleasant-looking. Then they folded up behind the apparition’s back and in an instant were gone, leaving only a very handsome, tall man of about thirty. He was dressed in a white shirt with chin-scraping collar points, a red necktie, a gold waistcoat under a bottle-green coat, and tan pantaloons over glossy brown boots – an ensemble that had not been in fashion for more than a hundred and fifty years.
“Oh, my!” exclaimed someone from behind Arthur. “The very spit of how I’ve always imagined Mister Darcy. He must be an actor! I wonder why he’s dressed up like that.”
It was the librarian. Mrs Banber. She’d crept up on Arthur while he wasn’t paying attention.
“And who are those strange men in the black suits?” continued Mrs Banber. “Those faces can’t be real! Are they making a film?”
“You can see the dog-faces?!” exclaimed Arthur. “I mean the Fetchers?”
“Yes…” replied the librarian absently, still staring out the window. “Though now that you mention it, I must be overdue for an eye checkup. My contact lenses don’t seem to be quite right. Those people are rather blurry.”
She turned around and for the first time looked properly at Arthur and his battlements of books.
“Though I can see you all right, young man! What are you doing with all those books? And what is that?”
She pointed at the Atlas.
“Nothing!” exclaimed Arthur. He slammed the Atlas shut and let go of the Key, which was a mistake. The Atlas shrank immediately into its pocketbook size.
“How did it do that?” asked Mrs Banber.
“I can’t explain,” said Arthur rapidly. He didn’t have time for this! The handsome man was walking towards the library, with the Fetchers following. He looked a bit like Mister Monday, though much more energetic, and Arthur wasn’t at all sure that the same strictures that kept the Fetchers from crossing thresholds would apply to him.
“Have you got any salt?” he asked urgently.
“What?” replied Mrs Banber. She was looking out the window again and smoothing her hair. Her eyes had gone unfocused and dreamy. “He’s coming into the library!”
Arthur grabbed the Atlas and the Key and stuffed them into his backpack. They glowed as he put them away, shedding a soft yellow light that momentarily fell on Mrs Banber’s face.
“Don’t tell him I’m here!” he said urgently. “You mustn’t tell him I’m here.”
Either the fear in his voice or that brief light from the Atlas and the Key recaptured Mrs Banber’s attention. She suddenly looked less dreamy.
“I don’t know what’s going on, but I don’t like it,” she snapped. “No one is coming into my library without permission! Go and hide behind the zoology books, Arthur. I’ll deal with this person!”
Arthur needed no invitation. He hurried away from the window, into the maze of library shelves, walking as fast as he dared. He could feel his lungs tightening, losing their flexibility. Stress and fear were already feeding his asthma.
He stopped behind the zoology shelves and crouched down so that he could see through two rows of shelves to the front door, where Mrs Banber stood guard at the front desk. She had a scanner in her hand and was angrily checking in books, the scanner beeping every few seconds as its infrared eye picked up a bar code.
Arthur tried to breathe slowly. Perhaps the handsome man couldn’t come in. If he was waiting out the front, Arthur could escape through the staff entrance he’d seen at the back.
A shadow fell across the door. Arthur’s breath stopped halfway in. For an instant he thought he couldn’t breathe, but it was only a moment of panic. As he got the rest of his breath, the handsome man stopped in front of the door.
He reached out with one white-gloved hand and pushed the door open. For a hopeful