cone of a lighthouse in alternate red and white stripes. Blue, light blue, red and white. So simple and fresh, it lifted my spirits after the fug of the Dream Country.
And then I looked closer.
I caught the flash of black and white in the water and I saw sea monsters, patterned like orcas, but much, much larger. I recognised their shapes from books. Mosasaurs – sea dinosaurs. Liopleurodons – long, crocodile-like creatures with four giant flippers. The water was so clear you could see them as they hung just below the surface – patterned bodies perfectly camouflaged in the ripples of the shifting waters – and then they would push hard with their flippers and they were gone, down into the depths after their prey.
“We have to cross that,” said Francis.
“We must make it somehow. My fortune says we do.”
We gazed across the water at Dream France.
“Can you see the tower?” asked Francis.
“I’d wondered if it was an illusion.” The tower rose from the far shore, higher and higher into the air, blue with the distance, almost invisible against the sky.
“It’s a clock tower,” I said. “There’s a clock on top.”
“It must be miles tall,” said Francis. “That can’t be right.”
“The towers in Dream London grew every day,” I said. “They only had a year or so to grow. I wonder how long that clock has been growing?”
Francis looked at his watch.
“That clock is an hour ahead,” he said. “They still keep different time, even in the Dream World.”
D REAM D OVER NESTLED at the bottom of the sheer white cliffs. The ruined castle we’d seen looked down on the town from a rocky outcrop. The town was a pretty little place: buildings painted cheerful pastels, yellow-white sand, green grass lawns, red-tiled roofs. A little harbour wrapped itself around the town, though the sea-walls seemed much higher than would seem necessary. Then I remembered the black and white monsters, out to sea. Stone steps zig-zagged from the cliff-tops to the town.
Dream Dover looked trim and prosperous.
“What do they eat, though?” asked Francis. I knew what he meant. The boats in the harbour had obviously not been used in some time. They bobbed in neat rows, painted in bright colours, their decks filled with pot plants and flowers. Creepers grew from boat to boat.
“The boats aren’t going anywhere,” I said. “How are we supposed to get across?”
“I don’t know. Look, let’s find an inn. We’ll need somewhere to sleep anyway. Maybe they know a way across.”
We descended into the town. A girl in a petticoat stood on tiptoe to unpeg the clothes from a washing line. A basket full of hastily folded clothes sat at her feet.
“It’s always the girls who do the work,” I noted. I smiled at her. “Excuse me, is there an inn nearby?”
Wordlessly, the girl pointed to an alley squeezed between two houses. Another set of stone steps led downwards.
“Thank you,” I said.
We found ourselves in a tiny square next to a white-painted building, its narrow windows framed by blue striped shutters. A sign painted with a picture of one of the black and white sea monsters hung over the door.
“‘The Mosasaur,’” read Francis. “Shall we go in?”
“What about your pack? Are you going to leave it outside? What if someone trips on the wire in the dark? You’ve trailed it all the way down those steps.”
“Give it a rest, Anna.”
I glared at him, but he was already pushing his way inside, pack still on his back.
The bar of the Mosasaur was a nautical cliché: dark and small and filled with nets and buoys and all sorts of other fishing decorations. Three men looked up from their pints as we entered, their gazes travelling from my breasts to my face, to Francis and then back to their pints.
“Hello there, lover. What can I get you?”
The barmaid was young and buxom and clearly taken by Francis. I wondered what she imagined her chances with him would be, given that she had octopus
And then I looked closer.
I caught the flash of black and white in the water and I saw sea monsters, patterned like orcas, but much, much larger. I recognised their shapes from books. Mosasaurs – sea dinosaurs. Liopleurodons – long, crocodile-like creatures with four giant flippers. The water was so clear you could see them as they hung just below the surface – patterned bodies perfectly camouflaged in the ripples of the shifting waters – and then they would push hard with their flippers and they were gone, down into the depths after their prey.
“We have to cross that,” said Francis.
“We must make it somehow. My fortune says we do.”
We gazed across the water at Dream France.
“Can you see the tower?” asked Francis.
“I’d wondered if it was an illusion.” The tower rose from the far shore, higher and higher into the air, blue with the distance, almost invisible against the sky.
“It’s a clock tower,” I said. “There’s a clock on top.”
“It must be miles tall,” said Francis. “That can’t be right.”
“The towers in Dream London grew every day,” I said. “They only had a year or so to grow. I wonder how long that clock has been growing?”
Francis looked at his watch.
“That clock is an hour ahead,” he said. “They still keep different time, even in the Dream World.”
D REAM D OVER NESTLED at the bottom of the sheer white cliffs. The ruined castle we’d seen looked down on the town from a rocky outcrop. The town was a pretty little place: buildings painted cheerful pastels, yellow-white sand, green grass lawns, red-tiled roofs. A little harbour wrapped itself around the town, though the sea-walls seemed much higher than would seem necessary. Then I remembered the black and white monsters, out to sea. Stone steps zig-zagged from the cliff-tops to the town.
Dream Dover looked trim and prosperous.
“What do they eat, though?” asked Francis. I knew what he meant. The boats in the harbour had obviously not been used in some time. They bobbed in neat rows, painted in bright colours, their decks filled with pot plants and flowers. Creepers grew from boat to boat.
“The boats aren’t going anywhere,” I said. “How are we supposed to get across?”
“I don’t know. Look, let’s find an inn. We’ll need somewhere to sleep anyway. Maybe they know a way across.”
We descended into the town. A girl in a petticoat stood on tiptoe to unpeg the clothes from a washing line. A basket full of hastily folded clothes sat at her feet.
“It’s always the girls who do the work,” I noted. I smiled at her. “Excuse me, is there an inn nearby?”
Wordlessly, the girl pointed to an alley squeezed between two houses. Another set of stone steps led downwards.
“Thank you,” I said.
We found ourselves in a tiny square next to a white-painted building, its narrow windows framed by blue striped shutters. A sign painted with a picture of one of the black and white sea monsters hung over the door.
“‘The Mosasaur,’” read Francis. “Shall we go in?”
“What about your pack? Are you going to leave it outside? What if someone trips on the wire in the dark? You’ve trailed it all the way down those steps.”
“Give it a rest, Anna.”
I glared at him, but he was already pushing his way inside, pack still on his back.
The bar of the Mosasaur was a nautical cliché: dark and small and filled with nets and buoys and all sorts of other fishing decorations. Three men looked up from their pints as we entered, their gazes travelling from my breasts to my face, to Francis and then back to their pints.
“Hello there, lover. What can I get you?”
The barmaid was young and buxom and clearly taken by Francis. I wondered what she imagined her chances with him would be, given that she had octopus
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